Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best My Child Poems

Below are the all-time best My Child poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of my child poems written by PoetrySoup members

Search for My Child poems, articles about My Child poems, poetry blogs, or anything else My Child poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:

New My Child Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best My Child poems are below this new poems list.

ALL GODS CHILD by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka
Second Amendment and Child Like Behaviour by Horn, James
TODAYS BLACK CHILD by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka
Answer to Ward Child Poem by Horn, James
My Child is ill by Ellis, Nicholas
dark child by kinsey, jackie
The Death of a Child by Krieske, Anna
Mother Bird And The Child by chizoba vincent, john
COLLEGIATE BLESSING FOR MY CHILD by Rodrigues, Kim
WEEPING CHILD by MURRAY, JEAN

View all new My Child Poems

The Best My Child Poems

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Clouds

"THERE HE WAS HOLDING HIS HAND OUT"

=voice=
God, can I hold your hand and follow you?

"Gods voice"
My child, it is I who will walk with you! You walked down my path with and without faith. You took my protection to ease your pain. My shielded wings comfort you during your moments of suffering while your life staggered across earth. Your love and devotion are what made you strong. Every time your dreams were broken. You managed to build more dreams in their place. You called my name during your happiest and saddest moments. You ran to me when you fell behind. Your secrets became our private talks. The key to your heart was always unlocked. I was there during your trials and troubles and tribulations. We could not speak, it was my light that kept you from going weak.

=voice=
God, are you a dream of beauty? The holy book.
My preacher spoke of the afterlife, calling it paradise. 
I remember now, I felt this company once before, this light.
Many times, I forsake the light and still you never left my door.
I felt it on the day I was born, 
the day I became baptized in your holy name. 
I felt this light before, can you explain it once more? 
Lord pleases clarify the day I fell down to my knees, accepted Jesus as my savior? 
On that day, I felt as if you stood away and walked on by, allowing me to face my  failures’.  
Was my life a waste in this impossible world?"

"Gods voice" 
My child, this is the everlasting light you will feel every time your body is re-born onto a new road.  This light never left you. 
My sweet child did you not listen, 
Matthew *19:26* MY SON looked at them and said, "With man this is impossible, but with ME all things are possible. 
My child, you were not searching for the right answers.

=voice= 
My Lord everyone told me if I prayed you would come. Did I not pray enough?

"Gods voice"
My child sometimes your heart asked for more than life itself,  
I always answered even when you shunned heaven away from your eyes?
The obvious question is whether this is the final immersing of your soul's disguises.

=voice= 
Lord, I have other questions to ask. 
What should I expect out of my personal sins? 
My testimonial sits in the palm of your hand
My mind and my heart's inner core have been wicked since my adolescence-- 
How is it that I am in your promise land?

"Gods voice"
Getting right with me has brought you here!

=voice= 
One more question My Heavenly Father
Can I see My Daughter, Mothers, Sisters, family, and friends?

<3


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Humanity

If we don’t feel with our hearts, we don’t belong
If we don’t see as one, the world is wrong
Beyond the wars and the hate and the insanity
We are all connected as humanity
We are the child with cancer who still wears a smile
We are the kid from the projects facing trial
We are the pregnant teen feeling lost and used
We are the elderly man in a home abused
We are the young couple, marriage on the rocks
We are the homeless one in a cardboard box
We are the cold and hungry, sad and depressed
We are the lonely child who never felt blessed
We are the woman whose life was filled with pain
We are the man standing alone in the pouring rain
We are the child who struggles day to day
We are the teenage girl who ran away
We are the soldier killed in an unjust war
We are the young man who can dream no more
We are the inmate locked away for life
We are the old man who has lost his wife
We would be better off without our vanity
And have a sense of belonging to humanity.


Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2010

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

BASTARD

"All Children Are Beautiful"

His heart of white, deep shallow wells, yet beautiful
He smirks, a grin, an ego that won't let me in' -he's beautiful
Bastard of beauty, running ashes without a name
A face with no claim, a young man pound from shame 
What is his sin, he's beautiful!
I want to breathe from his ashes, swim through his veins
I want him to come into my light, like a good dame

I sing and tell a tale, a Bastard through the night
His eyes, I waged, I was young and poor, I was saved
Lying down, in the arms of my white knight
My hair he caressed, he came to my light
The furnace burned, the night was fast becoming trite
A lover, he did it well then went back to his wife
A moment so golden, the ages live, his son is born

Another Bastard brought into this world

By: 


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Fifty-Three Shades Of Grey

in the uncoloured tint of another everyday amongst the spit polished waxed apples tightly packed in burlap bags they walked like minded in their own burly wrap oblivious to the irony to their similarity of the markets round red fruit unaware of the tragedy the horror of events yet to come it will rain metal shrapnel as human minds grasp with the purpose of their existence as in their ignorance they understand their worth as human bombs with a belief the heavens will open the gates with a fanfare and a promised blessing for their divine act of unquestioned belief the clay shaped bricks the black iron metal stairs the drum sound of engines then the lull not after but before before the pulse of the storm the rain of death yet this moment captured this photograph with man and child in hand smells sweet you wonder bemused why? the world travels aimlessly singularly no one nothing in the universe suggests exposes even a hint even a glimpse not a clue that would lead reveal an answer. life in its contradiction like the proverbial apple offers both the miracle the curse.
09/23/2014


Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Grandpa

 


The old man sat with eyes closed, dozing in his chair
Until a little voice he heard say “Grandpa, are you there”.

He gazed upon a little boy while waking from his nap
Then reached down with a sweeping move and placed him in his lap

The child was carrying a book that he wanted him to see
He held it up and  asked him “Grandpa, will you read to me”?

The old man cleaned his glasses then opened up the book
And suddenly the two of them a wonderous journey took

They ventured lands so far away, sailed seas not sailed before
Met knights and kings and wizards on every distant shore.

Together they fought dragons, saved damsels in distress
Freeing lands of monsters and the treasures they possess

When the old man closed the cover to end their magic ride
He told the boy “We're much like books, what's important is inside”.

But one day when the boy arrived and rushed to Grandpas chair
Much to his disappointment, his Grandpa was not there

He ran to find his mother for surely she would know
Why the chair was empty, where did his Grandpa go

She sat him down and asked him if he remembered in each book
The adventures and the journeys that he and Grandpa took

He took you there to show you the things that you can find
The wonders that are yours to see if you open up your mind.

But he still walks beside you in the stories you have read
You're not left to go alone, he’s just gone on ahead

The child then went and chose a book and climbed up in the chair
And opening up the cover whispered “Grandpa, are you there”?


Copyright © Bob Quigley | Year Posted 2011

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Love Sleeps, Never Dies

An old man
A Grumpy bitter old man
Bitter face
Red nose
Wrinkled beady eyes
Scruffy clothes his best attire

Life has not been kind
So his bitter words bite those around
He lived alone, inside his madness
Leave me be and go to hell
His favorite expressions

The phone rang one night late
This is the Court sir, your brother’s son and family 
Have been in a terrible accident
Only your niece of four survived
When can you pick her up?

The old man was in a daze
What the hell was he being punished for now
Keeping care of a dam kid
What the bloody hell did he know about that?
"Well sir, we will be expecting you tomorrow, 9am prompt please"

Walking back to his flat, with a 4 year old girl in tow
Well the neighbors gawked to say the least
The poor little girl, tears and teddy, trying to keep up with grumpy
Once inside his flat, he looked at her with disdain
Said "Guess you be expecting some food or some such"

She nodded, as sad as she was, she was indeed hungry
He showed her the cupboard and fridge, milk and cereal in there
Help yourself, and wash the dam dishes afterwards
Don’t got no extra bed, so you sleep here on the couch
She nodded silently, thinking the world truly must have ended

Days, turned into weeks, turned into months
This little girl complained not once
All she could think of was her pain
Mummy and daddy were in heaven where ever that was
Why they left her was truly confusing

