Best Childhood Memory Poems
(Dedicated to one of my childhood friends)
You were one of those charming lilies
that bloomed, so fresh, in my springtime pond;
when my homesick wings of longings flutter and soar,
and my mind alights
on the periphery of the playparks of the past,
I reminisce all the little fun we had
along with our other friends -
as we strolled through the narrow trails
in the verdant flowery meadow
that sprawled near our school
during the tender years of our lives.
The giggles and the laughter
the chuckles and the chatter -
those shrieks and the squeals
that baffled even the needles of time
to forget their own pace
and hop and waltz along with us.
Then roads diverged, new air we breathed
as we took new paths to pursue our purposes in life.
Years later, you arrived once very near my place
yet we could not connect and get ourselves to meet.
That day when we talked on the phone
and I heard your voice after a very long time,
my mind leapt for joy and soaked for some time
in a summer drizzle of rainbow memories -
of those I had long forgotten
as you reminded them to me in our chat -
they linger on like pleasant petrichor.
Later, I tried to recollect and sing our childhood songs
rhyming it perfect with the
unrhyming clamor of our choruses.
When commitments in work and family responsibilities
seem to have rusted the gate to my nostalgic dam -
your call was the key to open it - and when creaking opened
wistful emotions gushed forth
to form an ocean of yearnings
to be a child once more.
You revived the puddles of my mind with paper boats
that carry leaves, stems, and flowers of fond memories.
I felt like a gleeful kite in the vast blue,
fleeing for a moment from the humdrum day.
You will forever be the same charming lily
adorning my little lake of most treasured blossoms.
My bestie, my soul-sis.
childhood memory
in a country field of gold-
birds chase me away
childhood memory
of lush emerald green ferns-
frogs leap and I run
childhood memory
of sweet coolness in the woods-
flies chase me away
childhood memory
and fields of yellow daisies-
bees buzzing wildly
childhood memory
of soft pink roses blooming-
a thorn makes me bleed
childhood memory
of tall wild flowers swaying-
they tickle my legs
childhood memory
of gathering the fall leaves-
a chipmunk runs by
childhood memory
nature lovely to recall-
birds tweet as I write
_________________________
July 19, 2019
Poetry/Haiku/childhood memory
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1167-493-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Multiple - Haikus
sponsor, Jamie Pan
Second Place
Life's valued treasures, I hold most dear,
the ones that dwell deep within my heart.
There's a special memory from younger days
that I will share with you, and fondly impart.
When I think as far back as I can, I remember,
there was only one special thing I ever wanted ~
A big white horse, with flowing mane and tail.
I rode him every night; in dreams, he haunted.
Christmas wishes never came true for me
because you see, my family was rather poor,
but on a December morning, when I was ten
there was a loud knock upon our door.
Dad looked at me and said, "I think it's for you."
He took my hand and gently guided me outside.
Before I saw the surprise, I heard a gentle neigh,
and stood in disbelief, my eyes opened wide.
I remember that I cried, but I couldn't speak.
When Dad lifted me to the leather saddle
I whispered "Thank you," and kissed his cheek.
I was sitting on my dream horse, legs astraddle.
No fancy dolls or dress up things appealed to me.
I had what my heart desired and named him Knight.
I told him all my secrets as we rode hills and fields,
mane and tail flowing, coat shining in the sunlight.
August 5th, 2020
Sponsor: Constance La France
Dusty Old Memories Poetry Contest
Forest fairies changing colors,
autumn's patchwork pattern weaving
in the foggy morning stillness
before winter's barren grieving,
up the river on the damp air,
up hollows through the shadowed vales
sounds the mournful, sobbing whistle:
once more memory rides the rails.
Childhood song for railroad watchers -
a tinge of hobo in my veins,
longing for the lonesome whistle
like a lost child for his name.
Life began beside the railway,
an open door to fantasy;
my dreamer's soul soaked in the flavor
hearing that whistle witchery.
Hungry tramps in search of breakfast
found our doorstep every time;
hobo network communication
marked mama's eggs and bacon "fine."
Bleary eyes and beards all stubble
made child imaginations fly
and the tales with which we clothed them
were wilder still than hobo lies.
Oh, for the days when trains were magic:
iron dragons breathing smoke and fire,
lashing long tails through the valleys
with monstrous strength that never tired.
Oh, the secrets that were hidden
behind the doors of plain boxcars;
feel the untamed urge to mount them
and plunder treasure from afar.
Delight was ours beyond measure
to waken on those special days,
finding, in the night, the dragon
had brought the circus train our way.
See the bearded lady waving
and catch the fat man's twinkling eye,
smell the coal smoke's pungent flavor
beneath our magic big top sky.
Grown up am I; steam train magic
comes swirling by once in a while
to view autumn's fleeting pageant
and make train lovers like me smile.
