Best Children Poems
The Mother Tree
I am the mother tree that spawned the seeds of you.
My children, you've grown and branched away from me.
You've married, left home to start your life anew.
Where e'er you go remember you're my family.
My roots run very deep into the earthly soil.
My centered rings are many, you may not yet view.
They show the story of my years of work and toil
And of growth and wisdom I've tried to share with you.
As you branch out, your little seedlings too will grow.
You'll try to keep them safe under your canopy.
One day when they grow up and leave, you too will know
The painful pangs of missing branches on your tree.
As they return for advice from their mother tree
Remind them to honor God with humility.
6-13-20
~First Place~ Poem of the Day June 15, 2020~
Non Human Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Oh little one, how soon you'll be
In turbulence of puberty.
I will hold tight your days of youth
And share with you my honest truth
That innocence ingrained at birth,
Precious childhood days filled with mirth,
Will be so fleeting... you will see
The need for God's tranquility.
How grandma's age is redefined
When your teen years become aligned
With thoughts of struggles, I go through,
The many shades in every hue,
That colors life for me today.
In these sweet days, I watch you play
As I instill the grains of hope,
An inner strength to help you cope
With all the changes life will bring.
The ups and downs from early spring
Throughout your life in winter years
When you, like me, through joys and tears
Have lived a life you feel has worth;
Have given back to better earth.
When you have children of your own
And you too, see how they have grown,
My hope is that you let them know
That through their life where e'er they go
They carry with them bits of me,
Please share with them, tranquility.
The teenage years and the golden years are
the most difficult to endure. Both are fraught
with emotions...of facing life...of facing death.
May 9, 2017
~Poem of the Day May 11, 2017~
My poems are conceived, not within the womb,
which long time now has been devoid of seed.
My poems are born from a need to be heard:
my thoughts, passions, sentiments and beliefs.
They start as fragments,
flecks of ash from my mind's abyss,
a restless volcano that never long sleeps.
The particles of ash collect and form together.
Feverishly I rush to absorb them all
as captured words on scribbled scraps of papers,
employing metaphor, play on word,
or sounds deliberately paced, and grace of rhythm.
I mold my poems meticulously to my image,
and then they emerge, fatherless but freed.
Each, my voice, shares her sisters' ways,
but unique, is cradled in the pages of my book,
where, satisfied with my labor, I can turn to them
and often look as a mother does on her infant babe.
Unlike, however, mortal children can do,
when I am through with them, they do not change,
and fully formed, they rarely disappoint.
As some have loved the fruit of my own flesh,
I hope they'll love my poem children too.
For Natasha L. Scragg's Throwback Challenge Poetry Contest
*This poem was posted in 2010, but I think I actually wrote it around 2001. I had been dabbling in poetry for less than a year at that time, and I had written so few poems that I would save them on decorated paper and read them again and again because I felt like I had created magic. Although I had played around with a few love poems and Christmas song parodies in my youth, I did not really see myself as a poet until after 2000 (when I was over 40 years old).
THE BLACK
SATIN HAT
SAT TIGHT
ON THE YOUNG MANS BALD
HEAD. HIS
EYES BLACK AS
NIGHT STARED INTO
NOTHINGNESS. IN
FRONT OF HIM
WERE 3
PATHS WHERE THE
CHILDREN HAD ROLLED
THREE BALLS OF SNOW MUCH EALIER THAT VERY DAY.
PATCHES OF GREEN GRASS
STUCK THROUGH PACKED
FREEZING SNOW.
IN THE MIDDLE OF HIS FACE
A CROOKED CARROT POINTED TOWARD
THE HOUSE WHERE CHILDREN SAT LOOKING
OUT THEIR WINDOW AT THEIR NEW FOUND
FRIEND. HIS BUTTON MOUTH SHAPED FOR
HIM TO LOOK HAPPY SEEMED TO SMILE
AT THEM AS THEY STARTED TO BLOW
KISSES AT THEIR WONDERFUL
NEW SNOWMAN.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
10.27.2014
Images of children dwelling in developing world
In plight of poverty~~ some two billion strong,
Fly a flag of existence, waving distress unfurled,
Crooning mournful song: is this where we belong?
