Long Childhood Poems. These are the most popular long Childhood by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Childhood poems by poem length and keyword.
See also: Famous Long Poems
Molested the first fifteen years of my life. My mother remained silent the whole time. As the molesting continued all those years. Forced to live a pretend life all my childhood. Beaten and punished every other day. For no reason other than being a child. After all this I figured I was a unwanted child. My mother couldn't love me abusing me. She brought me fancy expensive clothes every year. To cover up all her verbal, mental, and physical abuse. She tried to hide me from people, family and friends. So that they wouldn't see the embarrassing scars and bruises. Sometimes so bad I couldn't even go to school the next day. Or I would get into fights or act rude to get a suspension notice. That would have allowed my body to heal. One time I even tried to get ex-spelled. However, it didn't work. I only came home to more beatings. Her boyfriend watched and help hold me down on the floor as she would beat, and beat, and beat. Maybe this gave him a idea that it was ok to abuse me. Being that my mother was already doing it. Yeah! From the outside looking in my childhood was perfect. Every child wanted my seat. Name-brand clothes, shoes, computers, and almost every toy in the Jc Penny catalog. From the inside looking out I was screaming to get out. Scared, alone, abused, and still a child. So there was nothing I could do. I had no brothers or sisters at the time. All my family wouldn't believe me.No! Not him they would say, and did say at age fifteen I started getting older, and more developed. I had to put a stop to this. So after talking to some school friends. I decided to talk to my mother about what was going on. So later on that night I called my mother in to talk to her. I had told her what had been going on. while she was a work, and out late shopping. She in return asked me to draw a picture of his *****. As if she didn't believe me on the spot. What! I thought to myself. How could she ask me a thing like that? After one hour she finally called the police. I was brung in also for video questioning. I told them what had been going on in the house while my mother was away. The police in return asked me "what took so long for me to tell" I replied" I was scared, alone, and threatened. I had no one in the house to protect me. From my mothers abusive ways. I thought people would tease me." The next question was to my mother. The police asked "How could you live in the same house, and not know that your child was being raped?" My mother sat quietly and had no answer. So she got charged with neglect. My mother's boyfriend got charged with child molestation, and a few other things. I can't remember them all. After all that I was still scared, but finally free. Free to be a kid again.
Awh, hell the relationship between my mother and I went down the drain. After trial she hated me even more. Every day she was threatening to kick me out of the house. I was only sixteen so she couldn't just kick me out. Yet! She even got so angry at times. She went as far as not letting me communicate with my newborn brother. She even told people to keep him away from me. That hurt me so bad everyday. I prayed to God everyday to soften my mother's heart, but it never happened. When I turned eighteen she finally kicked me out the house for real. With no place to go, no money , and no food to eat. I ended up living with family and friends until she let me back in. I don't know why, but I thought things had changed. About a week after moving she called the police and told them that I was prostituting. Which was a lie. Thank God I didn't spend time in jail. Due to her lies and deceit. I never thought I would have to leave my own mother alone. However, after that incident that was my final decision. Sporadically I call her to hear her voice, and check on my brother. Unfortunately she never answers the phone. Her guilt for abusing me won't let her answer the phone.
I moved to Albany, NY for a fresh start. A new beginning! There I met more friends, moved into a brand new apartment, and fell in love. I wasn't expecting to fall in love, but I did. With a adorable, hot, and sexy Italian guy. For the first time my life was great, and I was happy. I even tried some plus size modeling, nursing, and I started self-publishing my writings. I was accomplishing things that my mother never encouraged me to do.
After about four years I started feeling homesick . So I came back to Virginia. Wow! What destruction was happening. My whole family fell apart. Nothing or nobody were the same. They all became police property. That was a sign to continue to stay away from them. Continue my happy life. Continue self-publishing my stories. Praying to God everyday. that I remain successful. This is a true story. Unfortunately it happened to me. From a mother who brung me in this world. Only to use and abuse me my whole entire childhood. Then pretend that nothings even going on.