Nostalgic, rhythmic beating,
staccato yelps and sobbing wails
make my soul a mental hobo;
once more memory rides the rails.
Copyright, 2000
Faye Lanham Gibson
It’s been many years since I’d climbed the wooden steps to my parent’s attic. The hinges of the trap door creak and a cloud of dust rises as I push the door open. I fumble for the light switch; it takes several minutes for the dust to settle and for my eyes to become accustomed to the gloom from the single bulb.
I survey the small space, which is packed to the hilt with hidden treasures. I sit cross-legged in a cramped corner and delve one of the many boxes.
relics of childhood
packed in old cardboard boxes
I find my old bear
My mother had carefully packed away many of my old toys and keepsakes from my schooldays and high days and holidays. Oh how I laughed when I read some of the comments on my school reports and workbooks, it made for very amusing reading! I get quite emotional when I sort through photograph albums and see the faces of those who are no longer with us.
cherished memories
as I leaf through the pages
I wipe away tears
After several hours reminiscing I’ve selected a couple of items, which were once so dear to me; and then I finally close the door on the past.
Picture 3
Photostory Contest
Sponsored by Eve Roper
11-15-17
Sitting on the Fence at Twilight
When the sun waved good-bye in the afternoon,
I’d say hello to the smiling Man in the Moon.
Perching on our gray concrete fence,
I’d swing my brown legs to a happy cadence.
From my solid fortress, I could see
a daily circus of human activity.
On a single bicycle rode the Fabros, a family of four;
how they all fit, it was a mystery to be sure.
The street vendor, old Papito, would hawk his treats;
oh! those warm, sticky, honey buns and tamarind sweets.
Sashaying in her tight-fitting skirt of tomato-red,
Cousin Clarita balanced a green basket on her turbaned head.
Then came buxom Aunt Alfreda huffing and puffing by,
to give me a piping hot, home-made, savory meat pie.
I’d blow on it to cool it off first, just
before biting into the flaky, buttery crust.
As day soon faded into hues of twilight,
I’d spy the occasional shiny satellite,
a tiny, silver snail slowly revolving in the sky,
moving so silently above, way up high.
For a child of seven, this was such a wondrous time…
right until the old town clock chimed nine.
Then Mama would ring her bell calling me inside,
and I’d leave the stars still twinkling outside.
04-24-2018
Contest: An Early Childhood Memory
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Placement: 3rd
"Fragments and crumbs of life,
all the little pieces"
John Ruskin 1853
Having lived with our Mom in Sydney for six months
Federal Police returned us to live with our father
He had begun working as the art teacher
at a small Christian school in Tasmania
He and other staff members lived at the school.
I was 8, my sister 6. Geneva was experimental then.
Elementary students were taught together in one hall.
Desks divided from next, talk was completely disallowed.
An American curriculum called ACE was adhered to.
As the art teacher's daughter, naturally I washed all the brushes.
Three utterances compiled in class per day earned detention.
Despite it being 1991, rulers whapped knuckles on occasion.
Cherished butterfly catching buddy, best friend, Penny
Fed apples from ample pile to fence wire necked horses
Dawn saluting dairy sold milk for locals, chapel on site
Peers lived a wall away, an idyllic community lifestyle
Generally, three afternoons per week, my father took
My sister on playground, shopping outings.
I stayed home. Instructed not to go outside.
Staff's children grassy antics gazed at through glass.
I ate vitamin c tablets by the dozen, and scrapings of butter.
A staff member bought all our groceries from a limited list.
I sang for company. There was no radio or TV.
My Dad and sister returned at nightfall. Chewing on sweets.
Alone in the house, I imaged it was a cruising ocean vessel
I sailed down the dim driveway, swamped by giant pines
I took apples, a cow, a Bible, pencils for sketching horses
Sailing on jaunty sun hugged foliage, I was captain
'Geneva Has Evolved'
Constance La France
All The Little Pieces Contest
25th August 2020
Daddy picked his cotton
Six scorched days a week
Sundays were sunny gleeful
Cotton candy I held in hand
He took me to the county fair
Pink and pretty as could be
Balloons hid my child's tears
for the days he toiled away
My daddy loved to toss me
high up in the air
he'd yell, I love you
My pink beautiful butterfly
Ferris wheels and chocolate pies
Sundays truly I
the pink happy butterfly
One day the balloons all popped
Daddy grasping heart
Tumbled to the ground
there are no more
Candy cotton dreams
only
Somber clown
tears
Acrostic Memory
Acrostics introduced in fifth grade on a rainy winter afternoon
Careful crafted choice of words written in lyric cadence hues
Rhythmic flow like music class - songs of skaters waltzes spin
Out of tumbling imagination’s chaos form corrals intention’s whims
Shaping thoughts that rumble ramble like errant spitball pests
Teacher’s encouragement gentle walks through rows of wooden desks
Imaginations set on fire with a powerful surge
Crafts of poems like spelling bees in alphabetic order emerge
My favorite teacher – Miss Daly - guided my awakening muse
Emerging in wide young eyes - life’s enigma puzzles to deduce -
Many her gifts wrapped in surprises of creative lines, the prize
Often I remember her stern but loving eyes
Reminders to remember her guiding hand for wordsmith potential
Yet I always wonder of her life’s acrostic in questions reverential
12-8-20
Contest: Nostalgia
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
golden beach
sandcastles touch the sky
childhood memories
modern haiku
05-21-16
We played hide and seek
Running around the park.
