Best Children Poems | Poetry
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New Children Poems
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Who Is Raising Your Children
by Krutsinger, Caren
Children Are Seen
by Bavington , Bette
WE ARE THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB WE ARE GODS CHILDREN
by Lee Sr., James Edward
Your Children Are Listening
by Krutsinger, Caren
Children learn best when---
by Wolf, Gershon
Love The Children
by Nyhan, John
How Do Children Sleep At Night
by Slaughter, Jim
CHILDREN OF MY HEART
by Rodrigues, Kim
For My Children
by Kauffman, Sam
Taught By Children
by Krutsinger, Caren
View all new Children Poems
The Best Children Poems
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.
© Connie Marcum Wong
Poem of the Day May 11, 2017
The teenage years and the golden years are
the most difficult to endure. Both are fraught
with emotions...of facing life...of facing death.
Enter your own competition - Poetry Contest-Tranquility N/A
Form I have chosen is Couplet
Sponsored by: Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
One criterion I am striving to achieve: Spirituality
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2017
Listen to poem:
The last time we spoke I told you about how my life had changed for the better. I had been ridiculed and scorned for years. Never had any self-worth. Never thought about my future. Then, one evening, an angel from above had been sent to me to inform me that I was indeed loved after all. I didn't fully understand what it all meant at first, but I was overwhelmed with gratitude to say the least.
A year has gone by, and I wanted to share with you some wonderful news. If you'll recall, I was raised for a number of years in an orphanage. The director there was a cruel man who beat me often, all because I was ugly and different. After my rebirth, as I like to call it, I got to thinking about all the orphans still left in the world. So I took my severance pay along with money I had saved over the years performing in the circus for a certain E.T. Farnum and purchased an old abandoned schoolhouse on the outskirts of London. It hadn't been used in years and needed some freshening up and not a few repairs. But with a little help from the locals I had it up and running in short order. After securing all the needed certifications, I named it the Thomas Woodward School for Orphans. You see, that is my birth name, a name that was obscured for most of my life as few people ever dignified me by addressing me by my given name. But now there it was on high showing itself to the world. Not that I'm high-minded about it of course, no. I like to think of it as a reminder that all things are possible in life.
Soon I was being sent orphan children from all over London. I had no restrictions, really. Any child up to 16 years old was welcome here. The only qualification per say is that they be orphans, needing love and schooling. Due to my financial limitations I could only hire two teachers; one for children 2-10 years old and one for children 11-16. But I held out and engaged only the very best. Not only did these teachers need to meet high academic standards, they had to have demonstrated over the years that they truly loved children. Yes, for you see, my children deserve the best that life can give them. After all, they've already been dealt a bad hand, they not having parents and all.
Now at this point I'd like to tell you about a very special orphan that I've especially come to love. When she was small her home caught fire and her mummy and daddy were killed. To make matters worse, she had suffered burns over eighty percent of her body. When she first came to the orphanage I noticed that the other children tended to ignore her. And she said nary a word, no, but instead would be off to herself most of the day and night. Her teacher tried her best to bring the little girl, who's name is Katie, out of her shell but with poor results. Then, one day I had an epiphany of sorts. I thought to myself, here I am the former 'most unlovable man in the world.' But now I'm loved and cherished. What made the difference for me was when someone went out of their way at great risk to let me know I was loved.
So one day during class I walked into the classroom and introduced myself. Now the children had rarely seen me and only from a distance. But now here I was in all my inglorious ugliness right before their very eyes. Needless to say all the children got quiet and had anxious looks on their faces. So I sat down gently in front of them all and told them my story, just as I've told it to all of you. After I was done, and to my surprise, they all came up to me one by one and gave me a hug. Why, it brought tears to my eyes. But there sat Katie in her corner chair, eyes cast downward. I called to her:
'Katie, come here darling.'
She looked up at me and I could see that her eyes too were brimming with tears. I repeated:
'C'mon little Katie, it's okay dear.'
As she stood up and slowly walked toward me all the children watched with eyes agog. I sat her down beside me and said to her:
'Now, Katie, you've heard me tell my story to everyone. Now it's time that you told us yours. It's okay sweetie, we're all here for you.'
