Tag Archives: children’s poem

Poems by Youtao Cao

Poems by Youtao Cao, Age 9, Japan

1. The Sea Keeps Its Own Time

The sea never hurries.
It breathes in slow, patient rhythm—
a pulse older than language,
older than the gulls that cry
over its restless shoulder.

Some mornings it shines like forgiveness,
all silver and soft-spoken.
Other days it roars,
throwing salt and grief against the shore
as if to remind the land
how fragile it really is.

I stand at its edge,
barefoot in the cold sand,
and it tells me nothing—
no secrets, no promises,
just the steady truth of motion:
come and go, come and go.

And maybe that’s enough—
to know that even when I leave,
the sea will still be breathing,
keeping its own time,
unbothered,
endlessly alive.

2. Joy, Unscripted

Joy doesn’t always arrive
with trumpets or fireworks—
sometimes it tiptoes in
soft as breath on a mirror.
It’s not always loud.
Sometimes it’s the silence
after the rain,
when the world smells like hope
and everything feels newly forgiven.
Joy lives
in a cracked joke between friends,
in a song you forgot you loved
playing in a store you weren’t supposed to enter.
It’s in the way your dog looks at you
like you’re the best poem ever written.
It’s that rush
when the sun breaks through gray clouds
and paints gold on your skin.
It’s finishing the last page
of a book that understood you
before you understood yourself.
Joy doesn’t wait
for a perfect moment.
It grows like weeds
between sidewalk cracks—
wild, stubborn, and free.
So maybe joy isn’t a destination.
Maybe it’s the way you walk the road—
barefoot,
arms wide,
laughing at nothing,
and everything.

3. Where the River Thinks

Poetry is the wind through pine,
A hush before the storm,
It carves the cliffs like patient time,
That sets the silence warm.

It’s rain that knows the weight of stone,
A leaf that writes the air,
A spark the mountain keeps alone,
But always longs to share.

It blooms where language loses shape,
Where roots outgrow the ground—
Poetry is nature’s secret tape,
Wound tight, then gently unwound.

4. Sunlit Shore

The waves come dancing, soft and slow,
Their laughter chimes in tones of gold.
The sand remembers every toe—
A map of footsteps, warm and old.
The breeze is sweet with salt and sun,
It hums lullabies to seashells white.
The tide brings gifts at break of dawn—
A starfish, smooth as morning light.
Oh, stretch your hands to catch the sky,
Let summer paint you bright and free.
The ocean sings—just listen nigh—
It’s singing songs of peace and glee.

5. The Birch’s Whisper

Silver light drips through the canopy,
a thousand suns trembling on dewy grass.
The river hums in fractured tongues,
carving secrets into smooth obsidian.
Wind unties the mountains’ knots,
scattering snow like forgotten letters.
A fox pauses in the firelight,
ears twitching to the earth’s slow pulse.
Dawn spills from a cracked acorn,
growing roots where my shadow blurs.
The world exhales—
and I am caught in its breath.

All five poems were written by by Youtao Cao, age 9, Japan. He adds: “I am a multilingual writer currently living in Tokyo, Japan. At home, I speak Chinese. I study in English at an international school and am also learning French and Japanese.
“I have a deep love for reading and writing in English. So far, I have read over 500 English books—more than 100,000 pages in total—and I especially enjoy stories and poems that explore memory, identity, nature, and emotion.”

Art by Youtao Cao, age 9, Japan

Augusta’s Final Dance

Augusta’s Final Dance

By Avi Sogani, age 12, California.

I sat glued to our TV on a cool California April morning beside my dad.
Almost hundred years of traditions live at Augusta National, where the Masters first began.
The aroma of freshly cut grass wafts on the gentle breeze,
as the fairways and the undulating greens shine under the perfect morning light of this splendid day.

He steps onto the final tee, holding onto his lead,
just a few swings away from winning the legendary green jacket.
His tee shot flies past the spectators,
before diving sharply into a steep bunker.

Golf is unpredictable like that, with frustration looming at every turn,
but this golfer just breathes, returns to his process, and refuses to give up.
Even in the toughest situations, he can find a way out.
He requires patience, determination, and a deep belief that he can do this.