Friday was her birthday
She was sad and missing her family
Getting ready, she went to the cupboard for dinner
The old man said what the hell you doing that for?
She shivered in fear, he was always so so so mad

She apologies, sorry uncle Pete
He replied you sit your self down right there
And you be quiet you here?
Then the lights all of sudden went out
Bright tiny candles burned in the night

The old man, said, is your birthday after all
Hope you don’t mind these little cupcakes I got us here
She looked at him with new eyes
He turned, not quite smiling, no miracles just yet
They ate in silence after which, he said good night and happy birthday

The next morning even they really never talked
Other than who does what chores
Or how expensive she was to care for
She asked out of the blue
"Uncle, why do angels have wings?"

In his usual grumpy way, he replied
"So they get the hell away from us as fast as they can is why
This world is no place for happiness or angels get used to that"
She was taken back by his bitterness, still………
She replied, “but I dream on them looking over me uncle"

Well he looked at her, and somewhat softly and with unusual kindness
He answered her "that’s because you are one of them, a sweet little angel"
She ran into his arms and gave him a big hug
This was a very good thing.
For then she could not see the single tear the dropped to the floor

He actually hugged her back and with all of his heart
That day, a day for most people that was a normal day
Was for him and his little charge, a miracle
A small loving child, held that secret key
To opening an old mans heart


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Tissue Box

like visitors from outer space
they came with tears, and lined the sidewalk
long in face, and arms embracing
some (I have no inkling) who
they were or why they felt compelled to come 

dozens came with casseroles
a few with flowers, wads of tissues
tender words of helpless mutterings
many acts of generous offerings

don't get me wrong, I watched the suffering
expressed in words or acts of kindness
I watched it all, and felt the love
did not dismiss the warm compassion
returned it all, with pure compliance
a thankful heart, a swollen throat

I hugged these strangers at the door
to comfort them, who shed their tears
upon my shoulder, offered them
a place to share their sympathies
a place to spend their mercy, pure

                but, this was my child who loved and lost
                impossible........I can't express it

protected from the very start, by
loving hands, her dad's and mine, 
we watched her grow, and let her go
she grew from the vine ....into a rose
but life composed a tragedy, with goals
beyond our reach...beyond belief
beyond our wildest dreams
and left her with a loss beyond control

like visitors from outer space, we watch
as others come, and others go
they blow into their tissue wads
and empty the boxes one by one
and cry with us,  and then they all go home...

do we cry........?  Oh no, not yet...
instead we smile a grateful smile
and thank them kindly for the while
and for the ways they share their love
but we can't cry into our own clenched wad
of tissue from the tissue box
she needs us to be strong, somehow
and so that is the way it is, we vow...to hold back all the tears for now


                for, this was my child who loved and lost
                impossible........I can't express it
      __________________________________________





4/12/13


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

STILL WINTER

Dead Winter Stray~ By: Poet Destroyer

Nearby paces, Combatants lost under the cemetery walls,
“Blessed Men and Heavenly Remedy Women of Ages,”
Feelings of dance at the beginning of nightfall,
Scenery of fire, sadness passing this history page,
In that distant curve, somewhere nears the sundown stream.
Far away from the vision of mortal eyes,
A child plays as beautiful and pale like the sunrise.
She plays on the coast this beautiful but pale, sun raised child.
Pursuing nature, in a hushed angelic lucidity,
“In hushed angelic lucidity!”
Fragile fastened, to those adequate bones.
Profound deepness beneath the snow winder dust,
Below the memoirs of her floating vessel,
Reminisces of water drowning down rivers and streams,
A shattered female kneels in salvation.
An anvil so heavy it troubles the mind.
Lost in profoundness, in what might have been.
What was, for a moment in this period?
The grimness of her weak vessel dwells.
A lifeless winter strays around. 
An album so old and dusty,
A christening gown not ever embraced.
Infinite, the woman and pale child of sunrise,
Soften footfalls beating out the torments.
Countless nights seeing the day of unspoken headstones,
Feelings of dance will never rest this heartache.
Eternity, in a dance of unconditional need,
Their hearts unite as one...
A closing of mother and child…     
~BY: PD~

