Kids Sonnet Poems | Examples
These Kids Sonnet poems are examples of Sonnet poems about Kids. These are the best examples of Sonnet Kids poems written by international poets.
It thunders through like a rampaging doom,
water cracked the stone, and carved out this chute,
the locals around here call it the Flume,
white water churning through a confined route.
Roiling, throwing mist onto the rocks,
always wet and sporting a sheen of green,
so loud is the torrent it’s hard to talk
over the noise as the water careens.
Empties out into four small waterfalls,
which widen into a wading-deep pool,
folks splash around, and the kids short and tall
dunk heads in the cascades, thinking it’s cool.
But never dare try riding the cataract,
even dumb kids know they will not come back.
“A beautiful car is something to be adored and if possible, restored in later years
to its former beauty. Some of your best memories it keeps.” by poet
There is a very old decrepit car.
She was my father’s “baby” long ago.
Named Jaguar D – like a Superstar -
she cruised downtown with a polished glow.
The young kids oohed and ahhed when she went by.
Unwanted now – she sits in Grandpa’s field
like a pet (once adored) left out to die.
She’s rusted and busted; her window shield
is shattered, and I bet bees made a hive
inside her engine, for her hood is raised.
Why couldn't she have been restored to thrive
and as an antique, she could have been praised.
Out to pasture is her degradation;
to be towed and crushed: her destination.
My crayon box dreams, I've held in my heart
From when I was young to now when I'm old
The ones I recall all do hold their part
Memories of life begin to unfold
Hopscotch in colors of chalk on pavements
Back when I played with the kids on my square
Making hand faces at night in our tents
To play late out at night without any care
One, two, three spud- is a game that we played
And so was hide-n-seek, and playing ball
And there were games that my friends and I made
Those were the games that I loved most of all
So long I've lived and so hard it all seems
I've held in my heart...my crayon box dreams
Line of inquiry:
“since thoughts speak in past tenses,
drop mind, rely on senses,
embracing and releasing,
pain pangs and pleasure pleasing” by Unseeking Seeker
I can see God’s hand in all around me:
the sweetness of dawn’s pink; the dusk’s bright sky;
my loved ones’ faces; pets and my plum tree;
mountains to my east and birds that freely fly.
And in my grand kids’ voices I can hear
their joy and sorrow too. God gave me this
that I might comfort them when I am near.
In taste and smell, oh, there is such bliss:
good food; the whiff of flowers on the breeze.
I must embrace my senses, taking part
in using them to grow them with more ease
and feel both using touch as well as heart.
Thus, Now Continuum I do employ,
resulting in my mindfulness and joy.
Tinkle of chime, of time, of blizzard blast.
The kids are off and hope for snow to gush.
The skies are scanned with hopeful overcast.
Return to school where teachers rule and crush?
The teachers lie, they’re paycheck low - want snow.
Attention scowl would pass with gassy clouds.
An arctic blast would cause their cheeks to glow;
Call buses fast, and cheer the plucky crowds.
The tender swirl of flakes, pug noses pressed
against the icy breath of Jack Frost’s muse.
The bump and toss, the smudge of Winter’s zest.
Imaginations clip, as yellows cruise.
Angels, in divine white, do flap each wing.
Their mirthful shake upon the earth’s offspring.
An eastern icicle seems to impose
as it's dripping down a church tower bell.
Bitter cold made bell and ice juxtapose,
as frost took its toll, now no one can tell.
No galloping horse and no rebel cry
amidst drifting snows now resting calmly.
Yet not quite so, with kid's natural high,
cast snowballs up, with their spirits jolly.
A target shred reveals a silver bell.
Gone are their folly, just eyes frozen stare.
The front doors open. A priest says, Noel,
to all of the kids who were gathered there.
Merry Christmas all, have fun while you play.
I'll see you at mass for Jesus' birthday.
A lot of life I’ve lived; in all these years
some attitudes and thoughts of mine have changed.
Here’s one example: I’ve got fewer fears,
but one thing mainly I have re-arranged.
I’ve switched around the way I used to feel
about possessions. Now that I’ve grown old,
It’s so much easier for me to deal
with quitting seeing things like they were gold.
I realize the many things that I’ve
been spending money on mean so little.
Simple joys are the real gold; I’m alive!
The many things my kids would belittle -
my records, knickknacks, clothes and lovely rings.
Time with family is much more worthwhile.
The world I used to love seems upside down.
I use my phone, and I get a robot.
Oftentimes I just hang up with a frown.
The tempers of stressed folks can get so hot
good manners seem to have walked right out the door.
Why aren’t people thinking their actions through?