Well, for the first time she spoke. And spoke. And spoke. Why, she went on for an hour! Not just about the awful fire, but about her mummy and daddy and teddy and her doggy named Fritz. It was the second most memorable moment of my life, next to my rebirth. Because you see, Katie was having a rebirth of her own. Yes, from that day on all of the children began treating her like any other. After a time no one saw the burns anymore, just a beautiful little girl named Katie Lynn.
So there you have it. I wanted to share with you a bit of my joy. Life is wonderful. I hope and pray that life is equally wonderful for each and every one of you.
Until the next time.
Copyright © July Morning | Year Posted 2018
ON THE YOUNG MANS BALD
EYES BLACK AS
NIGHT STARED INTO
FRONT OF HIM
PATHS WHERE THE
CHILDREN HAD ROLLED
THREE BALLS OF SNOW MUCH EALIER THAT VERY DAY.
PATCHES OF GREEN GRASS
STUCK THROUGH PACKED
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
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014
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.
Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2006
Seb's young fertile face beamed African royalty
even in the penury of this Nigerian refugee camp.
Her mother's downcast eyes shunned the camera's querying lens,
while Seb's, "I-love-you", eyes were welcoming.
Seb's eyes were as blossom-petaled obsidian pools,
each pierced by the light of a distant star.
Her blackness did not succumb to woeful displacement,
but shone with the promise of an overcoming spirit;
for a Mother's prayers were writ in the marrow of her bones.
Born with a tenacity to love,
her young heart leaped out through trusting inquisitive eyes.
Her tongue, budding out of rich dark faced soil, seemed eager
to taste the sweet juices that her spirited-eyes promised;
smiling, "l love you", behind barbed wired love-me-nots.
Seb was a child . . . full of joyful expectations.
A child who did not choose this world;
'tho born of a Spirit conceived to love . . .
to love the . . . hell . . . out from her world.
(Note: This piece came out of seeing this fascinating photograph
by Sebastian Rich, of Seb clinging to her Mother in a camp for displaced Nigerians.)
Caption : A Nigerian child in a UNICEF clinic, who was finally on the road to a full recovery after suffering from severe acute malnutrition. Her unprompted smile filled my lens.
I would encourage everyone to visit the website of Sebastian Rich. His heart-gripping photography is incredibly moving and of great importance.
Copyright © Word Hobo | Year Posted 2017
You see hope when two kids share marbles between a volatile border.
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2017
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)
Contest: 8 Lines 7 words ~ First and Last Line Must be the Same
Sponsor: Rick Parise
Copyright © Pandita Sanchez | Year Posted 2014
beautiful moon face
will his love eclipse mine
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2017
You’re all in charge of authoring a story
Of love and humor, suspense and glory
You’re writing starts with your very first thought
And doesn’t end til your life is naught.
Know, My Dears, these books; your own
There are no cowriters; authors unknown
Flip those pages and make your quills dance
Miss no opportunities, take a chance
If somewhere in those thick tomes of yours
You have questions “whys and what fors?”
Do not ponder and then overthink
For there’s no such thing as permanent ink
There will be some tearstained pages
Most likely in your middle ages
There will be words you’d like to forget
Or phrases in which you may regret
But when it reaches the golden stage
The best of the story in a later page
Grab a pencil and throw some sparks
And don’t be afraid of eraser marks
Then once it’s written and you do find
There was a time of hurt when life’s unkind
Go ahead and toss out awful chapters
Because Momma loves Happily Ever Afters
Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2018
I was inattentive in Science class one day
When the teacher at random looked my way
I didn't look up, I wouldn't dare
There's no escaping that intense glare.
Asked me to explain to the class
Newton's Law of Gravity and mass
My mind was a blank, heartbeats louder
For an answer I started to flounder.
I stood before the class trembling with fear
"Gravity" I said...and then oh dear!!!
I fell off the stage on to the floor
How the class with laughter did roar.
The children tittered in great amusement
They didn't know my sad predicament
The teacher said, "You've demonstrated gravity"
"Although you did it with much levity".
At length I returned to my seat
With many applause did they greet
Now I look back upon this and ponder
I decide to listen and not let my mind wander.