Dead Winter~ By: Catie Lindsey 

There walks Warriors in that graveyard,
Holy Men and Medicine Women of ages;
at night you can see their Spirits dance,
setting fire to history's pages.
In that far corner, up by the stream,
far from the eyes of publicity,
she plays on the shore, beautiful Raylene,
catching poly-wogs, in silent lucidity.
In silent lucidity.
Brittle now, those fine bones,
deep beneath the snow drifts of winter,
beneath the memories of her body afloat
down rivers and streams of Remember.
A broken woman kneels in prayer,
a heavy weight on a burdened mind,
somewhere deep in what could have been,
what was, for a moment in time.
The grayness of her frail body lingers,
in a dead winter of the unborn,
on page forty-nine in the family album,
in a baptismal gown never worn.
Together they dance,the woman and the child,
their soft footfalls pounding out the sorrows
of many days at a worn out headstone,
many dances to come, many tomorrows.
Together they dance, The Woman's Dance,
their hearts as one...
the woman and the child.
~By: Catie Lindsey~

(for Catie's: Re-write contest..) 



Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

My Little Soldier Boy

Gary, you are my little soldier boy,
who died on Veteran's Day. ('83)
My sunny, golden-haired soldier boy,
that I still miss in every way.

You had just turned 13,
getting interested in girls.
When CF took you from me,
my heart, like a flag, unfurled.

You fought CF with every breath.
For 13 years you tried.
And four lung collapses later,
after each one, I said, 
"Son, you will survive."
Oh, how I lied!

Now, no more hugs and kisses,
No more birthday wishes,
I watched you go
and please God know,
Heaven, receive my treasure.


Author Note:  This poem was written in memory of my son, Gary,
who died of Cystic Fibrosis at 13, in 1983.  I honor my soldier who so valiantly
fought his fight on the battlefield of a life threatening lung disease, which fills the lungs with sticky mucus and makes it difficult to breathe. With all CF children, 
they struggle with every breath they take just to breathe! My son eventually 
started to have lung collapses. He had four before the last one took his young life  on Veteran's Day weekend in 1983..(Read my poem "A rainbow Glitters") 

I wouldn't be a poet today, if not for my son. He was diagnoses at age three.
As I sat by his hospital bed crying, I reached into my purse for a tissue, but 
instead, I pulled out a pen. I thought to myself, "Ok, God, I get the message.
You want me to write and not cry." So I wrote my first poem that night, "Not 
MY Son!"  Which eventually got published in Elizabeth Kubler Ross' Book "On Children and Death." Later, I wrote humorous poems to entertain my son, who
was often to sick to go to school.  And I'm still writing my poems today. 
 



 



Copyright © Darlene Gifford | Year Posted 2014

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

CARMEN

Can a child ever forget, how deep a mother’s love abides

All those days since birth, till now I’m grown she guides

Remembering her smile, so tender, so warm as her embrace

More than soothes away my pain, my fear of failure and disgrace

Even in my dreams she comforts, her voice, her scent would stay

Never will her being mother stop, till when I’m old and gray.





26 March 2015
Contest : Acrostic on Mother's Day - 1st Place
Sponsor : TAMMY REAMS


Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2015

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Guess Who

~It's a Beautiful Day~

Under every star, 
A smile waltz-like no other
Once a simple cherry blossom girl, 
enjoying puppets and lullabies.
Sitting in front of the screen
Anxiously waiting for him to come in
through the front door, whistling a song, 
trading a suit jacket, for a zippered sweater;
made with love. ---My day just got better---

   ***It's a beautiful day***
In a charming little town square 
A servant, serving a friendly atmosphere
Welcome to the land of make-believe, 
where all my friends are real.
Here comes the speedy delivery 
Mr. McFeely and his letters.
Prancing puppet skin in love with
Beautiful Lady Aberlin.
Henrietta, a mighty and feisty pussycat
My favorite strings are the king and queen
Before the show ends, Trolley's a friend
tooting around from make-believe to reality.
   ***It's was a beautiful day***
Oh the innocence of my childhood, 
       My neighborhood is gone

By: PD


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2016

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Mother's Envy and Pride

Lapis lazuli mines with wide blue eyes
bringing to mind precious stones and
caramel scones; innocent and wise -
Wondering, yet without surprise.

