Get Your Premium Membership

Poems about Children VI

Poems about Children VI Playmates by Michael R. Burch WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours, we spent endless hours with simple toys, and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days were uncomprehended . . . far, far away . . . for the temptations and trials we had yet to face were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze. Then simple pleasures were easy to find and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind; for even a penny in a pocket back then was one penny too many, a penny to spend. Then feelings were feelings and love was just love, not a strange, complex mystery to be understood; while "sin" and "damnation" meant little to us, since forbidden cookies were our only lusts! Then we never worried about what we had, and we were both sure—what was good, what was bad. And we sometimes quarreled, but we didn't hate; we seldom gave thought to the uncertainties of fate. Hell, we seldom thought about the next day, when tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away. Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past, and wondered, at times, why things couldn't last. Still, we never worried about getting by, and we didn't know that we were to die . . . when we spent endless hours with simple toys, and I was your playmate, and we were boys. This is probably the poem that "made" me, because my high school English teacher called it "beautiful" and I took that to mean I was surely the Second Coming of Percy Bysshe Shelley! "Playmates" is the second poem I remember writing; I believe I was around 13 or 14 at the time. It was originally published by The Lyric. Children by Michael R. Burch There was a moment suspended in time like a swelling drop of dew about to fall, impendent, pregnant with possibility ... when we might have made ... anything, anything we dreamed, almost anything at all, coalescing dreams into reality. Oh, the love we might have fashioned out of a fine mist and the nightly sparkle of the cosmos and the rhythms of evening! But we were young, and what might have been is now a dark abyss of loss and what is left is not worth saving. But, oh, you were lovely, child of the wild moonlight, attendant tides and doting stars, and for a day, what little we partook of all that lay before us seemed so much, and passion but a force with which to play. Kindergarten by Michael R. Burch Will we be children as puzzled tomorrow— our lessons still not learned? Will we surrender over to sorrow? How many times must our fingers be burned? Will we be children sat in the corner, paddled again and again? How long must we linger, playing Jack Horner? Will we ever learn, and when? Will we be children wearing the dunce cap, giggling and playing the fool, re-learning our lessons forever and ever, still failing the golden rule? Life Sentence or Fall Well by Michael R. Burch . . . I swim, my Daddy’s princess, newly crowned, toward a gurgly Maelstrom . . . if I drown will Mommy stick the Toilet Plunger down to suck me up? . . . She sits upon Her Throne, Imperious (denying we were one), and gazes down and whispers “precious son” . . . . . . the Plunger worked; i’m two, and, if not blessed, still Mommy got the Worst Stuff off Her Chest; a Vacuum Pump, They say, will do the rest . . . . . . i’m three; yay! whee! oh good! it’s time to play! (oh no, I think there’s Others on the way; i’d better pray) . . . . . . i’m four; at night I hear the Banging Door; She screams; sometimes there’s Puddles on the Floor; She wants to kill us, or, She wants some More . . . . . . it’s great to be alive if you are five (unless you’re me); my Mommy says: “you’re WRONG! don’t disagree! don’t make this HURT ME!” . . . . . . i’m six; They say i’m tall, yet Time grows Short; we have a thriving Family; Abort!; a tadpole’s ripping Mommy’s Room apart . . . . . . i’m seven; i’m in heaven; it feels strange; I saw my life go gurgling down the Drain; another Noah built a Mighty Ark; God smiled, appeased, a Rainbow split the Dark; . . . I saw Bright Colors also, when She slammed my head against the Tub, and then I swam toward the magic tunnel . . . last, I heard . . . is that She feels Weird. Keywords/Tags: child, children, childhood, play, playmate, playmates, toy, toys, penny, pennies, love, cookies, adventures, young, youth, dunce, teen, school

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.

Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.