Long For children Poems
Long For children Poems. Below are the most popular long For children by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long For children poems by poem length and keyword.
These are poems for children and poems about children and their mothers, fathers, grandmother, grandfathers and extended families.
The Desk
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
There is a child I used to know
who sat, perhaps, at this same desk
where you sit now, and made a mess
of things sometimes.I wonder how
he learned at all...
He saw T-Rexes down the hall
and dreamed of trains and cars and wrecks.
He dribbled phantom basketballs,
shot spitwads at his schoolmates' necks.
He played with pasty Elmer's glue
(and sometimes got the glue on you!) .
He earned the nickname 'teacher's PEST.'
His mother had to come to school
because he broke the golden rule.
He dreaded each and every test.
But something happened in the fall—
he grew up big and straight and tall,
and now his desk is far too small;
so you can have it.
One thing, though—
one swirling autumn, one bright snow,
one gooey tube of Elmer's glue...
and you'll outgrow this old desk, too.
Originally published by TALESetc
A True Story
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Jeremy hit the ball today,
over the fence and far away.
So very, very far away
a neighbor had to toss it back.
(She thought it was an air attack!)
Jeremy hit the ball so hard
it flew across our neighbor's yard.
So very hard across her yard
the bat that boomed a mighty 'THWACK! '
now shows an eensy-teensy crack.
Originally published by TALESetc
Mother's Smile
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother Christine Ena Burch and my wife Beth Harris Burch
There never was a fonder smile
than mother's smile, no softer touch
than mother's touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than 'much.'
So more than 'much, ' much more than 'all.'
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother's there, nor how we reach
from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.
There never was a stronger back
than father's back, that held our weight
and lifted us, when we were small,
and bore us till we reached the gate,
then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, and flew.
But, oh, a mother's tender smile
will leap and follow after you!
Originally published by TALESetc
Keywords/Tags: children's poems, child, children, childhood, family, mother, father, son, daughter
Mother told a story yesterday
of how poets die in black penury
she said I won't be a pretty poet
as my dreams dance on my ink
"Poets are mirror of deceit and pain
craving beyond the debris of life
over my dead body will you be one!"
she pulled down the heaven on me!
a woman is a country of many colours
the hearts of men are far country
we are all students of life, learning
even the masquerade has a date,
a date to join their ancestors beyond
hold your tongue to your bosom
fate knows whose palm wealth will
be planted sooner or later by nature.
You will be raped by darned darkness
fed by junks of insanity lurking by...
a teary gland shall emerge, right in
the bosom of your myopic despair shall
you live by your sorrow like an oiled
orchestral stammerer down the street
father raged holding my LLB firmly
like pixels collection from a twisted
camera abandoned by a loner.
writers are mirrors connected to reflect
this world filled with broken stanzas
if my fears are not for my brothers and
my sisters and for Nigerians chains...
I will leave my hope dashed in the air
tilt this morning with the eyes of the night,
we will dice this moon for hand
on the paupers animated series of life.
Aduke birthed venoms last year for you
Chioma made your tears red images
words are like Sunbeams, the more they
are condensed the deeper they burn!
demise of a poet, no one seem to notice
in your domain,you don't expect praises
if a kingdom falls,there are several others
to replace it while you rot calmly.
Poetry pays but its a business of the Elites,
a trade not meant for children!
Shakespeare name is still carved on the
body of the sky, his head still seen today.
what is penny without a route in life?
Poets are pauper to their testy tongue!
Father, leave me to my dreams to perish
alone, even if evil calls for good,
I will stand as one poet and always will.
let the traces of a saint be kept in peace
let the shining armor of a poet glitter
becoming another star is not a sacrilege
Poets are not broken and shattered dust
this musing muse is only our spirits;
a spiritual elixirs to the clay world
we are crops, the worldcover, ladders
let the ways of poets be kept, we are
not paupers on the street begging for meat.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent
In our small community, there was a library surrounded by a playground filled with play equipment for children. There was a large and strong swing set
made of iron. There were also a sliding board and merry-go-round, both large. This swing set was the best, and it was built to last, with no fear of breakage.