Copyright © Nandita Das | Year Posted 2015
There once was a little snowflake
that was beautiful, cold and white
He was created up high within the clouds
during a storm one winters night
There were millions and millions of other flakes
but, no two that look alike
So, every snowflake received a name
and, his given name was Mike
Now as long as the wind was blowing hard
the more Mike hung around
But, it made him large and heavy
For, now he's heading towards the ground
There was Susan, Steven, Jimmy and Kyle
There was Sally, Kim and bill
They all came down together with Mike
as they landed on a sill
Of a cold and frosty window
on that stormy winters night
They gathered all together
as they waited for morning light
The sun then rose above the horizon
it's light...lit up every flake
The colors that came from all Mike's friends
a rainbow it did make
The beautiful snow lit morning
left Mike nowhere else to roam
But, he was happy to be there with all his friends
as he made that sill his home
Copyright © Roger Horsch | Year Posted 2013
One Halloween night when I was five
Rain pelted city streets, we stayed inside
Dad lit the Jack-o-lantern candle
Told us the tale of a famous vandal
One “Headless Horseman” in Sleepy Hollow
‘Twas Ichabod Crane he chose to follow
Crane ran breathlessly, was terrorized
(At this point my father’s eyes looked wild)
Thundering behind him through the forest
The hooves of a horse and a rider headless
Carrying a sword to strike Ichabod
(Dad grabbed a spatula, swung it like a rod)
Not just we children but our mother too
Gasped at the thought of Ichabod pursued
High winds cut off our electrical power
As in our kitchen three children cowered
Orange light from the pumpkin’s evil eyes
Showed Dad seemed to have dematerialized
The youngest, I felt something run through my hair
I screamed aloud in horror and despair
The lit pumpkin fell from table to floor
Darkness as I ran through the kitchen door
Leaping into bed, pulling up the sheets
Dad snuck into my room, whispered, “Trick or treat”
So if you think I am a drama queen
Please realize that it’s all in my genes
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2010
Bebo was a bird
who could not fly
He kept flapping his wings
'cause he knew he must try
There were two other birds
that were laughing at him
As he was jumping and flapping
up high on a limb
It must be so hard
to be stuck in a tree
Said, those two silly birds
That were laughing at me
I do not like you
get out of my tree
Don't you have somewhere to go?
Don't you have somewhere to be?
Bebo then said
let me get back to my endeavor
Or, I'll be stuck in this tree
forever and ever
He knows he's a bird
he eats worms and sings
He just needs a good breeze
to get under his wings
Bebo worked hard all week
to get into the air
Then he started to cry
Yelling, this isn't fair
With tears down his cheeks
Bebo looked at the sky
He said, I know I'm a bird
so why can't I fly?
The wind then spoke out
and said, It's not how you try
You must climb to the top
You must get really high
Then open your wings
and face into me
I will help you find flight
just get up there, you'll see
Bebo went to the top
of his lonely old tree
He opened his wings
and, waited to see
The wind then picked up
and, carried him high
Bebo was laughing with joy
'cause now he could fly
From that day on
Bebo was happy with flight
He said goodbye to his tree
and, then he flew out of sight
Copyright © Roger Horsch | Year Posted 2013
We are the Children
Bombs fall from the sky
The little children wonder why?
The night is mixed with blood and tears
Screams that deafen the little ones ears
In the name of what God or religion?
Is this killing seen to serve a mission?
In the name of what Tribe or Country?
We the children ask you humbly
We used to play and run all day
Now we hide fearing bombs come our way
The days we wander in search of foods
Hiding from soldiers intent on blood feuds
Bombs still falling from the sky
The pain and terror, when shall we die?
There is a gun on top a dead soldier there
I myself ended this pain that I could not bear
The bullet saved me from more despair
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Dance with me
I have borrowed mum`s summer hat
Dressed up with lipstick and pearl necklace
The good smell....do not say it but it`s mum`s perfume
The high heel red shoes are mum`s and they fits
me almost I`m nearly four years old and a big girl
I have dressed up so nice just for you
Dance with me dad, I`m your little princess tonight
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2012
Everyday is beautiful, son,
and no that's not being optimistic.
You're here - you're alive - with one more day on your plate.
That's just being realistic.
Tuesdays are for Tenderness, for the little things found beneath the rubble:
a flower peeking or a new-dream seeking, even though its subtle.
Wednesdays are for Wishes --- like hoping on that pretty, pretty star,
for something just around the corner is never all that far.