He hits his shot over the deceiving water hazard, landing it five feet from the pin,
as the audience applauds feverishly.

His putt drips into the cup as he hoists his clenched fist in the air.
The crowd erupts like a volcano,
and he wins the tournament.

Moments like this make this aggravating game something unforgettable.

He shakes hands with the dejected runner-up,
whose quiet eyes ask the question
every golfer knows:
what could have been?

I know that feeling very well.
Next time I am out on the course, I will remind myself to be more like Rory.

By Avi Sogani, age 12, California. He writes: “I am sharing my poem that reflects my passion for the game of golf… I spend most of my weekends either playing golf in local tournaments, reading golf books, or following it on television. Watching the Masters tournament with my dad is a yearly tradition I cherish very much. This poem tries to capture the emotions I experience both on and off the course.

“I am hoping the readers walk away remembering that even the best players in the world may make mistakes in big moments. What matters is to continue to believe in yourself, stay focused and disciplined to reach your goals in life.”

Who Am I?

Who Am I?

I may not have eyes to hide
or hair to care
or ears to face my fears
or a nose to smell a rose
or a mouth to shout
or arms to work a farm
or legs to walk
or hands to till the land
or feet to make my shoes tweet

Who am I?

I am a personality!

—Tara Sadeghi, age 8, California.

Our Sun, a Gzahal Poem

Our Sun, A Ghazal Poem

By Samir Sogani, age 12, California.

Everyone bows before a supreme force, our Sun.
Everyone, to live, relies on our Sun.

A beacon of hope to travelers on Earth,
When the moon is cast aside by our Sun.

It gives energy for greens to grow and thrive,
No leaves, no air, without our Sun.

Some myths call it a god, burning bright;
Others say even gods serve our Sun.

We now know it’s not divine, just a flaming ball of gas.
However, many still believe the myths that a god is our Sun.

Compared to some stars, it’s barely a spark.
Compared to others, colossal is our Sun.

Children say, “My parents are like the Sun.”
But even parents owe their life to the Sun.

We take for granted air, fire and breath,
Each one a gift returned by our Sun.

Even scientists cannot grasp its full weight;
Thousands of Earths would fit in our Sun.

One day Samir, all will vanish into the emptiness of space.
But not today. We still burn with our Sun.

By Samir Sogani, age 12, California. Samir adds: “I am Indian American, I speak English and Spanish but I grew up listening to Hindi and Telugu at home. I have been very lucky to travel around the world with my family—from the ancient temples of Cambodia to the ruins of Machu Picchu. Everywhere I go, people are connected by the Sun, and I wrote this poem to reflect on the impact of humans on nature and how we take the Sun and Earth for granted. I am hoping the readers leave with wanting to take better care of our natural resources before it is too late.”

Is Convenience Worth the Last Drop?

Is Convenience Worth the Last Drop?

By Mikaela Gee, age 16, New York.

As we walk from the sea to earth, along paths carved by rapids long ago,
It was Mother Nature’s tears that nourished and raised—
Our bodies, our cells, our kin who’ve begun,
To shape the earth with a boundless run.

And yet, we have forgotten our mother,
Who raised us through countless years.
Her lifeblood, pure and versatile,
Now depleted, unwaveringly so.
She gives us the sweetest fruits to savor,
Irrigates our crops to yield golden wheat,
And builds the grand towers that power our homes.
Yet we poison her roots, her veins,
Choking the motor, seizing the reins.
Our pipes leak lacquered oil into her seas,
From which we fish, then we eat.
Steel succumbs, its strength turned frail by decay,
Her hands unearth truths time cannot betray,
Empires crumble, bound by nature’s say.

And so I call upon you—
My peers, future generations, and past:
Let us pause and remember: the taste of water, sweet and crisp.
The refreshing rain that quenches earth’s thirst.
Without water, no harvest will grow,
No forests, no flowing seas—no us.

Let us act before time discreetly seeps away,
With hands that halt the careless streams,
And choices that honor the gift we’ve known—
So the rhythm of life may endlessly flow,
So that our cups will always be filled to the brim.