Staring down the universe, a challenge
in your look though you are young;
The earth made only nine revolutions 
since you came out to see the sun.

Unguarded and arched, your brows 
betray high wire tension; enough 
to light up a hundred moons and warm
plump cheeks to cherry bubble gum.

Be not impatient to grow; you smell
of open grasshopper meadows
and firefly lighted lakeshore walks.
You’re a mother’s envy and pride.

Red lips! Your passion for life exists.
Scarlet, lipstick would be a surfeit -
Today as then till many summer’s been,
your spirit will always be free as the mist.



After:  Portrait of Carol Nye  Rhoades (Robinson) (1915)


For Debbie Guzzi's Challenge: Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting No. 2
Kim Patrice Nunez
08 January 2016

Poem of the Week:  January 10-16, 2016


Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2016

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

You will always be that little girl to me collaboration with Tim Smith

You Will Always Be That Little Girl To Me - collaboration with Silent One

I can still remember the day you were born, 
now you think you are all grown, but you'll always be that little girl to me. 
I can still remember those innocent little eyes 
and the first time you smiled, 
all those late nights spent by your side 
those little secrets, in me you did confide. 
I can still remember your first day of school 
that feeling, my little girl was growing up way too soon 
but to you, it was everything, you were so cool. 
I can still remember wanting to cry, because you'll always be that little girl to me. 
I can still remember pushing you on the swings, higher and higher, 
until you told me you can do it by yourself, you're a big girl now. 
I remember that first crush you had on a boy
when I asked why, you said "he reminded me of you."
My little girl, you can't imagine how much I love you
I should have realized it back then,
realized what a fine young lady you had become, 
I must admit a little part of me never wanted you to grow,
a little part wanted to hold you close, never to let you go.
I know you'll hurt me with goodbye, but you'll always be that little girl to me.


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Little Wishes

Little wishes on great big stars.
Daughter, I make a wishes for you.
Keep on growing and keep on smiling.
And I'll keep loving all that you do.

Little dreamers wishing big things.
The world is your stage to display.
You can sing and you can dance.
Enjoy all that comes your way.

Little hopes in a great big world.
Nothing can stop your free spirit.
Make some noise, play a beat.
It's beautiful music when I hear it.

Little kisses from my now big girl,
You're growing up so fast it seems.
Pretty soon you'll leave the nest
And fly after all of your dreams.

Little girl I love you,
And I love you even more.
Because I made a wish once,
And you're what I wished for.


Written April 09, 2014


Copyright © Casarah Nance | Year Posted 2014

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

LONGING FOR FATHER'S LOVE

I am not a father
Nor I am a mother
I am just a daughter
That is growing better...

Father, you have been away
I truly wish you have stayed
Hugging me as I lay
I don't need much penny...

All I have been missing is you my daddy
Your love and your real company...

Look, how I am now
I pursued my little vow
Hoping always, You'll be proud
It's alright if you'll not be loud...

All I want is for us to bond...

Yes, I am neither a kid nor a child
Ever anymore
But still, there is that longing
I cannot deny...

I miss you much, daddy...

(c) 

contest: POEM FOR DADDY
SPONSOR: LEONORA GALINTA
2ND PLACE - TO GOD BE THE GREATEST GLORY...
NOTE: I REALLY MISS A FATHER'S LOVE..


Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo | Year Posted 2013

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Hush of Christmas Past

Can you recall the hush of Christmas past? Think back to when you were a little child, excited Santa Claus would come at last, too young to even know you’d been beguiled. In shadows of your quiet room you lay. Then maybe to your window you’d tiptoe, look out and search the sky for Santa’s sleigh. But all you’d see were swirling flakes of snow, And in that night, while all your family slept, you tried to stay awake. Do you recall the only thing you heard as Sandman crept upon you was the clock upon the wall? The hush of Christmas past is never gone. As long as there are children, it lives on.


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Small Stain Of Blood

an early morning rise,
up the stairs
walk into the bathroom 
in the sink
a small stain of blood.

less than a measure of yesterday 
pulling a baby out of the womb into my arms.
on the sheets
a small stain of blood.

midwives  wrap
my first born
snug and warm.

when her mother
finally gets her initial fill
she hands me this precious
new life.

i hold her knowing
there is nothing,
nothing!,
nothing...
nothing.,
nothing-
better then this moment!,

sweet scented perfection!,
lulls me into a peaceful bliss.

as she grows,
i spend my best times with her 
and later her sister too.

my daughters own me 

lock,

stock

and

barrel.

Ali?

 i still see your
baby green eyes
reaching out to me.

i still smell your
childhood scent.

i can still taste
your hopes and dreams.

i can still touch
your youth as if it were now,
hear your tiny voice

 "daddy i love you but you're my best friend too".

there is nothing,
nothing!,
nothing...
nothing.,
nothing-
better then this moment!,

you're now twenty two.
in the sink?
a small stain of blood.

in your bedroom 
cocaine,

syringes,

...everywhere.

i clean 
carefully picking them up.

i know you know you're playing
russian roulette with your life.

the drug convinced you 
your life isn't worth living.
that's what drugs do.

they're that snake in the garden of eden
and you know eve ate that apple
and you know she sacrificed everything
for a fruit that would never taste that good again.

evil always presents itself as the only choice
while good seems too tough an alternative
but the truth is, the harder you have to work for it 
the better it feels and it holds its feel with nothing to chase.

you can't hear me
the monster deeply 
imbedded in you.

but Ali i love you
and Ali my heart weeps
and on my chest sits
a small stain of blood!



June 3 2015
Armand





Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Special Needs Hero

Young and pretty, living a normal life
Suddenly her world would never be the same
Her lovely boy born with special needs
Her daily life now the toughest of games

She carries on with her head held high
Having a career, still being his mother
Constantly dealing with medical issues
Yet she would not change him for another

Nurses and doctors fill her daily life
Fighting for the services that he needs
Never one complaint does she voice
Knowing not where his path will lead

A special soul; accepting the hand dealt 
My admiration for this woman so deeply felt…..





note---
I am privileged to be one of his nurses...I have never seen a stronger
more dedicated mother..


Copyright © Barbara Gorelick | Year Posted 2014

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

I Am A Gerber Baby

I am a super duper Gerber Baby all I love to do is wee- wee winning all the attention of my mommy so that all day long, she’ll stay beside me I love to loudly fart and burp after taking my Gerber Baby Foods prepared by dad all my tiny fingers in my mouth as I give them a crunchy baby’s laugh they both run to give me their sweetest kisses and hugs Oh, how I love to wear my soft baby’s diaper I walk around my crib producing sounds, “ mmma pppa brrrr brrrrrr” please bathe me in my lovely little bath tub or wash the smudges of my “ poop” now I feel them on my ass How I love to be an adorable baby no problem yet nor worry all I have to do is drink milk and sleep the whole night or day cuddled in the loving arms of my mommy and daddy In my cozy crib are colorful toys feeling like sitting over the rainbow with so much joy my picture books are scattered all around I pretend to read them smartly as I look at the picture of a clown
Jan. 27, 2012 First Place Contest: Gerber Baby (poem contest) Judged: 2/1/2013 Sponsor: Greatest Poet, Linda/PD First Place Contest: #1 Poem Only Judged: 17/13/13 Sponsor: My dearest Poet sis, Linda


Copyright © Galeo DS | Year Posted 2013

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Child's Prayer

Clutched tight to my chest, the doll smiles lifelessly
sending vacant stares down the darkened hall.
A solitary line of pink light sneaks through a crack in the door.
Fighting tears hanging loosely in my eyes, I listen.
 