And a game called british bulldogs,
It really was a lark.
Then there was scrumping apples
And getting chased off by the man.
How we loved knock and run,
Oh, how fast we ran.
Of course there was footie
Sometimes fifteen a side.
On tv we watched the flintstones,
And laughed until we cried.
The sweetshop sold gobstoppers
Or maybe a sherbet dab,
A shiny stick of liquorice
Or an exciting lucky bag.
Our parents couldn't get us in,
How we loved to play.
There just never seemed to be
Enough hours in the day.
But our kids are technophobes,
They think we're dinosaurs.
Scoffing at our 'good old days'
Thinking we were bores.
I despair at the internet,
Technology, at a cost
Children glued to ipads,
A proper childhood lost.
I can imagine in the future
There's a point our kids will reach,
All contact will be online,
They'll have lost the power of speech.
Fresh air, and playing out
Will seem a relic from the past.
I fear there's no going back,
For the techno die is cast.
Entry for It's The End Of The Forms Series - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Broken Wings
5/10/2017
She drew her finger slowly through the dust
The dust of all those years and yesterdays
Tears in submission to times gone by
Echoes of laughter came tumbling back
The dust of all those years and yesterdays
Wrapped now in the cloak of memories
Echoes of laughter came tumbling back
Searching for her childhood in this room
Wrapped now in the cloak of memories
Tears in submission to time gone by
Searching for her childhood in this room
She drew her finger slowly through the dust
Mums Kitchen.
If I went back to the house of my childhood days,
I'm sure I'd see mum in the kitchen, as my eyes start to glaze.
Busily moving pots and pans from the stove to the sink,
I would hold onto that vision afraid just to blink.
Her blue and white apron all covered in flour,
preparing food and baking hour after hour.
Just hand written notes, no need for a recipe book,
Things made so many times she'd barely need to look.
I would sit at the table and into the kitchen I'd stare,
watching mum work away making such delectable fare.
The aroma's and smells that would waft through the house,
I'd breathe deeply and pretend that they entered my mouth.
There would be pasties laid on and the apple pie of your dream,
lamingtons, jelly cakes both all covered in cream.
cloud soft sponge cakes and chocolate chip bickies,
Mum made cooking look easy but was really quite tricky.
Mum would bring me some tea and load up a plate,
I wouldn't care about sugar or worry about weight.
Eating to my fill and my mouth gets the drools,
Then I would say, "Mum, your kitchen rules".
There's an old timber, farm gate at the end of a track.
You wouldn't see it driving past unless you looked back.
It's made of roughly hewn wood more than a lifetime ago,
time and weather has worn it down, as the seasons ebb and flow.
A rusty abandoned ute lays near, covered in pine tree nettles.
Where weeds and braken make claim to it as in the earth it forever settles.
Late sunlight filters through the trees, casting shadows through the gate.
Where once cattle on the other side for feed would stand and wait.
Young children used to play on the gate, stand and swing it open wide.
Then climb through the cypress trees for another place to hide.
Atop the rail the magpies perch, warbling away without refrain.
Intently gazing across the fields, the kings of their domain.
The children have all gone now, grown up and moved away.
For many years the gate lay untouched, its frame in disarray.
Who knows? maybe someone will see its worth and fix the old farm gate.
Embed it back into time, for another's memories to recreate.
the swinging sixties never swung
as much as people said
but for me, the bands
and the songs they sung
linger on inside my head
I rocked and rolled to morningtown
on a wagon with one wheel
and followed tracks
that took me down
to fields that felt unreal.
a jungle snake both sang and hissed
when a man climbed on his cloud
then a windmill turned
in the autumn mist
and a policeman laughed out loud
in a warm and gentle wonderland
on a train whose whistle blew
a swinging star
introduced his band
and sang a rainbow too
God only knows when I look back
why the miller told his tale
and I can’t explain
why grocer jack
turned a whiter shade of pale
but I'm thankful for those days back then
before the years rolled by
those were the days
in dreams and when
there was spirit in the sky.