A GIFT FOR EVERYONE
The Mulberry Tree & its Birds
When Bulbul* was warbling
On its branches
A strange big bird with round beak
Came over there
To eat Mulberry’s sweet fruits
The bird was expert
In changing its colors
Like the colorful sky
But like some arrogant child
She could not make anyone
It’s friend on the Mulberry tree.
By the time
Anyone could have spotted its beauty
It suddenly changed its colors
And became invisible,
While hiding behind the leafs
And the branches of the Mulberry
Alone the bird came over there
And alone she flew away
Without any friend
For some other tree. 10
The sparrows began to chirp
Watching a Koyal* sitting
Somewhere very close to them
On a nearby branch of a tree.
But, strangely, for all of them
A Neelkanth* also
Came over there
And opened before them
Its beautiful blue color wings.
From where the Neelkanth came
And for what destination,
It would leave no one knows.
Before the eyes
Could have feasted fully
All that, beauties of the Birds
And the beauty,
All around, the Mulberry tree
A Yellow Green bird
Came to drink,
Water filled in a Pot
Which was lying on my terrace,
Not very far off
From the Mulberry tree. 11
In those moments
It seemed to me,
As if, someone has opened
Of precious, colorful birds
For the tree. 12
Used to play often
Of flapping sound,
Of its leafs
Whenever, the wind blows
With, its strengths,
While, touching the leafs
And shaking its branches
While saying slowly
In the ears of the Mulberry
“Dear Shahtoot –
Create Music in the air”
So that, we may dance together
On the tunes of the wind. 13
And then the Mulberry
Began to show
Its beautiful dance
On the tunes
Of the fast blowing winds
And watching that dancing beauty
Of the Mulberry tree
And the beauty
Of its dancing leafs,
Often used to get filled
With an unknown
Happiness and joy
The dance of the Mulberry tree
Causes fear in birds
And then they began to make
Loud noises like crying
To show their fear and anger. 14
But, when they were happy
The birds began, to chirp loudly
They were greeting, the Mulberry
For such a wonderful dance
and music. 15
I used to get astonished and lost
Such an excellent beauty
And grandeur of Nature
Which, always reminds me
My relations with you,
O’ Shahtoot, which is as old,
As are the days, of my childhood
When we used to play
On the lower branches, of your tree
And my childhood friends
Used to come like birds
Searching the chalk lines
Made by me, on your branches
And cutting them
To tell that they have found
The treasure, hidden by me. 16
But, I always feel sad
O’ my dear friend, Shahtoot
That I could not save you
From those onslaughts
Due to which
You just vanished,
Suddenly one day
For ever and forever. 17
Now, that place
Where, the Mulberry used to smile
Every Morning and every day
Hardly get any birds
To listen to, the melodies of Koyal*
And the chirping sound
And music of
Bulbul* and of the sparrows.
Even our, kids and children
Hardly get, any opportunity
To see now colorful birds
Flying and sitting
On a branch of tree.
They almost never see
The Neelkanth* flying in the air
While showing, it’s gorgeous
Beautiful blue wings
To tell the story of its birth
O’ my dear friend
This Poem on you,
O’ my friend ‘Shahtoot’
Would make you immortal
Because, now you would live
In the hearts of everyone
And you would bloom
On the mind and hearts
Of little kids and children
Who would plant more and more
So that colorful birds may
Keep coming on their trees
And they may enjoy
The beauty of Nature which lies
In Plants, Trees, Birds
Such efforts of the
Of kids and children
Would make you immortal
For ever and forever
When they would listen to
This story of yours
And of the singing birds
Which always come
On your trees
In the season of Mulberry. 19
Kanpur India 10th November 2013
NOTE: Protected under the copyright
provisions of Poetry Soup and US copyrights.
*Bulbul=A sweet singing Bird of India
*Koyal= A melody Bird of India
Shahtoot= The Hindi name of Mulberry tree and its fruits
*Kilkil Kaantaa= Kilkil Kaantaa* A child game of India in which,one player makes some lines by chalk on any such object which can be searched by the other player to cut these lines and win.
In this Poem I have not placed only a small part of this unique story which would be the real attractions of my Video based on this unique story.Hope you would like that full wonderful story of my Video as and when it would be placed on my You Tube Channel. Love and best wishes..Ravindra K Kapoor
Walking in the dawn,
in the forest loud with sound;
Hear the birds sing in the trees!