“Please tell daddy that I love him and miss him.”
It has been two months since he died. Long, hard months.
“Keep him safe.”
His smell still lingers on his clothes in the closet.
“and bless mommy to be happy…”
How can I be happy, or even smile, when all I want is to be numb?
The tears burn in my eyes, but I can’t cry, or I might never stop.
“so that she will play with me like she used to”
I can scarcely recall the last time I was able to focus; to give her all my attention.
“help her to forgive me,”
Oh sweet baby, it’s I who needs your forgiveness.
“help her to love me again, even though sometimes I’m bad”
Oh God, is that what she thinks!?
“and please help me to find dolly so she won’t be scared tonight”
Ok, focus…just breathe.
“in Jesus name I pray, Amen.”

Clutched tight to my chest, the doll smiles lifelessly
sending vacant stares into the room lit by a solitary pink lamp.
I sneak through the door, with tears rolling down my cheeks,
and enter with a promise, that all her prayers will get answered.

05/31/15

Submission for Prayertime Memories
Hosted by Isaiah Zerbst


Copyright © The Grahamburglar | Year Posted 2015

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Sunday Morning

Sunday Morning
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 
day.
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

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Mesmerized

I paint your beauty in my heart and mind  
in swirling strokes of wind squalls and light;
the youthful lift of limbs of early spring,   
with summer’s joyful red, with fall's surprise.
I paint you in wonder of winter’s white
through snow storm's chill and my loving eyes.

I paint you beyond the blue pain of the past
with the gray of fear the future hides.
Jealous of luring space and power of time, 
yet, with all the hope, the joy, the ache
as seen in the strength of my trembling hand;
I’ll paint you again my child, mesmerized.


After:  L'Enfant au Tablier Rouge, 1886 by Berthe Morisot


For Debbie Guzzi's Challenge: Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting 8
Kim Patrice Nunez
17 January 2016


Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2016

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

pallette

The world is one big Pallette
full of mixed colours
mixed races,mixed cultures.
The world is full of different ideas
full of The Humble and The Intelligent, 
How Beautiful in its own diversity is the world.


White is too pale
Black is too dark
mixed together,they re so sottile.
Rich is too selfish
Poor is too weak,
lets make this Planet
a Wise Men"s street,
where rich and poor together
make ends meet.

BUDDHISTS are so SPIRITUAL
MUSLIMS so RIGHT ,so JUST.
PROTESTANTS,CATHOLICS so LOVING,
together they shape the Best Rainbow,
the best of our motherland outcoming

How wonderful is our Planet!
we are in it but sometimes we don"t know IT.
Protestants,Catholics,Buddhists,Muslims
Black,White people ,mixed races,
all Human Beings Embraces

she"s Catholic ,he"s Muslim
they love one another
their child was born
so JUST !like the father
so LOVING! like the mother.

He"s rich,she"s poor
together they married
and they have it all
a child wise,intelligent as the father
kind ,humble as the mother

whatever your colour,your status,believes
you are most needed to continue are Family Trees.
The world is ONE BIG PALLETTE,full of colours
all important and unique
WHAT A LOVELY COLOURFUL WORLD-charma


Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2009

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Guardian Angel

Just a small girl, an innocent rose bud
lost in daydreams while she walked
home from school, for several blocks.

It was a fine, spring day in Berkeley
warm sun's rays peaked through leaves
amidst the trees, by sidewalk streets.

Her school bag in hand, preoccupied
"Don't step on a crack or on a line
keep to the spaces, and you'll be fine."

And so she played the sidewalk game
until a call was heard, from mother dear
across the street, her voice so clear.

Without a thought, she ran to meet
her mother, yet she was unaware
of a speeding car, out of nowhere.