Whenever the coast was clear, and if no one chased us off, we'd play for hours. "Coast was clear? What on earth do you mean?". What must be understood is this: In America, I grew up in the 50's and 60's in the rural South. Jim Crow laws were in full force, and that presented a major 'bigger than life' problem that my friends and I had to overcome. There was only one playground in town, and it was for "Whites Only".
However, in this heavy farming community, our playtime was limited and restricted. Because of that, when the 'spirit of playtime' embraced itself around us, we were willing to violate the rules and have fun as long as we could, which usually was a very short duration. It was like flying through the air without wings on childhood aircraft forbidden to us. So many other freedoms that were taken for granted by most kids in America were denied to us; but to play on that vast playground was so much fun and so liberating, that we broke the Southern Rule. I cannot count the many times that we were chased off; but we always went back, again and again.
No. We were not trying to change the world; we just wanted to swing.
No. We were not fighting for civil rights; we just wanted to slide on the boards. We were simply innocent kids, looking for joy rides on the merry-go-round.
If we had a motto, it was not "Let Freedom Ring; but rather, "Let Freedom Swing".
That was over 50 years ago, when Jim Crow was alive and well in America. Now, most people prefer to forget that he ever lived. I choose to remember.*
10192017 Contest, The Sounds Of The Past, Roper; Chosen picture for theme: The Swing Set; 2ndPl;*"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it", John Santayana
She sits beside the fire
As failing embers dim.
Lost smoke trails up the chimney . .
Like dreams she’d shared with him.
She sits and grieves for children
That never will be born.
Because his life was briefly lived,
There’s darkness in each dawn.
She thinks of how he looked that day
When last they had embraced . .
Young and handsome, unafraid,
Of perils he would face.
While she must stand there brave and strong-
To meet each day with hope.
She kept her outlook bright and clear,
She’d done her best to cope.
He’d left her for a war, you see . .
So proud and full of fire.
His country and his flag came first,
“Stay free” his great desire.
For on the day the towers fell,
He vowed to God above . .
To do his best to keep 'Her' safe,
This country that he loved.
Then in the fiery sun of May,
In a land beyond this shore . .
He laid him down and shed his blood;
She'd see his face no more.
Now time has passed since learning
Of the sorrow she must bare.
Grief still raw as at the first . .
No lessening of despair.
Her anger now replaced by voids
Of empty time and thought.
A life now full of nothingness;
Is what his death has wrought.
Summer’s past and then the fall,
Now winter cold and sad.
She sits beside the fire
And remembers all they had.
She can’t remember springtime
And renewal of her life.
Surely this must come one day
With the lessening of her strife.
She can’t remember laughter
Or smiling from her heart.
But God will refund gifts like this;
In time He’ll do His part.
It’s then she'll come to realize
That her love is safe and well.
He’s in a place far better
Than the land in which he fell.
Then she will grow to honor
The love that sent him there.
That day she’ll fall on bended knee
And speak to God in prayer.
Then life will once again become
A wonder to be lived . .
Touched by wisps of sadness
When remembering his gift.
Love and children will be hers,
Then joy and laughter too.
She will know that he looks down
And smiles upon his view.
For he is always with her
Even though he’s not in sight.
He’s in the heartbeat of our land,
He’s in our country’s might.
He’s in the vastness of the plains,
In mountains capped with snow.
He’s everywhere that freedom rings;
He’s where 'The Brave Ones' go.
Mideast Peace: Oxymoron
Though descendent of Jews,
I feel boggled at the brutal,
nasty and wanton war between
Israelis and Palestinians.
Many innocent victims
bred to know and hate their enemy
impossible mission
to reconcile one Semitic
group of peoples from another.