Listen to the wind,
see the stream flowing free;
Touch a leaf so green, dew wet!
Do you hear it now,
the sound of nature, the song;
A song so sweet, magical
Written April 23, 2009
Colourful leaves in piles,
luminous colours for miles and miles.
Burgundy, orange hovering,
the trees slowly relinquishing, surrendering.
A cool breeze makes them dance,
some quiet and calm, some leap and prance.
The Autumn sky so changing,
clouds moving, billowing, shifting, expanding.
And in one blustering wind,
piles empty where once colourful leaves had been.
Sun touches the leaves of a tree,
Like a stained glass window scene, to see.
Written October 15, 2008
deep clear sparkling snow
diamond like snowflakes falling
horse swiftly gliding
Written October 28, 2008
my little garden
plant unfurl your leaf
send your root deep deep deep
tis spring tis spring now
Written April 23, 2009
Butterfly hair clip
Deep purple antique necklace
Doll, of my childhood
Pearls, old and yellowed with time
Pink glass vase with wilted roses
Mom's favourite earrings
Scented candle, burning
Written November 5, 2008
On Bent Knees
Prayer books waiting at the door,
polished pews and stone cold floors.
Specks of dust glitter in the light,
half forgotten dreams still burn bright.
Stained glass windows cast a glow,
on bent knees this day my prayers flow.
Written February 2, 2009
Exploring the city on a rainy afternoon,
I happened upon, Ye Olde Book Store;
Opening the door, chimes sang out,
The store dusty, small and amazing.
To the ceiling books and rows of books,
The shop keeper, an elderly man, nods;
I walk quietly, I feel that I am in church,
Alone, I am in this place of books.
So many to touch, but one beckons me,
Taking it in my hands, I brush off the dust;
Opening the book, it seems to me so interesting,
I purchase it of course for a small price.
Finding a café close by, I settle in to read,
The words on the cover seem to be engraved;
A collection of poetry by the great poets of all time,
Page after page, tattered, yellowed with age.
Written April 23, 2009
Standing on a sea cliff with salt on my lips,
Holding out my hands to the heavens above;
Moving past me, a roaring wind, blows my raven hair,
Breathing in the sweetness, it whispers my name,
Tangled with the crashing waves, the birds soaring, the clouds rolling.
Written March 13, 2009
O, The Glistening Tears
You come in the light of day,
Through the ornate cemetery gates you come;
Down the lonely long road,
Past the headstones, row on row on row.
O, the glistening tears.
With a broken weeping heat,
You come, for us your family buried here;
What a cruel destiny and cruel fate,
Such love that even death cannot destroy.
O, the glistening tears.
And when the seasons change,
And fall winds blow over us resting here;
And when winter frost is in the air,
And we lay beneath the pure white snow,
O, the glistening tears.
And when spring comes and flowers grow,
You come in the light of day, you come, you come;
For us your family buried here,
Souls connected by bonds that even death cannot end.
Written February 8, 2009
The Memory Of You
Mom, today I saw a girl with her Mom
They were so happy laughing and talking
Together, mother and daughter, friends
I wondered if the girl realized
My heart was filled with envy and pain
I have so many things to tell you
Happy things, sad things, just things
Things only a mother would understand
Tears came to my eyes as I watched
God must have needed a special angel
To separate the puzzle that was you and me
The pieces that fit so well together
Mom, our love is an endless river
It will go on and on and on and never end
God took you from me, it was your destiny
I know nothing could keep you here
Our parting words, I love you so much
Your answer and I love you my daughter
God took you in the dawn but he left me a gift
A precious gift, the memory of you
Written February 8, 2009
My Sweet Mother of pearl
struck a ruby eyed reef
then quickly sank into the deep,
just shy of the cay of life.
Don't remember much about her,
those that did have long since blown away,
daddy never had much to say... about the sinking.
Ancient pictures tempered fawn curiosities..
whispered to me that she had sunset red hair
a mother of pearl smile..
diamond chips set deep in lonely eyes...that's about it
Soon after the sediment of death settled,
"wrecking ball mom"
swung into the salty blue mix...
