childrens poetry
Nostalgia-inducing poetry inspired by our earliest favorites; from Dr. Seuss to Mother Goose, children’s poetry is all grown up.
Whispers of the Rising Sun
Whispers of the Rising Sun A Poetic Journey of Hope, Light, and New Beginnings The night had been long, quiet, and heavy with memories. Elara sat on the edge of the grassy hill, her arms wrapped around her knees, watching the sky shift from indigo to the faintest shade of rose. The stars, once scattered like whispers across the heavens, were now fading, one by one, into the soft pull of the coming dawn. It had been a year since the storm — the one that tore through her town, her home, and her heart. People still spoke of it in hushed voices, as if the wind might return if they dared speak too loudly. But Elara remembered every detail. The rain had come first, warm and slow, like a warning. Then came the wind, wild and howling, uprooting trees and certainties alike. By morning, the world she knew was gone. She had lost her mother that night. And though her house had been rebuilt, her routines restored, and her friends had returned to laughter, something inside her had remained quiet — a part of her heart that no longer sang. But this morning felt different. There was something sacred about the silence before sunrise. As though the world paused to remember who it was, and why it mattered. A soft breeze kissed her cheek, cool and fragrant with dew. In the distance, the first birds began to call — hesitant at first, like a song unsure of its own melody. But the sky responded, its hues deepening from rose to amber, from amber to gold. Elara closed her eyes and breathed it in. For the past year, she had come to this hill every morning. Not always to watch the sunrise, but to feel the ground beneath her. To listen. To see if anything inside her would stir. Most days, it hadn’t. But something told her to keep coming. Something quiet and persistent, like the voice of the earth itself. Today, that voice was louder. She opened her eyes just as the sun broke the horizon — a glowing orb of fire and promise, rising slowly, deliberately, as if to say: You made it. You’re still here. And she was. She let the warmth of the light touch her face. The tears came gently, not like the storm’s rain, but like cleansing drops of morning mist. She didn’t wipe them away. They weren’t sadness anymore — not entirely. They were gratitude. They were release. For so long, Elara had believed healing meant forgetting — leaving behind the pain and pretending it never happened. But now, watching the sun rise over the hills her mother once walked, she understood: healing wasn’t forgetting. It was remembering with peace. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small wooden carving — a tiny sun, no larger than her palm. Her mother had carved it for her when she was a child, during a winter when the world felt just as dark. “Even when it’s gone,” her mother had said, “the sun always comes back. So will you.” She held the carving up toward the sky, letting the real sun shine through the gaps between her fingers. A bird soared above her, silhouetted against the light. She watched it until it disappeared into the golden horizon. Then she stood. Her body felt different — not weightless, but grounded. Not empty, but open. As though her roots had grown deeper in the dark, and now, in the presence of light, she was finally beginning to bloom. With slow, sure steps, she walked down the hill. The world below was waking up — rooftops catching fire in the morning glow, windows blinking open, children’s laughter bouncing across cobblestone streets. And for the first time in a long time, Elara didn’t feel like an outsider to it all. She felt part of it. Whole. The whispers of the rising sun still echoed in her heart — not in words, but in feeling. A promise spoken in color and warmth: There is beauty after loss. There is light after the darkest night. And as the day began, Elara whispered back — not with her voice, but with her living, breathing presence: I remember. I survived. I am still rising. --- ~ The End ~
By Muhammad Saad 5 months ago in Poets
Whispers Beneath the Sun
Whispers Beneath the Sun A Gentle Tale of Letting Go and Growing Brighter The field had always been hers. Not by deed or name, but by memory. She had come here as a child, skipping through tall grass and golden wheat, her laughter carried on the wind like song. It was where she had whispered her dreams to the sky and buried her first heartbreak beneath the old willow tree. Now, she stood still in the same field, the wind much quieter, the air thick with the scent of late summer. The sun, dipping low, cast long shadows that danced like ghosts of yesterday. She could feel them — all the versions of herself that had once passed through here. The girl who hoped. The girl who hurt. The one who healed. In her hand, she held a single dandelion — white, soft, fragile. It had grown wild at her feet, a quiet survivor among the fading grasses. She smiled at it, gently cupping it like a secret. The world was louder now than it had ever been when she was young. But in this place, silence still hummed sweetly beneath the surface, just loud enough to hear what really mattered. She closed her eyes and made no wish — not this time. Wishes had their place, and hers had been many. Some had come true. Some had drifted away. But now she no longer needed wishes to move forward. Just breath. Just steps. With the softest exhale, she released the seeds into the wind. Tiny white stars, they floated up, caught in the golden light, dancing higher and higher. She watched them until they disappeared, not sad, not afraid, just aware — that every release is both an ending and a beginning. Once, she would have chased them. Now, she let them go. She turned toward the path that led away from the field, a narrow trail barely visible between the tall grass. She had walked it many times before, but this time felt different. Not heavier, but more honest. Her heart was still full — not of regret, but of remembrance. Every step forward carried a story behind it. She thought of him — the one she had met beneath the willow. How their hands had fit so easily together. How his laugh had made her feel like spring inside. And how, when the seasons changed, they hadn’t known how to hold on. He had gone before the frost, leaving words unspoken and letters unread. There had been tears, of course. Long nights curled into pillows, wondering what she lacked. But time, that gentle sculptor, had shaped her sorrow into something else. Not joy, exactly. Not quite peace. But understanding. She had learned that some people are meant to be chapters, not endings. And that didn’t make them any less beautiful. The wind picked up slightly, tugging at the edges of her coat. She smiled again — half wistful, half real. The sun brushed her cheek like a kiss, and for a moment, she imagined it was him. Not haunting her, but wishing her well. Behind her, the seeds danced still — not seeds anymore, but beginnings in the making. Ahead, the sky widened, painted in strokes of orange and lavender. The world was waiting. She walked. Not with certainty, but with quiet courage. Because there are moments in life when you do not need to know what comes next. You only need to trust that you’re ready for it. The path bent slightly, curving toward a hill she had never climbed before. She looked back once — at the willow, at the field, at the place that had held her sorrow gently, like a friend — and then, with the kindest farewell, she whispered: “Thank you.” Then she climbed. At the top, she stood tall, the world below her stitched with rivers and roads, homes and hopes. The sun touched the horizon, setting not in sadness, but in promise. She opened her arms just slightly, as if to catch the light. Somewhere, far below, the last of the dandelion seeds settled into soil. And in time, they would grow. Just like her.