The bloody English
begat and fomented
debacle between Israelis and Palestinians.
little more than a century ago,
particularly usurping territory
courtesy aggressive premise
might makes right.
The human species
hell bent on making war
reprisals rank as a ,
and can never even the score
I harken back to childhood,
when our family lived
at Lantern Lane, and the Dailey's
(who threw rocks at Georgie
our Dalmation/Boxer)
rightfully earned before their time
the title fear thy neighbor
an altercation such
as aforementioned above,
would easily earn a spot
on Investigation Discovery
though deadly crimes violently hardcore
reenacted minus the explicit killing
fields not healthy for children
and other living things,
nevertheless even the most pious
and peace loving
exhibit fervent bloody ardour
if kith and kin held at gunpoint.
The annals of civilization
since time immemorial
replete with chronicles
of battlefield bravura
touting (with laurels of profuse praise)
for ultimate sacrifice
unnaturally, unstintingly, and unwaveringly
bravely giving oneself
to father/mother land.
Beneath the surface of the skin
we all bleed;
mortal kombat inked
in Mesolithic Europe
likewise dates to circa 10,000 years ago,
and episodes of warfare appear
to remain "localized
and temporarily restricted"
during the Late Mesolithic
to Early Neolithic period in Europe.
Idyllic as the fantastical utopian yen,
I feel pessimistic patriarchal wheelman
who steer autocratic
leviathan of state (witness Tiananmen
Square student-led demonstrations
known in Beijing, China
as the June Fourth Incident
lasting from 15 April to 4 June 1989)
cuz twentieth century ruthless demagogues
wanted to squelch
pro-democracy movement,
and not only stole demonstrators thunder
but forcefully co-opted with lightning force
their toys such as:
sophisticated erector set and playpen
for dolls loving buoys Barbie and ken
the former coming to life
as a miniature equestrienne
experiencing magical realism.
You’ve heard of Cinderella, I am sure
and how a fairy Godmother came to her
to help her meet her prince one magic night
when nothing in her life was going right.
Did you know that some animals too
can have their mighty wishes come true?
Once upon a time, there lived a frog
who had a friendship with a lovely dog.
The frog could only speak as froggies do,
Ribbit - ribbit, that was all he knew.
The tiny poodle dog he saw each day
was outside where she always liked to play.
She watched him hop and hop along the ground
and noticed how he followed her around.
He’d croak at her, but she had not a clue
that the frog was saying “I love you.”
So lovesick was the frog, at night he’d cry
thinking it would better be if he could die.
He wished to be a little dog and spend all of
his time with the poodle with whom he was in love.
One night before the froggy’s eyes there would appear
a frog with wings! He had a wand, and then grew near.
“I am your fairy frog-father,” this strange frog said.
“I’ve come to grant your wish, so have no dread.
I know that a poodle you would like to be.
If you are very sure of it, then you shall see
by morning’s light, your wish will have come true!”
The froggy slept. As he slept, a dog tail grew.
His nose became a snout, and he grew fur.
He’d turned into a poodle for the dog he loved – just for her!
His poodle love came out to play. Before her eyes,
she saw another poodle – such a surprise.
She found him most attractive, but could not tell
how it seemed this new dog she already knew well!
Her master mother saw her and the dog she took up with.
It made her glad her fur-baby seemed so filled with blithe.
She put up posters for a poodle maybe that was lost.
Nobody claimed the frog turned dog, so at no cost,
the master mother took this new sweet poodle in.
If dogs could smile, you can bet the once-frog dog would wear a grin.
Months passed (and no, the tale’s not finished yet).
Some precious puppies next were born from master mother’s pet.
No one ever figured out though why one puppy dog
ended up with googly eyes and hind legs of a frog!
April 4, 2023
For Write A Sweet Fairytale For Children With A Good Outcome Ending, Ie Nobody Gets Hurt :) Poetry Contest
Sponsor: BJ Legros Kelley
Americans, Algerians, Australian aborigines,
Corrupt leaders of the world involved in illegal activities.