Dad must have been moon rock lonely
because he only waifed the soft, silky pretty
not the pyrite hearted
by cold, cold fires....
A much to young, to cuddle a half orphan, kind of bride.
In public her voice cooed ,
"I'll buoy your little sinking heart,
with a million butterfly kisses
chocolate chip all your wishes"...
but in private
she plotted, with steely strap, to carve a granite man
from a wandering lamb,
who never really needed carving
only a little gentle kneading
on the potters wheel of life and love.
I spent a healthy wedge of childhood
treading a rolling ocean of dorsal fin coldness:
cutting a backyard full of weeds
with a pair of rusty hand shears,
rescuing favorite toys from the garbage can
staring into plates of things I didn't like to eat.
like asparagus my least favorite "anti-treat".
Everyone would drift into the living room
to frolic away the evening
but I was chained to the Dinner chair...
gazing into a saucer filled with devil spears..
At times I sat so long the food would harden
into the face of mother of pearl,
her sweetness trapped between rows of bitter things..
a gone forever kind of look in our mutual deadened eye.
Most of the time wrecking ball mom won the food battles.
Rarely did the boy under the sink come out on top.
One night I'm sparring with the devil spears... again,
deciding on a whim, to slide them under the table,
into the willing jaws of my beagle friend.
Chalk one up for the half orphan...right?....Not so fast.
The next day I shuffle home from school...
wrecking ball mom is frothing in the doorway,
wants to show me something..
She quickly leads me under the kitchen table
and to my ,deep green, horror..
there lay a small forest of day old asparagus..
Seems this is the one thing my best friend didn't care for.
This is when I was first introduced to
wrecking ball's wicked handiwork,
that would often rouge the face and back,
but cunning enough not to crease or crack the lamb.
I saw "hitting stars" for the first time,
I swear a cluster of explosions went off inside my head..
Carving a man out of a paper lamb
was a long and painful sort of task.
In a way I felt lucky because, for a moment,
I thought she was going to rub my nose into the regurgitation,
Just like the time she rubbed the nose of my best friend for pissing up her new bride carpet.
By the way, dad (the swing shifter) was oblivious to these rougings ...
its ok dad your fully forgiven for wearing that rose colored hard hat,
we all must wear it at some point in time-to deflect the offal of life.
Anyhow, that was many years ago...
doesn't really matter anymore,
I've outlived a few best friends.
the wrecking ball's backhanding and black belting days are over.
She's silver headed and soft as a plate of over cooked veggies...
Every time I visit, I fantasize about rouging her...
until she sees that same pack of hitting stars...
wham- wham until she cracks.
You know, carve an old step bride
into an under the sink child.
rub that nose in yesterday's piss in honor of my best dead friend.
Unveil those wrinkled whips disguised as mommy hands,
for the whole rosy glassed world to finally see.
but that fantasy will forever go unfulfilled...god willing..
So instead I offer her an atlantic-cold hug instead.
just like any good, semi-forgiving step man would do.
Now, I'm heart deep
in the meloncholy mist of fatherhood..
To this day, I won't touch asparagus
never rouge the lamb-
Moments to Reflect
Our memories are a part of us that helps us to grow. Reminiscing about the past keeps thoughts alive so that they will last. Memories are a record of all the things that we have experienced. We hold on to those that are dear and keep them without any fears. The good ones bring us joy while the bad ones bring many tears.
Yesterday has gone; our childhood to the now, we try our best to keep our wondrous memoires that are so profound around. So that when times are bad and when thing seems rough, they put a smile on face and keep us tough.
We dream of past glories of wars that we have fought and it does not matter if we won or lost or what was the cost. It helps us to cope with the problems that we have to face each day and give us hope. Memories they help to get us out of our self contained, egoistical ways of thinking; oh how finite our minds. Keeping the past alive and in our the way, falsifying the truth without any doubts so that you can find an out, from the tribulation that this day may bring; is not dealing with the now what our lives all about?