By Muhammad Saad 5 months ago in Poets
The Power of Poetry: Words That Uplift and Inspire
The Power of Poetry: Words That Uplift and Inspire In a quiet town nestled between hills and rivers, lived a young girl named Maya. She was known for being shy, the kind of person who listened more than she spoke. While other kids her age played noisy games or shared loud laughter, Maya found comfort in silence—and in something many overlooked: poetry. It began when she stumbled upon an old book in her grandmother’s attic, filled with poems written in careful cursive handwriting. The cover was worn, the pages yellowed, but the words inside felt alive. The first poem she read ended with the line: "Even in darkness, light remembers the way." Something stirred in her. It was as if the poem had been written just for her. From that day on, Maya carried that book everywhere. She began writing her own poems too—about clouds, dreams, the sadness of losing a friend, and the joy of watching morning dew sparkle like tiny diamonds. She found that poetry helped her understand her own thoughts, even the ones that felt too big or complicated to say out loud. But Maya wasn’t the only one discovering the quiet strength of poetry. Across town, Mr. Thompson, a retired teacher, had started hosting weekly poetry readings at the local library. What began as a small gathering of three people soon grew into a community event. Teenagers, parents, grandparents—even people who’d never written a poem before—started attending. The space became a sanctuary for expression, where feelings that were often buried under busyness or fear were finally given voice. One evening, Maya stood up to read a poem she had written titled “Growing Quietly.” Her hands trembled as she approached the microphone. The room fell silent. Then, in a clear, steady voice, she read: “Not every flower blooms in spring, Some take their time, in silent waiting. But when they do, the world will sing, In awe of quiet strength creating.” There was a pause. Then came gentle applause, not just out of politeness, but from genuine admiration. People weren’t clapping for a performance—they were celebrating honesty, vulnerability, and the beauty of words that heal. After the reading, an older woman approached Maya with tears in her eyes. “That poem,” she said, “made me feel seen. I’ve spent most of my life thinking I bloomed too late. Thank you for reminding me I still can.” This is the quiet power of poetry. It does not shout. It doesn’t demand attention. But it listens, reflects, and offers light in unexpected ways. Poetry isn’t just for the pages of schoolbooks or dusty libraries. It lives in music lyrics, in journal scribbles, in bedtime rhymes, and even in social media captions. It’s in the way we describe love, loss, joy, and fear. And for many people, like Maya, poetry becomes a way of understanding the world—and themselves. Studies have even shown that reading and writing poetry can reduce stress, improve mood, and help people cope with emotional challenges. In classrooms, it teaches empathy. In therapy, it becomes a tool for healing. In prisons, it opens doors to self-reflection and growth. Poetry reminds us that our stories matter. It gives voice to the quiet, the unheard, and the overlooked. It turns pain into beauty and makes joy feel eternal. Maya continued writing, not for fame or recognition, but because poetry helped her stay connected—to herself and to others. Eventually, she helped start a school poetry club where students from all backgrounds shared their words. Some wrote about their families, some about their fears, and some just wrote nonsense that made everyone laugh. But all of it mattered. Years later, Maya became a published poet. But even more than the books she wrote, she cherished the letters from readers saying her poems had helped them feel less alone. In her own quiet way, Maya had become proof that poetry—soft, simple, and powerful—can change lives. --- Poetry’s Gentle Lesson We live in a fast-paced world, where noise often drowns out meaning. But poetry invites us to slow down, to listen closely, and to find beauty in small things. Whether written in a journal, shared in a classroom, or spoken aloud in a cozy library, poetry is a reminder that words, when used with care and truth, have the power to uplift and inspire. So the next time you’re unsure, overwhelmed, or simply searching for light—pick up a poem. Or better yet, write one.
By Muhammad Saad 5 months ago in Poets
Between the Lines of Rain —
Rain has always carried a language of its own. For some, it is music, a lullaby for weary souls. For others, it is grief, the sky weeping when words are too heavy to speak. For me, rain has always been a mirror—reflecting not only the world outside but also the storms within.
By Nadeem Shah 5 months ago in Poets