Struggling in parched lands of bared dreary sights
World they live in is the world they have known,
Where days of emptiness cede to dreary nights
Churning nightmares as dreams vacant bemoan.
Wishing upon an angel~ I would endeavor to plead
For turning places despaired into domains of hope,
For means to educate, learn skills, write and read,
For rewriting will of destiny, while striving to cope.
If I could bend sorrow and the fate of tomorrow
Seeds of knowledge I’ll sow in the dreaded woe
Marveling the fields of wisdom sprout and grow
As minds edified glow, defying misery’s shadow.
My wish for peace echoes benevolence spurred
As hymns of unity in the temple of goodwill toll
And calls of equity from endearing hearts heard
Reverberate harmony in euphony of sublime soul.
I wish upon a candle, for world to join a sing-along
Lauding pledges of love to spur the youth on and on
Cheering to acclaim: this is where the kids belong~
In benevolence of hearts, over seven billion strong.
June 13, 2022
Placed 1st: If Only My Wish Would Come True Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Screaming at the Sky
Mothers screaming mournfully at a deaf sky
holding their heads helplessly as they cry
pitiful tears for innocent, defenseless children slaughtered
in fatal cross fires, deadly drug wars
drive-by shootings, and cases of mistaken identity
on blood-splattered streets, senseless endless violence; but
who really gives a damn, only grief-stricken
mothers screaming mournfully at a deaf sky.
(Form – Enjambment posted as Verse – 8 lines with 7 words in each line.
The 1st line and the 8th line are the same)
10-21-2014
Contest: 8 Lines 7 words ~ First and Last Line Must be the Same
Sponsor: Rick Parise
Placement: 2nd
The innocence lost so long ago
The undying faith we used to know
The gentle rain of a summer's skies
You can find it all in your child's eyes.
The world was right one time it seems
And we could reach beyond our dreams
To meet a challenge of any size
That fire still burns in your child's eyes.
In a world of anger and miscontent
And the frustrations of a life misspent
And you wait in fear as the storms arise
You can still find peace in your child's eyes.
Take the time for all those things
Hear his words: feel the joy he brings
There is no hate; there are no lies
There is only love in your child's eyes.
I’m tired of knowing
That because of my race
Because of where I live
Because of my last name
I’m part of the band…
The children of a lesser God
I’m tired of knowing
That there is so much hate
That it can only escalate
Till someone presses the button
And we blow up in nuclear hate
All because
Some of us are children…
Children of a lesser God
First world
Second world
Third world
Labels and degrees
Different ideologies
Religion no longer a balm
But something to cause harm
Human life of differing values
We mourn them differently
for some of them are children...
Children of a lesser God
How it must make God cry
When His children bleed and die
Unable to understand
That there is a grander plan
One of perfect harmony
In another place in time
He won’t be sitting at heaven’s gate
Asking for an ID
Or checking your nationality
He won’t see the color of your face
Or ask about your race
All He will want to know
Is if you let love grow
Did you live according to His will?
Did you try to relieve suffering and pain?
Were you the bandage of peace
that bound up the wounds of hate?
First, second, third world people
Are all children of one God
Though some may disagree
I ask you all to see
That we are all
Every single one of us...
Children of the Greatest God.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
The child is a poet with innocent eyes
And a bumpity A-B-C rhyme,
A dancer whose feet with the rhythm of life
Move in jubilant one-two-three time.
The child is a doctor who heals with a kiss
And treats with a serum called smile,
A researcher who seeks out the meaning of life,
Then explains it with unflinching style.
The child is a chef who makes sandwich and Kool-Aid
And thinks it a royal repast,
A hero who battles the monsters and villains
And renders our land safe at last.
The child is a teacher, a sleuth, an explorer,
Controller of race car and ship,
Possessor of limitless spirit and mind
With holster and gun at the hip.
Reflections of children shine pure in the eyes
Of those who are watching them grow,
Remembering times when the sunrise meant journeys
To lands where adults cannot go.