Yesterday; this was how it was, yesterday; if I only did this or that, yesterday; now that was a good day; but what about today and problem it brings dealing with good and the bad the past is the past it just do not last. It not about what it was that you were facing, it about you using the experiences of what you have already done without any fears so that you do not find a foot in your derriere.
Our memories are a part of us that helps us to grow. Reminiscing about the past keeps thoughts alive so that they will last. Memories are a record of all the things that we have experienced. Some are hard to forget and some are hard to let go. They are hidden in the deepest, darkest closets in our mind. We try so hard to get around those that hurt that we chose not face them for the pain is sometime to great, we just have not got what it takes. We try to forget but no matter what they will always be a part of us. We try to fool ourselves into believing that they are not. We pretend that they have no meaning, but in reality they help to define you; like it or not. Embrace them we must or else they become nightmare, monster and creating pain and mistrust. Our memories are a part of us that helps us to grow. Reminiscing about the past keeps thoughts alive so that they will last.
Memories are a record of all the things that we have experienced. There is a problem that some do have about their experiences of the past. Shaded truths that brings lies into the future about the past, alternate reality, thinking you are what you aren’t. In our arrogance we think that we are hold six aces and will have the chance for that last dance. The lie that you tell yourself will tie you into knots and cause to have to take that bitter pill (facing the truth) so that you can get back to being real.
Memories are a record of all the things that we have experienced. Good or bad they thoughts from your past, private archive within your mind, that will always be with you they do not define who you are if you do not let them play with your mind.
Now here a memory for you to keep for all time so do not waste your time wondering what if, because of this memory was a precious gift. He came from Heaven to this earth and paid a price to give us new birth. Now if you keep this memory close to your heart you will find new life, have faith is all it takes.
From the cross to the earth, from the earth to the sky he did rise. Salvation and a peace of mind you will find. The light of truth and never a dark day will lead the way. He the truth and the light for He is the way, that’s what the Gospel said. Jesus is the only way remember the price that He paid. This faith, this memory just might save you on judgment day, faith in Him is the only way.
“In memory of father and the Son a debt that was not owed He paid. So that we could find our way back home, a memory worth keeping alive. He was wounded for our transgression, crushed for our iniquities: by His wounds we are healed”
Stars weep, they cry in the night sky
for those who laugh in the light of day,
yet, not with spirit, heart soul or eye.
They see not the game they play,
nor understand what laughter is about,
nor can they know what laughter is all about.
Some cannot see by the light of day,
only in the darkness of night can one say
they see all, for that is when the veil slips away
to reveal all that has been blinded by what may
lay before the mind’s eye in the bright light of day.
This night brings
This night, as so many have come before,
take flight – life / night, brings nothing more
than those that have been, will be born.
nights waiting, harbingers of the forlorn –
as I sit before this one eyed monster.
For life’s many moments – the creator
as we exchange glances, stare
into the abyss, the windows – and share –
of each other’s lifeless soul,.
To learn, what ?, what is there to know !,?
Time’s light, dances across the crucifixion,
falls upon the cross, the spaces in-between
- two thousand years is where we have been -
and on towards the light of resurrection.
Springing out from that darkened cave,
came a man who was not, yet was brave.
I, and this place, in time, dance alone.
Then, as before, we were on our own.
Not once – by anyone – was it shown,
- nor by any means we have known, -
that the hearts who know and are known,
took the time, the thought to care,
or a fleeting moment, in which to share.
Passions lost to the past -
passed a long time ago
The childhood of Linda B
From the sickness of a father, came bricks !
From that denial by mother, came bricks !
From genetics, experienced sister, came bricks !
from the same, created brother, came bricks !
From fear, denial, burial, nothing will fix !
Walls, fences, barricades, road blocks does the trick !
The pain inflicted by the hands of father, brother,
perpetrated by sister, a blind eye, turned, by mother
have been the masons, laying all the bricks for this wall,
walls that have created the rough ride to your fall,
keeping you uptight, in fear of one and all.
Searching, finding, experiencing, all seem to lead back.
Throughout the years, nothing found to put you on track !
Reaching out – Touching
Grappling hooks tossed to the top of this wall
- catch !, -, yet, are unable to pull it down.
not one brick comes lose, wall will not fall
to earth, will not touch the ground.
the attached rope, a possible means by which to scale.
with every attempt to climb over, to allow, doth fail’
Try, as one might, to scale these walls !