The vehicle descended fast
upon the child, on that center divide
within a split second, she could die.

And then, a supernatural event
as forces, unforeseen, took place
a split second, she flew to the sidewalk, safe.

This little girl had turned, was lifted up  
then gently placed, she had escaped
was gathered by angel's arms, embraced.
 
My mother saw it all, before her very eyes
her child, rescued, by a miracle that day
and I, the little girl, am grateful I was saved.




Written on 10/6/2015 


Copyright © Laura Leiser | Year Posted 2015

Details | My Child Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

She Hulk

When I was a child I only ever wanted to be strong.
I wanted to be able to compete with the boys
and when I foot raced them at recess I won every time.
They called me ‘She Hulk’ because of my muscular frame
and from the way I only ever wore soccer t-shirts and sweat pants.
After that nickname was implanted into my brain like a growing weed,
I’ve only ever wanted to be feminine.
I started wearing skirts and dresses 
and in middle school they shrieked at the site of my makeup and done up hair.
But that weed inside of my mind only grew, and grew, and grew
until I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part anorexic and two parts lonely,
because I thought that the definition of feminine began with the word frail.
No one ever realizes how greatly words affect us,
how a simple nickname can turn a pretty girl into a skeleton.
I stood at five foot two weighing seventy nine pounds,
so cold and frozen,
yet I still considered myself a ‘She Hulk.’
You could see my ribcage through my t-shirt
and my spinal cord protruded loudly through my weathered skin,
as if somehow my bones were dirty knives
just trying to cut through the flesh of judgment.
As I grew older I became the girl that was never enough.
Not good enough to speak poetry.
Not good enough to lay paint on a canvas.
Not good enough.
Not tall enough.
Not big enough boobs for them.
Not primped to perfection.
Not undeniably straight.
Not smart enough.
Not dumb enough.
Not ditsy enough.
Not cool enough or fun enough.
And I began to believe, too, that I wasn’t enough.
I never told my mother that I had been in madly in love with a girl.
I never told anyone about the night we first kissed 
because I was too vulnerable for the judgment.
And parents always justify saying that ‘kids will be kids’
But when we are kids our brains are still growing
and the smallest of seeds that get planted will one day bloom
into one giant regret,
will one day affect the choices that we make,
will one day influence us about the clothes that we wear,
will one day shape us into the person who we thought we would never be.
I only ever wanted to be strong,
and as a child I thought strength was only about being able
to lift a bar stool above your head.
I thought that strength was only about being able
to beat the boys in bare foot running races.
I was told that strength was something only
a man could have.
But as I’ve grown older I’ve realized that strength
isn’t about muscle at all,
but it’s about weakness,
and the ability to overcome the social anxiousness.
It’s about carrying around a lifetime of baggage
on your broken back
because the ones that kicked you when you were down
are going to be the ones that were  ultimately wrong.
I thought that the definition of woman 
began with the word disappointment.
And I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part freedom
and two parts Sailor Jerry
because every girl needs a stiff drink once and awhile.
We are not disappointments.
We will never be the ones who gave up on hope.
We will never be the ones who gave up on each other,
or god,
or our mothers.
We will always be enough;
enough for the ones who shunned us 
enough for the ones that cursed us
enough for the ones the hurt us
and destroyed us
and beat us when we were covered in bruises.
But you see, bruises fade
and the scars of our flesh are only stories
things we have overcame
and there are things out there that we will overcome.
When I was a child, I only ever wanted to be strong.
I hid my vulnerability.
I hid the parts of me that were true.
I never told my mother about my girlfriend
because I was afraid she wouldn’t understand,
kind of like all those people who never understood 
just how much words effect us. 
I can’t say that I can beat the boys at foot races anymore,
because, well, I smoke cigarettes now.
And I can’t say that the nickname of my childhood didn’t affect me.
But I take that name now and embrace it.
Because I am strong.
I am the ‘she hulk’.
I am a mixed drink cocktail
with three parts greatful.


Copyright © Katie Pukash | Year Posted 2013