#Poems for Children

[adventuresofalgy]

There were only a few days left in which to practise before his special Hogmanay Hootenanny, so Algy thought he had better get on with it without further delay, or he might not be ready in time…

Collecting his bagpipes from the place where his assistant had kindly stored them during his absence, Algy set himself up discreetly under a bush in her garden, and started to blow… but the bagpipes just said "Aaooga". Algy thought this strange, as he had played the pipes successfully not so long ago, so he tried again, but the bagpipes would not cooperate: they didn't say "yes" and they didn't say "no", they just said "Aaooga":

It was nine o'clock at midnight at a quarter after three When a turtle met a bagpipe on the shoreside by the sea, And the turtle said, "My dearie, May I sit with you? I'm weary." And the bagpipe didn't say no. Said the turtle to the bagpipe, "I have walked this lonely shore, I have talked to waves and pebbles--but I've never loved before. Will you marry me today, dear? Is it 'No' you're going to say dear?" But the bagpipe didn't say no. Said the turtle to his darling, "Please excuse me if I stare, But you have the plaidest skin, dear, And you have the strangest hair. If I begged you pretty please, love, Could I give you just one squeeze, love?" And the bagpipe didn't say no. Said the turtle to the bagpipe, "Ah, you love me. Then confess! Let me whisper in your dainty ear and hold you to my chest." And he cuddled her and teased her And so lovingly he squeezed her. And the bagpipe said, "Aaooga." Said the turtle to the bagpipe, "Did you honk or bray or neigh? For 'Aaooga' when you're kissed is such a heartless thing to say. Is it that I have offended? Is it that our love is ended?" And the bagpipe didn't say no. Said the turtle to the bagpipe, "Shall i leave you, darling wife? Shall i waddle off to Woedom? Shall i crawl out of your life? Shall I move, depart and go, dear– Oh, I beg you tell me 'No' dear!" But the bagpipe didn't say no. So the turtle crept off crying and he ne'er came back no more, And he left the bagpipe lying on that smooth and sandy shore. And some night when tide is low there, Just walk up and say, "Hello, there," And politely ask the bagpipe if this story's really so. I assure you, darling children, the bagpipe won't say "No."

Algy is thinking of the poem for children The Bagpipe Who Didn't Say No by the 20th century American writer Shel Silverstein.]

To join Algy's amazing Hogmanay Hootenanny on his sideblog @lovefromalgy on New Year's Eve/New Year's Day please use the submission form on Algy's sideblog @lovefromalgy or send Algy a link to a post on your own tumblr blog.

[alliwanttodoiscollectpoetry]

Poem for my daughter by Teddy Macker

[weeby-monster-the-bastard]

"if you were a rosebud i'd help you grow, if you were a myth you'd be achilles and i, thetis, if you were a iphigenia i would be clytemnestra, if you were troilus i would be apollo for you, if the sun rises or the moon comes to take you from me i shall rest your body at peace" -i wrote a poem for my honorary kid i adore he is my little sunshine <3

[jollystreetnet]

Comments

[colleenjantzen]

November Moon

Might be a sweet one for your littles to learn:)

Slung low Shining bright November moon Good night

[baby-girl-aaron-dessner]

A poem written by Marcellus Williams about Palestine.

Despite DNA evidence proving his innocence, he was executed on September 24, 2024.

[aloeverawrites]

I want black children to be seen as children and not treated like adults. I don’t want black boys to be targeted as black men or black girls to be written off as “acting too grown.”

I want them to pursue their interests and dreams and not have anyone stand in their way. I want them to grow up and only know racism as a thing of the past, something that’s never happened to them.

I want them to be loved, and safe, and supported and respected.

I want a better world for our black children.

[hypertechnica]

happy 9th undertale anniversary, everyone. :)

[this-mind-of-mine-ahh]

The Rotted Man

When I was a child of only three The Rotted man came for me late one night from my open door he slowly crept across the floor he took me by the hand and said I’ll save you from this life of dread we left the house in the early morn and took his carriage of blackened thorn we rode for hours through thick dense fog to a darkened unlit swamp filled bog where top-less trees with hanging moss were shields from the unseen winter frost the thick wet heat from the dense cool air crept up your back and through your hair he took me to his house of bones on a path laid with cobble stones upon his door hung a head of a child with hair of fiery red his hall was bathed in blood red tile the walls were stacks of flesh in piles He told me of his protective view and begged that I should join him too He smiled and through his rotted lips I saw a thousand children’s fingertips He promised me the world would pay and told me that I could stay Then we entered a smaller room and the rotted man gave me a red balloon Then I saw my mom through tinted glass The man with her was talking fast The tears were pouring from her eyes The man then held her while she cried Then the Rotted man did the strangest thing, He sat down with me and began to sing. A soft nice tune that filled my head With puppy dogs and fresh baked bread It was then I notice that the rotted man Was simply old and had a tan, And then my mom burst in the room The feel of warmth, her sweet perfume She hugged me tight and swore to me From here on out, Dad would let us be. No more bruises no more fights, No more screaming in the night, The rotted man had saved our lives, By taking those who beat their wives, And children that cry when they’re dropped, And are beaten senseless until they stop, I thank the Rotted man a lot, And never have I forgot, That the thing I feared, saved my life, They had found my father with a knife, There are real horrors on this earth, Some are subjected to them at birth, We were saved by a man made of rot, I was lucky, but many are not.

by thelirivalley

[serxiensky]

conversations in eden

[soracities]

Wisława Szymborska, “Children of Our Age”, View with a Grain of Sand (trans. Stanisław Barańczak & Clare Cavanagh)  

[bixels]

The idea that uni protesters are "elitist ivy-league rich kids larping as revolutionaries" on Twitter and Reddit and even here is so fucking funny to me if you actually know anything about the student bodies at these unis. Take it from someone who's going to one of the biggest private unis in the US, 80% of the peers I know are either from the suburbs or an apartment somewhere in America, children of immigrants, or here on a student visa. I've heard about one-percenter students, but I've never met one in person. Like, don't get me wrong, the institution as a whole is still very privileged and white. I've talked with friends and classmates about feeling weird or dissonant being here and coming from such a different background. But in my art program, I see BIPOC, disabled, queer, lower-income students and faculty trying to deconstruct and tear that down and make space every day. So to take a cursory glance at a crowd of student protesters in coalitions that are led by BIPOC & 1st/2nd-gen immigrant students and HQ'd in ethnic housings and student organizations and say, "ah. children of the elite." Get real.

[lucabyte]

this one is fun enough to get a post to itself. you've got to serve, stardust

[black-suns-rim]

Misty mourning

“What a sorrowful sight to see…

The bloodshed of the night before,

the battle that raged.

The aftermath in the morning,

when the light peaks through the clouds

and everything can be seen.

What misty mourning will ensue…”

[quotefeeling]

I didn’t know what to call it, what was happening between us, but I liked it. It felt silly and fragile and good.

Ransom Riggs; Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children

[baby-girl-aaron-dessner]

“Oh Rascal Children of Gaza” by Palestinian poet, Khaled Juma.

He was born and raised in Al-Shaboura Palestinian Refugee Camp, in the Gaza Strip. He lives there to this day. Before Israel’s latest war crimes, he worked as a school teacher and writer.