Try, as one might, to knock down these barricades !
Try, as one might, to go around these road blocks !
One finds these walls to high – far too high to climb,
the bricks, far to secure in their mortar to be dismantled,
the barricades, of cement, cemented in time – immovable,
the roadblocks stretching out into infinity, no way past.
All merging, meeting, greeting with restricting rejection.
Hands, thoughts, feelings protecting the soul, with a piece of cloth
that tells a story, has more to say then words ever can.
It prevents freedom, the motion of every man.
The bush within which I live, the wilderness of my life,
- life created by the hands of men, men I know not -
life created by the very hands of this man.
Wilderness lies all around me, in lifeless memory,
memories of a life lived in the realms of others.
A life once lived ?, now but a memory
of another life that overwhelms.
My heartache weeps, profusely, for you Melanie !,
knowing that my tears will never wash away
the pain, the fears you are feeling within your growth,
your understandings, your desires, your desire
to be needed, appreciated, loved and your need to be.
All I have to give you, is all the love that is within me
Melanie, and I pray that it is able to help you through,
allows you to see the roads clear, the paths far and near
and is able to allow you to set your soul free
and not to be waiting on life to happen,
waiting for life to ring.
Open the doors and, my Dear, sing !
B. J. “A ” 2
April 13th 2002
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 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.
When we think of traveling we most often think of going from one location to another. That’s good but I sometimes like to return in reverie to times in my past. Places where I spent my childhood are precious to me.
We seem to race through childhood never slowing down to enjoy the moments we may seek to recover in years to come. I remember the place of my early years. Cameron, Texas was the only world I knew until I was eight years old. Names and landmarks still cross my mind in moments of remembrance.
I still remember the path that led me home hundreds of times from Ada Henderson Elementary School. It passed through a park about two city blocks in size. In this park were the normal things such as those galvanized metal slides polished by literally thousands of khaki or denim clad rear ends. Two slides stood side by side. One was a simple one-hump slide. The other was over twice as high using two humps on the journey to the ground from what seemed to be such a lofty height. The kid sized slide was seldom used after one had experienced the thrill of the ‘big’ slide. There were seesaws that weathered years of teeter tottering by excited boys and girls. There were simple gymnastic pipes that were just the right height to sit on and do back flips, nearly slamming your head into the ground beneath. All these things were so much fun to a kid and his friends as they made their way home from another day at school.
But one fun piece of equipment always furnished the thrills that last a lifetime and are remembered in the fondest reverie. About halfway through the park was a merry-go-round made of the strongest and seemingly indestructible pipe. It, too, was polished by years of holding on by squealing children, lest they be thrown off by the magic of centrifugal force. It was about 12 feet in diameter and the center pipe was about 8 inches in diameter and must have been anchored somewhere in China since all the many years of use it yielded not a fraction. There were some 8 or 10 pipes on the outer portion of the merry-go-round that allowed you to grab and step onto the running board and hold on for dear life. Kids would grab these posts as they came around and spin them as hard as possible. The speed they built up was surprisingly fast and it took some agility to master the art of stepping on and grabbing the handle. I have no recollection of grievous mishaps, just an occasional scrape or bruise. This contraption has served at least 4 generations of school kids and has not changed the last time I saw it some 20 years ago.
Farther down the path home was a giant gazebo with a stage and seats around the outside. It was equipped with public restrooms beneath the gazebo. It has been there for many years and sometimes I can close my eyes and see that gazebo and hear the faint strains of Sousa marches from the brass bands that played summer concerts there. I remember many happy times there on family picnics and occasional reunions.
God watched over the kids and me whose paths home took them through the park. Just past the gazebo was a huge drainpipe, which during heavy rains drained water from the park into a ravine running through the park. It was some 50 to 60 feet in length and about 6 feet in diameter. It was always on a dare that we would walk through that dark, dank and scary tunnel. We were sure there was all manner of creepy crawly creatures lurking in the shadows waiting for unsuspecting kids to slowly make their way through this scary conduit. I remember going through it once and that was enough. I’d rather walk through the cemetery alone …. But that’s another story.