Bloodthirsty bullies brazenly bombing bystanders,
Militaries full of corrupt army commanders.
Charities for children, carers in communities,
Third world countries deprived of equal opportunities.
Doctors, dentists, drugs, disability and depression,
An angry generation full of negative aggression.
Evil egotistic eejits entering elections,
Profiteering politicians with the right connections.
Foul mouthed fools fighting over fossil fuels,
Crooked government clowns creating their own rules.
Greedy gangs gambling, goons glamorising globalisation,
A sad and unfair planet, full of frustration.
History of horrific holocausts, hate crimes, hard times,
Skull and bones, secret societies, illuminati hand signs.
Isolation, intimidation, immigration, inaccurate information,
Hiroshima and Nagasaki still suffer from radiation.
Judge and jury, jam-packed jail cells,
Relentless rebels not doing it for the medals.
Kalashnikov culture, killers keep killing,
The reality of climate change is extremely chilling.
Lame loud mouthed liars living in luxury,
Corrupt politicians should be in custody.
Microchips, machine guns, military madness in the Middle East,
The rich get richer while homelessness continues to increase.
NASA, NATO, new world order, negative nonsense,
Celebrating Columbus Day, do they have any conscience?
Outrageous organisations occupying oil fields,
Double dealing leaders involved in shady deals.
Pitiful pessimists publishing pointless propaganda,
While aids and malaria increases in Uganda.
Quality over quantity or quantity over quality,
An overused phrase that’s used too commonly.
Radicals rallying, ready for revolution,
Air, water, soil and radioactive pollution.
Sick, sadistic sinners selfishly selling slaves,
Fredrick Douglass must be turning in his grave.
Terrible terrorists taking over territories,
Religious beliefs still creating enemies.
Unconscious unkind useless United Nations,
CNN plus Fox News equals bias news stations.
Various victims viciously victimised,
Deadly missiles falling from the skies.
Wars, weapons, whistles blowers on the World Wide Web,
While others sell their souls just to become a celeb.
I faced alarming paradoxes
as I headed toward puberty.
First,
my King James Bible-belting parents,
extended family,
and all-hopelessly-WHITE farm community
taught me
God loves me
and all the children,
red and yellow,
and black almost as much as white.
That felt good
but then I learned God hates me
because I became queerly obsessed
with hot guys,
and not hot girls.
So, God restoratively created me
so He could retributively hate me.
That seemed like poor justice and peace planning to me,
and I was still in fifth grade.
Then I learned that God had given me two extraordinary gifts:
Possibly unmeasurable intelligence,
and so,
my grade-school principal warned
my evangelical farmer parents,
we were not to be surprised
if I was and saw this Earth
in a somewhat different way.
My second gift
was the envy of all good Bible-belting out and still-in teenagers.
I could sing with the angels.
So,
the God of Infinite Love
is my Creator
and I am His Frankenstein *****
with a mind and singing voice to soar,
full of Grace.
You and I might both be surprised
how long it took to figure out
Something is very wrong with this picture,
and I don't think it is just me.
It was merely everyone else I knew and trusted
in that Bible-belting time.
So I sang for them in full voice
but gave as little voice to my sexuality as possible.
I wrote papers and test responses
in full A+ voice
but told no one
I knew they were asking wrong questions
for me to answer with full-versed integrity,
Free to sing with David and Jonathon
free of magic superstitions
standing in for mythic polypathic wisdom
of Solomon
Not to divide innocent organic Promise
God has conjoined as Love
of and for children,
red and yellow,
black and white,
gay and lesbian,
bisexual and transgender
And, yes, even straight-faced
Bible-belted out and inward Hate,
Supremely Evangelical Christian Colonizing InBred Correctness,
while continuing to give birth
to hidden,
shamed and blamed ***** Grace
of a Loving God
polypathically immense,
deep and wide,
future through past
regeneratively just
and peaceful
and wickedly funny
Because if we cannot laugh at our egocentric stupidities,
then we must cry out for cosmic tragedy.