Must films use nasty words and so much gore.
Profanity is used by toddlers too!
I hate that kids use cell phones in their school
and now A.I is helping them to cheat.
Some kids consider this and sexting cool.
I’m awake (not woke). Even if folks tweet
“It cannot be helped.” While I am still free,
it’s my right politely to disagree.
Like a termite eating willow oak, Herod felt empty.
Fear of the threat of dethroning Brim-filed abundantly
Could a little lamb invade the den of a lewd lion?
Could a rod of reed face the force of a pole of iron?
Like a mad monkey, Herod scattered fragile eggs and nests.
Troopers cut kids to pieces, pulling them from mothers' breasts.
Weeping and wailing tore the veils of the night of Ramah.
Who could consent to be consoled by Covert’s crude drama?
Wanting to know you, the unknown hero, they were born
Before seeing their hero face-to-face soon they were gone.
Had they seen you, their friend, wouldn't they have reviled Herod?
Was this why the coward, like a wounded jackal, worried?
Little humans, destined for eternity, were slaughtered
Wasn't this why roots and routes of law to love got altered?
Bouncy Brock blew bigger bubbles than his friends,
Friends whose bubbles were small, soapy bursts of suds
Brock’s bubbles were so huge they’d certainly cleanse
While his friends looked on, Brock trailed through the redbuds,
Blowing such froth, sharing his marvelous gifts
Brock’s bubbles were always stunning, never duds
Brock’s bubbles climbed much higher as the wind shifts
Followed by trails of foam where his bubbles roam
Bubbles wandered through meadows and over cliffs
Bouncy Brock kept blowing, when gone or at home
Leading friends down a path, blowing and blowing
So everyone he met knew, though not noisome…
Brock spent his time puffing so he was glowing,
Realizing his bubbles were mind-blowing!
Fresh football fixtures, fill our Saturdays
kids all get haircuts and new shoes for school
white summer dresses are folded away
north winds caress us as evenings turn cool
Summer's end harvest, berries and chestnuts
broken branches, the scattering of leaves
shaken dog walkers with their shell shocked mutts
low hanging sunshine, a Cox apple breeze
Weather becomes our preoccupation
ends talk of rioters, waiting for cells
and pauses all of our speculation
on flip-phone Fuhrers, in fancy hotels
Storm Lilian found, it's way down our street
the Autumn statement, arrived at our feet.
The clouds begin to grieve as the light veils
Leaves descend paths in a radiant race
Only the trees in the forest now dwell
Raindrops blast pain upon mugs without grace
Minds in a tragic war with expired life
Dreaming of a rose-petal sweet sight
Storms blowing branches in their wretched strife
There aren't rose rays to fly kids' merry kites
The cordial wildlife no longer entices
Wee paws press panes desiring glimmer hype
Nada rambling, eyes warped in devices
Blood pressure rises and debris swims windpipe
Autumn, the season when spirits are torn
Lost in the grey union of dusk and dawn.
Once newly shaped, when buds do open up.
Unfurling sense, one’s eyes of Spring arise.
A mother-oak, her branches grasp bird-cries.
The leaves ring bell, the beaks do come to sup
And sip, foliage turns into a cup.
The soar-uplift of the branches - owls, wise.
The nestled memories, these are the highs.
Autumn wind-verve and ink decree break up.
Down, down into the pile of yellow, reds,
Orange and brown. Up, up, the kids do pop.
Such fun as oaks bluster about and lose
Their trimming sooth, do bend and shake their heads.
Winter with caps seize those so bald on top.
Those frozen trees, seasoned, with diff’rent views.
The doctor’s practice went to waste
the moment that the medic faced
A call from his reserve platoon
to fight a battle all too soon
The CEO of Pharma-Tech
would leave behind all hands on deck
When his brigade came calling him
he knew the war was no mere whim
The principal of my kids’ school
had fought the call, but overruled
He swiftly left his chair unmanned
The army had ripped up his plans
‘Coz ev’ry year since 'forty-eight
Disruption's marred the Jewish State
(Inspired By Glenn Hughes' cover of Alice Cooper's "Only Women Bleed")
She’d cooked and cleaned and gave her all for him
and their three kids. She’d even worked part-time
outside their home, but life remained still grim,
and never will she live to see her prime.
She had escaped his beatings when she’d fled
and took her children with her far away
because she’d realized she’d end up dead
if she had any longer tried to stay,
enduring constant yelling and abuse.
She’s living with an old friend, trying to
keep hidden, yet she’s still had to produce
the documents to start her life anew.
Her spouse, with gun in hand, appears inside
the friend’s house . . . she succumbs to homicide.