In a house high on a hill an old man grows weak, many years have gone, he lays in his old bed,
Back in the day, a dashing young officer with a brilliant red uniform he had many girlfriends,
Flowers scattered across the mead's and meadows the heaths and the glades and over wide glens,
Those days bright and hot, the occasional thunder announces itself in the seasons sultriness,
Today it is summer again trees rich with green leaves now darkened and oaks have little acorns.
Laying in his bed the French doors wide open, summer greets him warmly for just one more time,
White haired and thin his skin yellow and his eyes sunk into wasted sockets his lips quiver,
He remembers the woods well, sitting by a sheltered warm bank, new greenery bursting through,
He tries hard to sit up and to see his long ago self in the beautiful green ripening gardens,
Sweet flowers know him well, respectfully they nod to an old friend who is going on a journey.
As a man who liked to be outdoors he walked and tended these landscapes even as a young blade,
He casts way back to his youthful days when he would walk in the sun a sweet girl at his side,
Running up a woodland bank, his hands on hips, he would wander miles enjoying wonderful views,
His heart raced with joy as the carpets of the forest grew around tall trees along the floor,
Now the songs of the birds grow faint the nightingale is hushed and the cuckoo bows his head.
A nurse tiptoes in she quietly shuts the doors, he whispers, she cannot hear him but she looks,
It is so faint she goes to his bed bends down to listen her ear to his lips they barely move,
He says don't shut the doors the beauty makes me feel safe my old friends are out there waiting,
She lifts him higher, puffs his pillows adds another blanket she smiles, 'you are a lovely man',
The blackbird and the thrush perch near the French doors and sing a musical goodbye very softly.
He can now see the Coltsfoot and cardamine in the fallows with green moss in the moist meadows,
And the star of Bethlehem gleaming from the copse the woods, a special beauty from shady places.
The celandine and kingcup glow in golden lustre he watches them his eyes rheumy and tears fall,
Daisies scattered across lawns like patterns in a carpet of lime green, smelling of spearmint,
The elder flower, corn poppy and the viper's bugloss with a rich azure smile from his garden.
He begins to smile shakily at the crocuses spreading a purple flood over the greenest meadows,
It's a sight you have to see, to take it in, color returns to his cheeks on his ashen old face,
Above all the favorites of the field is a violet, many times he picked one for his lady friends,
White, purple diffuse sweetness under hedges, a landscape painted in mind, those were good days,
Young girls would walk arm in arm across the glades to listen to his wondrous battle stories.
These pictures of beauty he has known since his early childhood days, his memory so very clear,
Whispering do you scent the hay, do you hear the scythes ringing, do you hear sweet laughter,
The joys of running across green fields like young breeze and smelling sweet newly cut grass,
Scented breezes fill his room, his eyes close, happy to return to his precious long gone days,
And with his last breath he walks arm in arm with a beautiful young girl in sweet old meadows.
ALONE AND FORGOTTEN, THIS OLD MAN WANDERED AROUND,
THROUGH GUTTERS AND ALLEYWAYS, ALONE IN THIS TOWN.
ONCE, HE WAS WEALTHY, OR AT LEAST HAD SOME DOE,
BUT WHY HE LEFT IT BEHIND; NO ONE SEEMED TO KNOW.
VISITING THE BARS AND DRINKING THEIR WINE,
EVERYONE KNEW IT WAS A MATTER OF TIME.
TILL HE’D LEAVE THIS WORLD, ALONE AND DISTRAUGHT,
HE WAS OLD AND WEARY AND COLDS HE HAD CAUGHT.
HE SAT BY OUR FIRE, DOWN HERE IN THE DUMPS,
LISTENING TO OUR TALES, ABOUT LIFES LITTLE BUMPS.
HE LISTENED INTENTLY, AND GAZED AT THE GUYS,
AS THEY TOLD OF THEIR DEEDS, MAYBE SOME EVEN TOLD LIES.
WELL, HE SAT DOWN HIS COFFEE, AND CLEARED HIS ROUGH THROAT,
WE LISTENED INTENTLY, AS HIS VOICE WAS WIRY WITH A CROAK.