And Thursdays are for Thoughtfulness, on those reflective afternoons,
where all of life hangs between your ears, as your heart struggles to make room
for all the love that's bursting inside of you ...
(I know it's there!
hiding somewhere ... perhaps beneath the dirt and muck)
Fridays are for Friendship --- to the ones who you know true,
and hold you oh so close, despite all of life's various hues.
Saturdays are for Sanctification from all of distraction's clutter;
an occasion to make small your piece of toast, for there's too much of time's butter,
spreading oh so thin on Little You.
And Sundays are for Sunflowers, and the smile that ensues on even the coldest soul.
Treasure it child, if you ever see it bloom, for she's a fragile beauty that makes you whole.
Yes, my son ... EVERY day is beautiful, and Mondays especially,
for that's the day we praise our Mothers,
for giving birth to us at such a time as this (God knows it wasn't easy)
And no, I don't need to see the Seven Wonders,
to know how beautiful life can be,
for I've got all the splendor I can handle ...
... seven days a week.
Image Used: The I Hate Mondays T-Shirt Picture
Written April 10th, 2016
For the Images Contest Hosted by Silent One
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
I pursued a butterfly through the woods.
It fluttered, just always beyond my reach.
The more I pursued, the more it teased.
Stalking it, like prey, it just fluttered away.
I found a moss covered log to rest,
Sitting in a serene, secluded spot.
A butterfly came ,sat upon the log.
I caught it in the palm of my hands.
It's wings became a rapid flutter,
Trying to escape my grasp.
I opened my hands , freeing it.
If we pursued things in life,
They become unattainable.
If we sit quietly and reflect,
they become attainable.
Chasing our dreams may be
as allusive as the butterfly.
Finding them as beautiful as the butterfly.
Copyright © Phyllis Babcock | Year Posted 2011
You say you're Cinderella,
Or would you like to be.
Does this mean that you've found,
Your Prince charming in me?
You also say you're Jasmine,
So, Princess, please be mine.
A whole new world I'll show you,
A world of love divine.
Your favorite is Tinkerbell,
So I'll be Peter Pan.
Together we can fly away,
Off to Netherland.
And if you're Sleeping Beauty,
Then i will be the one.
To kiss your lips, open your eyes,
And fill your life with sun.
And if I was the Beast,
And your name was bell.
I know that I could count on you,
To free me from my spell.
And if I was Prince Eric,
Would you come with me?
As my Ariel I'd show you,
A lover deeper than the sea.
Just like a disney tale,
Filled all with love and laughter.
You and I will be together,
Happily ever after.
Copyright © Michelle Micek | Year Posted 2005
Once, a long ways away, and a long time ago
Lived a wee little man with his silly pet crow;
And once every day, as the sun went to bed
The wee little man and the crow he called Ted
Would go through the woods on a nice little walk;
And while they walked through the woods, his pet crow would talk.
Now, if saying, “Pet crow Ted could talk” twists your tongue,
Just wait till I’m through, and the story is done,
Because Ted tied the twigs of two tall apple trees
To the tips of his toes, and his knobby old knees,
And these twigs made him bounce as he walked ‘round and ‘round,
And he talked really loud while he walked on the ground,
Saying, “Twiddle my fiddles, and tie me a pie,
‘Cause a silly old crow couldn’t fly high as I.”
Then the wee little man said, “You silly old bird,
Just the way that you talk takes the sense from a word;
For if fiddles could twiddle, and pies had a string,
Then ants would walk backwards, and old crows would sing.”
Replied Ted the crow to the wee wizened man,
“Perhaps ants can’t do it, but old crows sure can.”
Then he puffed out his chest, and he cawed cockaroo,
And he sang an old song titled, “How Do You Do?”
“How do you do, little maid, Liddy Lee
When the crows come by twos, and they perch on the tree?
What do you see, little maid, Liddy Lee
When the crows throw the cockleshells out on the sea?
Where do you go, little maid, Liddy Lee
When the snow drives the crows from the mulberry tree?
And what do you hear, little maid, Liddy Lee
When the crows throw the snow on the cockleshell sea?”