Written in 1987
Wondrous poems are melodies
Emancipated from live trees
Freed at last from trunk and limb
Freed at last to sing their hymn
Transplanted in the hearts they've torn
Transplanted by the poets they've borne
Echo in our hearts as rhyme
Echo through the sands of time
Written down with pen and ink
That all,
That would,
Might stop and think
How wondrous a poem can be
That's written deep within a tree
The mustard seed
a wild mustard seed took flight
carried aloft in gathering light
over thistle'd sage and poppies
in countless colorful copies
as brash rain showers subside
the retreat of angry clouds abide
scolded by the Northern wind
in search of infinity's final end
once barren hills, now painted gold
snow geese forage with fledgling fold
amid the flutter of swallowtail's wings
from soil sprouted seedling life brings
'til once more mustard's children are blown
from heaven's heights the earth is sown
~~~Dedicated to my Uncle Joe~~~
When I hold your hand, happily you trek along
Because you trust me to know where I'm going.
Listening to my stories, you hold my sight intently
Being proud of me, you consider me all-knowing.
Whether I teach or not, you always learn from me
For innocently you believe, I know when I speak
Yet, I am just a trainee learning on the job
Crossing milestones with immeasurable doubt.
Trying to live life, you may emulate and idolize
Hoping you never find out, how unsure I was.
I stand out in a crowd as someone you rely on
For I've been there since the day you were born.
Molding your talents you grew into who you are
Illuminating my planetary life like a shining star.
For you my child, my flame blazes unperturbed
When I hold your hand, you revive my aging soul.
Haunted by the death of dreams
and slaughtering of innocence
but too afraid to dig up the bones
and examine our own mistakes,
we bury our heads instead,
blindly following greedy leaders
who give nothing but hollow words
and meaningless moments of silence.
I know I’m not the only one asking -
what more can we do?
As summer nears, sunlight stirs
in streams, surprising delicate gardens
with dreams of daffodils.
Their bright eyes, wide with secrets,
suddenly close, and their dainty petals
wither until they are no more.
Knowing these last days
of spring rain will remain,
summer retreats.
Soon, their daffodil dreams will be
just a memory.
After darkness falls, all is numb.
New roots breeding evergreen
suddenly turn dry and dull.
Promises forgotten,
potential lost to pain -
tomorrow’s tree weakening.
The shimmering green of innocence
is gone, but fiery guns are drawn.
How can we forget while whipping winds
constantly howl? How can we only cry
as hatred’s bullets continue to fly?
Smoky skies once boisterous and blue
now choke our most cherished blooms.
The silence of complacency
is evil’s sickening laughter,
Do you hear its rifle reloading faster?
My blue tears turn blood red,
anger gushes, flooding me
from sea to dimming sea
in this vast land of violence versus vulnerability.
We are no longer free to dream,
no longer free to tend to our gardens,
to breathe in and measure
each miraculous moment,
to watch our fragile flowers strengthen
and grow to beautiful heights.
With head bowed, I listen
to the silence of my tears falling
where the flowers once grew.
I can no longer hear the cries
of the fallen with petals blowing.
I only hear the howling winds
of this never-ending nightmare,
and again I ask,
what more can we do?
5/25/22
I paced between the old and new
along the rows where gray stones grow,
so careful not to tread upon
the freshly filled and seeded few.
Soft shadows slid across the lawn
where long ago a scythe would mow;
its ringing echoed down the row
like angels voices singing now,
a prayer of faith, a sacred vow.
While young men die in foreign fields,
when once they played with cardboard shields -
now dig, like I, an endless trench,
a hole where mud and blood would drench;
the devil's own unholy stench.
Today my labors dig like they,
yet here, a grave where mourners pray
as chapel bells ring hymns of peace;
a futile wish for hate to cease.
The soil is scarred across the world,
with trench and grave, more holes to fill,
while there, on high, a tempest swirled.
It all will heal...it is his will.
only daughter
beautiful moon face
will his love eclipse mine