HE TOLD OF A CHILDHOOD, SAID LAUGHTER FILLED THE HALLS,
OF THEIR OLD WOODEN HOUSE, WITH CRACKS IN THE WALLS.
HOLES IN THE FLOOR, COULD SEE CLEAN TO THE DIRT,
THEN A TEAR STARTED FORMING AS IF IT WOULD HURT.
BUT ON HE DID GO, TELLING OF THINGS THAT HE DID,
MOSTLY OF HAPPIER DAYS, BACK WHEN HE WAS A KID.
SURE, I’VE HAD BAD TIMES, THEY WEIGHED MANY TONS
IT WAS NOT ANYBODIES FAULT, I BROUGHT IT ON.
SEE, I ONCE HAD A WIFE, TWO CHILDREN AND ALL,
PLANTED A GARDEN IN THE SPRING AND HARVESTED IN THE FALL.
I SHOULD HAVE BEEN HAPPY WAY BACK THERE, THEN,
BUT I WANTED MORE, MORE MONEY, MORE FRIENDS.
SO I LEFT THE SIMPLE LIFE, VENTURED INTO THE WORLD,
SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY, I LOST MY BOY AND MY GIRL.
MY WIFE TOOK THEM BACK HOME TO THE FARM,
BUT I COULDN’T STAND THE QUIETNESS, SEEMED TO DO HARM.
HARM TO MY IMAGE, A MAN OF HIGH ESTEEM,
BUT MY WIFE SAID I HAD LOST MY ETERNAL DREAM.
I HAD PROMISED HER LOVE AND WE WOULD STAY THE SAME,
AS FARMER AND WIFE WITH LITTLE TO GAIN.
BUT I WANTED MORE, MY VEINS BOILED WITH GREED,
SHE SAID SHE HAD EVERYTHING SHE WOULD EVER NEED.
EXCEPT FOR THE MAN WHO PROMISED HER LOVE,
TO HAVE AND TO HOLD FROM HEAVEN ABOVE.
BUT SOMEHOW I WOULDN’T LISTEN, MY MIND ALREADY SET,
I WAS LOOKING FOR RICHES, SOMETHING A FARMER COULDN’T GET.
SO I LEFT THEM ALONE, AND PACKED UP MY THINGS,
I LEFT HER A NOTE AND LEFT HER MY RINGS.
I WENT BACK TO THE CITY, MADE MONEY UNTOLD,
BUT I LOST MORE THAN RICHES, EVEN MORE THAN GOLD.
I LOST EVERYTHING THIS WORLD COULD EVER KNOW,
AND NOW I DRINK MY WINE OUT HERE IN THE COLD.
SOMEHOW I KNOW THEY MISS ME, BUT I’M TOO ASHAMED TO GO BACK,
CAUSE ALL I HAVE TO SHOW THEM IS THE SHIRT ON MY BACK.
SO GENTLEMEN, YOU HAVE A CHANCE TO START OVER AND DO RIGHT,
STAND UP, ACT LIKE REAL MEN, STAND UP AND FIGHT.
FIGHT FOR YOUR FREEDOM, DON’T WIND UP LIKE ME,
ALONE AND DEPRESSED, I JUST WOULDN’T SEE.
I WANTED MORE THAN MY NEEDS WOULD EVER ALLOW,
AND NOW I’M MISERABLE AND I’LL LEAVE YOU NOW.
BUT LISTEN REAL CAREFUL TO WHAT I WILL SAY,
YOU KEEP LIVING THIS LIE, YOU’LL WIND UP LIKE ME ONE DAY.
THE OLD MAN LEANED OVER, AS IF TO PRAY,
BUT THEN WE NOTICED THAT HE WAS COLD AND GRAY.
HIS LAST BREATH OF LIFE HAD LEFT WITH HIS QUOTE,
AND MADE ALL US WONDER, IT’S TRUE WHAT HE SPOKE.
I WONDER IF HE’D STAYED DOWN ON THE FARM,
WOULD HIS LIFE HAVE BEEN DIFFERENT, COZY AND WARM.