But the old man just laughed and said, “Such silly songs
Never croaked such a crow as he hopped right along,
Because ants can’t walk backwards, and crows cannot sing,
Just like horses can’t fly, nor do turtles have wings.”
Now the crow wasn’t happy with what had been said
So he said, “I will sing you another instead,”
Then he puffed out his chest, and he cawed cockaree,
And he sang him a song called, “When Two Turned to Three.”
“When two turned to three, and when five turned to four
Things got much stranger than ever before.
There were two little pigs, and but two blinded mice,
And the two musketeers played with three little dice.
There were five and twenty blackbirds flying in the sky;
And four the little famous boy who never told a lie.
When six turned to seven, and eight turned to ten,
Snow White had six little dwarves with her then.
All the town clocks struck first ten, nine, then eight;
And people were always too early or late,
So they turned it all back to six, seven, eight, nine,
That way we could always keep track of the time.
Now the three pigs are three, and there’s three blinded mice,
And the three musketeers play with two little dice,
And the wee little dwarves number seven in all,
And the clock strikes from one up to twelve down the hall.”
But the old man just laughed and said, “Such silly songs
Never croaked such a crow as he hopped right along,
Because ants can’t walk backwards, and crows cannot sing,
Just like snakes don’t have legs, nor do bunnies have wings.
And with that, the old man put his pet crow to bed;
And till early next morning not a sentence was said.
Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst | Year Posted 2015
Rodents can be loquacious
That includes your average gerbil
They love to prattle, chat and blather
They really are quite verbal
Hamsters are talkative too
Just as garrulous as can be
With running mouth and wheel to match
They are a sight to see
But I am loath to squander words
Sparing usage is my way
I gather them like so many acorns
Against a rainy day
Yes, word collecting is the passion
Of this precocious squirrel
I garner adjectives, verbs and nouns
Be they singular or plural
The park is fecund land
There a plethora may be found
Vociferous, vehement and vex
I lately scooped up off the ground
The verb tree is prolific
Its discovery quite a boon
The other day it bestowed upon me
Flaunt, foster and festoon
All along the sidewalks
Concrete nouns lie strewn about
How blithely I did snatch up
A lummox, a laggard and a lout
To command a better view
I nimbly scampered up a pole
From this lofty perch I spotted
Wheedle, coax and cajole
Away in the distance
I spied a tempting pile
Heaped up for the taking were
Enticing, alluring and beguile
What do I with so much verbiage?
You would be fair to ask
Squirreling away so vast a lexicon
Must prove a mammoth task
The answer lies in my arboreal abode
Where these many words I stash
In alphabetical order they are arrayed
From zealous to abash
In a capricious mood one day
I grouped them by part of speech
Such a cacophony arose from clustering
Banter, badger and beseech
No matter how I sort them
The wasting of words I spurn
Reserved for rarest use I keep
Reticent, laconic and taciturn!
by Brian McClain - Feb 17, 2016
Originally posted Feb 17, 2016
Accidentally deleted Feb 22, 2016
Reposted Feb 22, 2016
Copyright © Brian McClain | Year Posted 2016
Hello Ms. Johnson, I’m sure this sounds strange
our mutual friend, said you need a change.
She told me how hard you work every day,
come home to your children, no time for play.
Your husband left you without any money
and traded family, for tainted honey.
You work as a nurse, working hard for each dime,
yet nothing’s left over at holiday time.
A holiday spent solely enjoying life,
playing with your kids no worry and no strife.
this dream keeps you going, each and every day,
my dear Ms. Johnson I believe I have a way.
I have a house with an awesome ocean view
for two weeks Ms. Johnson, it belongs to you.
I’m going on a journey and would find it grand
if you could watch my house and enjoy my strand.
If you and your children would like to come here,
believe me Ms. Johnson you’ve nothing to fear.
When you call Janet, she’ll give you my number,
my wish for you is a little less cumber.
Sincerely Brenda Meier-Hans
Contest: My Wish For You
Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014
When Angie was a little girl, so cute and very sweet,
She tried to talk with strangers and wander in the street.
She loved to play with dollies, teddy bears and kitties.
She’d put her clothes on backwards and would still look pretty.
Problems of this harried world were farthest from her mind.
Full of love and innocence, she always was so kind.
The years passed by so quickly. Angela went to school.
She learned the world, which can be great, also can be cruel.