There resided in an Orphanage, called Blessedville
Lovely girls whose names are Charitybelle,
Faithgayle and Hopedelle.
They are best friends and in prayer they are aligned
Asking God to give them adoptive parents who are kind…
Yet they must wait for guardians with good heart and mind.
One day, their home was visited by Mr. and Mrs. Kompassion
Giving all children food supplies, and for each one, a school-provision
As they announced their adoption-related decision.
They planned to adopt two girls who are cheerful
So all children have become more responsible and dutiful
Including Charitybelle, Faithgayle and Hopedelle who are hopeful.
“We want all of you to be part of our choice”
Said Mrs. Grace Kompassion, “so now rejoice
And answer our question without making a noise.”
Mr. Merc Kompassion smiled with delight
Stating, “Just do what is right and write without fright
To make us know that you are the great child in our sight.”
Mr. and Mrs. Kompassion asked each child for recommendation:
“Among all of you, what two names can you give as suggestion
To be included for our family expansion?”
Each child wrote one person including own name
But not Charitybelle, Faithgayle and Hopedelle who are the same
In not placing their names for their full claim.
Charitybelle considered Faithgayle and Hopedelle for the best
Faithgayle mentioned Hopedelee and Charitybelle to be blest
While Hopedelle noted that Charitybelle and Faithgayle are the greatest.
Because of the love* they showed for each other
Charitybelle, Faithgayle and Hopedelle were adopted together
And Mr. and Mrs. Kompassion became their father and mother.
Until now, they visit Blessedville Orphanage with eagerness
Expressing that they thank the Lord for His graciousness
Making them belong to a wondrous family of joyfulness.
*1John 4:16 And we have known and believed the love that God hath to us. God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.
Tristich in Rhyme midst Narrative form
April 7, 2023
1st place, "Write a Sweet Fairytale For Children with a Good Outcome Ending; Nobody gets hurt" Poetry Writing Contest; Sponsored by BJ Legros Kelley; judged on 5/6/2023.
There one was a rich woman back
in eighteen ninety-three,
she was a well-established wife
at the age of forty,
and she had born no children
since she lost one long ago,
her husband blamed himself for that,
but neither of them could know.
They had a big country estate,
went back hundreds of years,
and all of England knew of them,
from commoners to peers,
with some of the finest gardens
that your eyes even could see,
all maintained by a teenager
who could grow up prize lilies.
Now this boy had seen sixteen years,
an orphan with no kin,
and so the lord and the lady did
try to be nice to him.
They let him live in the gatehouse,
ensured he always had food,
made sure he came to their parties
to smooth off the edges rude.
Rumors said they would adopt him
and make the boy their own,
more and more people saw the lad
inside the mighty home.
The woman could be a mother,
and the boy have real parents,
people did see, they all agreed,
that it seemed heaven-sent.
The husband was a business man,
he traveled all the time.
he liked having a protector
that he could leave behind,
believed his wife would be safe with
a strong lad there on the scene,
started spending more time away
to earn piles of the green.
It was when he was far away
that the lad did storm out,
and from the look upon his face
he wouldn’t turn around.
What had happened between the two
bobody could rightly tell,
until three short months later when
her belly began to swell.
It was then that folks realized,
began to understand,
she didn’t want a teenage son,
she’d wanted a young man
that she could use as a father
for the baby that she craved,
and she wouldn’t leave her husband,
so the young man ran away.
Folks though it would be a scandal
when her husband returned,
cuckolded within your own house,
enough to make men burn.
But it soon became clear to all
he thought the child was his,
and went around telling people
of this miraculous gift.
The husband was so jubilant,
soon by all it was known,
he and his wife had so long prayed
for children of their own.
And the man was just so happy,
you could see it in his eyes,
no one had the heart to tell him
that his wife did cheat and lie.