By Mikaela Gee, age 16, Chinese-Malaysian, New York. Mikaela explores life’s complexities through quiet reflection, capturing universal emotions in still moments—like gazing out a car window at the world rushing by. She’s eager to share her voice and connect with readers, blending personal introspection with themes that resonate widely. Expect to see more of her poems in near future.

Monsoon Rains

Monsoon Rains

By Adhya Kidiyoor, 14, Texas, and Maira Khwaja, 13, Texas.

The steady, gentle pour of the rain
The hot steam spiraling from the cup in my hands
The soft creaking of the wooden swing beneath me
This takes me back to where I belong
This takes me home.

I linger there for a while, trying hard to piece myself back together

The thunder booms, shaking the rain-soaked earth, scattering my broken thoughts across the mossy ground.

The swing freezes midair.
My chai loses its last warmth.
Time seems to stand still.

Who am I?
I’m a girl who’s lost.
A girl in the glorious shower of rain
A girl remembering the soft, familiar canopy of past days
A girl falling apart in the monsoon, not yet ready to let it go.

A girl who longs to go back.

Sitting here without the warmth of my home, I feel so small.
Alone.

Lightning flashes, and for a moment, everything seems clear.

I breathe again, as the rain grows heavier and heavier
As the burden I carry feels lighter and lighter

I listen, for once, as the murmurs of life grow smaller and smaller
And the depths of my clarity grow deeper and deeper

I pause, in wonder as the tiny insignificant raindrop becomes a brilliant shower—
Something bigger.

The rain grows stronger, the steady stream washing away my confusion
For the first time, I can see clearly.

Alone, I would be swept away, just another raindrop swept away in the current
But I don’t have to be alone

The stories of pride and joy, so achingly familiar, keep me warm.
The whispered tales, so fondly believed, keep me company.
These are my roots.
This is my culture.

The rain fades away, as all moments must.
But I can find solace in this memory
I can find clarity in this moment
And in the rain, I find not just my answer but myself.

I am not just a drop, but part of a storm.
I am not just a person, but part of a nation.

I am not just a girl, but the spirit of what makes India beautiful.
And that is all I need.

* * * *

Somewhere between that last sip of chai and the weight of the rain, I stopped worrying and began to listen. The rain didn’t just fall—it spoke, in a language older than our names, dialogue that can be felt and heard. It tells me, tells all of us, that home isn’t always a place, but a scent, a story, or the rhythm our footsteps carve and the droplets copy. And sometimes, the storm doesn’t break you. Sometimes, it brings you back home.

* * * *

The steady fall of the rain
   counters the frantic
    thumping of my heart.

I am surrounded by the scent
  of moss and earth
   and all things green with life.

It was a dry period,
   one without the flourish of nature
    and the embrace of home.

But
  monsoon
   is coming soon.

I now sit on the swing
  that has swayed the same since I was six—regardless of storm or season.

The sky weeps a wretched cry,
   hungry to drown all that is familiar.

I must remind myself
  this brutal storm is nothing new.

And the lifeless land will be ruined only momentarily—
  hard and loveless destruction giving way to plentiful earth.

For days, the skies will wail
  and the clouds will darken,
      closing their weepy eyes.

   I wonder if this storm will ever pass.

But
  monsoon
   comes every year.

So by now, I must know
  the storm will waver eventually—
   desperate, darkened skies shutting their curtains  

to reveal the calm of the sun
   the soft of verdant grass
       And the saffron and marigold of the ripe aam
         That I have been waiting for.

         My little swing continues to rock
        and the rain continues to fall
      but I continue to breathe
 Because the skies have promised

To epilogue into vibrant
    orange, white and green,
     that fills me with the spirit of India,
      alive in every drop of rain.

Written jointly by Adhya Kidiyoor, and 14, Texas, and Maira Khwaja, age 13, Texas.

Adhya loves staying active—especially in the world of literature! Whether it’s volunteering, competing in Science Olympiad, or practicing tennis, she’s always doing something. When she’s not on the move, you’ll find her reading, listening to music, or working on her next big idea. She’s curious, motivated, and always up for a new challenge.

Maira has a passion for learning and creativity. She enjoys writing poetry, reading, and spending time outdoors. When she’s not volunteering with nonprofits, she’s either listening to music or practicing karate.