She went from dancing lessons, fun sleepovers and zoos
to make-up, phone calls, shopping, and wearing size 9 shoes.
In sunny California, she learned to cherish friends.
Then back again to Utah, she had to start again.
She then came to the threshold of a bright new world.
When she became a woman, butterfly wings unfurled.
She’s leaned life’s little secret, what makes life worth living:
To honor God and family. She’s loving and so giving.
She listens to her conscience and tries to do what’s right.
My angel butterfly one day to heaven will take flight.
Feb 24, 2016 for Lovely Children Poetry Contest of Laura Loo
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016
I try not to wake him, though he stirs slightly
As I crawl out from the warmth of the covers.
I'm tempted to change my mind, and stay awhile longer,
But a glint of sunlight peeks through the blind and calls to me.
If I burrow down again, and drowse too long,
This glorious time of day will be gone...until it comes again tomorrow.
I tiptoe quietly and begin the morning ritual.
The splashing of water on my face, of letting the dog out,
Of brewing the dark, hot liquid that will help to
Open my eyes and recharge my reluctant brain.
The inviting aroma finally wakes my senses, and after
The first sip, I begin to feel the desire to join the world again.
I go outside, step onto the weathered porch, down the steps,
Onto the wet grass to retrieve today's bundled news.
Within it comes a page-by-page account of disasters, obituaries and comics...
I decide to forego all that gloom, and lay the paper beside the front door.
Instead, I drink in the morning air.
The new day is slowly coming alive. There's a slight chill.
This coolness will be baked away later, when the sun is high.
I pull my robe around me tightly, and sit down on the stoop.
Birds are chirping, and soon, I see that neighbors are beginning to embrace the
House by house, there is evidence that awakening has occurred.
A car is cruising by our house. The occupants, wearing their
Sunday best, and on their way to an early service to praise the Lord.
While some are sitting in pews, singing Alleluia,
A man down the street is starting his lawnmower.
Not mindful that the Sabbath is a day of rest,
Or that he may wake a late sleeper.
Inside my house, I hear the sounds of water running and dishes rattling.
Then someone calling my name. In a moment he appears
Carrying two steaming mugs of black coffee, one for him, and another for me.
He's come to see what this new day has offered, and sits down beside me.
We sit together quietly, and soak up the morning sun.
It wraps its warmth around us, like the bedcovers we had abandoned.
No words are needed to enjoy this moment.
However, toast and jam, and bacon await us. So we turn and go inside.
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2008
Sleep my lovely baby/PD/lady
Although I am so far away
Listen to the sweet song I sing
Feel in your heart I’m not leaving
Soft wind cuddles you in my arms of love
My warm embrace never makes you sad
Before you close your diamond eyes
Make a wish I am with you tonight
All dreams that you dream here or afar
Will be answered by those bright stars
As the moon smiles sweetly in your sight
Giving an assurance that you’ll be alright
Sleep my lovely baby/ PD/lady
Sweet lullaby I sing as I fervently pray
May God keep you safe while I’m away
In this world you’re so special in His way
This can be sung in a tune of a lullaby song which my teacher had taught me when I was still in Grade 4, I remember more vividly but not exactly the tune and the title and lyrics not anymore.
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Contest: Send Me To Sleep Poem
Poet Sponsor: Greatest Poet, Poet-Destroyer
Copyright © Galeo DS | Year Posted 2012
A long, long time ago in the land of Fays,
lived a forest nymph of beguiling beauty.
Laila, the queen of the trees, an angel of joy,
whose mere presence brought spirits to life.
She was beloved by all the creatures of the
woods. Her voice gave magic to sunlight.
The wind from her step brought flowers to
One day, while Laila was dancing through
the scented grasses of the glade,
a fanciful dragonfly, on his dutiful rounds,
became enchanted by Laila's song.
Being drawn by the scent of her happiness
and after circling dizzily around her head,
he lit right on the tip of her nose and
immediately started to jig.
The sight of such glee so delighted Laila
that she broke into uncontrollable laughter.
As soon as it was heard it shattered into
thousands of tiny moonbeams and from
that, my little ones, Fairies were born.
A Fairy Tale For Children Contest
Sponsored By Eve Roper
Copyright © Charlie Smith | Year Posted 2017