Best Childhoods Poems
‘Twas the night before Christmas and I didn’t care;
I had dozens of latkes I had to prepare.
The menorah was ready, with candles to light,
Waiting there by the window, a wonderful sight.
The presents were wrapped and I lined up the dreidels;
The soup was a’bubble, with floating knaidels.
The applesauce waited to chill in the fridge
In a Chanukah bowl. (Yes, I tasted a smidge.)
The cookies were baked like my grandmother taught,
(So much better than any that anyone bought)
Shaped like candles and dreidels and six-sided stars;
There were plenty to fill cookie platters and jars.
When I suddenly sensed there was something the matter.
I raced to the kitchen – the oil was a’splatter!
For while I was fixing the festive display,
I should have been frying (not quite my forte).
The first batch of latkes was burnt to a crisp
And smoke filled the kitchen (much more than a wisp),
But tying my apron for take number two,
I ditched all the burnt ones and knew what to do.
I lowered the flame and reheated some oil,
Plopping spoonfuls of batter I wouldn’t let spoil.
Then I conjured my childhood and Chanukahs past,
When I had no idea years would fly by so fast.
And I pictured my nana and grandma, as well
As my parents, my grandfathers and Aunt Sydelle
And my brothers and sister and cousins galore
And my uncles and aunts I’ve not mentioned before.
While my latkes were frying, so crispy and gold,
I remembered how Chanukah used to unfold,
When we played with our dreidels and gathered our gelt,
In our family’s embrace and the love we all felt.
So I cooked the new latkes with patience and care,
Knowing that with my kids and my grandkids I’d share
All the pent-up emotions I’ve hidden inside
With a platter of latkes, now perfectly fried.
And to all who will celebrate Chanukah time,
I do hope there’s a lesson for you in this rhyme –
For the very-best feelings our childhoods instill,
Through traditions, our hearts and our bellies will fill.
December 7, 2022
A child in time
Innocence was not youth, innocence was the times
We all sat at the dinner table
Discussions were lively, as adult’s sipped wine
That old Volkswagen, a trunk of memories
Now sitting in the graveyard of old rusty cars
Wishing for shinier days, and a fresh cold coca cola
Frozen in my mind, rusty bumpers, forever a time to cherish
Some dreamed of voyages to space
I dreamed of far away meadows
Where nothing ever changed
Childhoods magically suspended in time
Let me say, time is no ones friend
We spend it easily in our youth
We treasure it like frankincense with each passing day
Love captures our hearts, will time let it stay?
We see the world around us die
Knowing this is nature’s way
Pain, as loved ones fade
Wither away, as we linger on
Day after day
The same questions float in my head
Why do things have to change?
Am I not better off dead?
Love is bound by tears of the heart
A soft kiss or eyes that speak in lustful silence
It matters not, not at all
We must suffer this world as humans do
Me, I shall cling to yesterday
The days of abundance of spirit and youth
I shall dance inside these memories
These are the happy shadows of the past
Poetry is like medication, in each release of expression,
there is healing - Poet.
In the realms of lost childhoods,
where demons prey upon the defenceless -
no one hears your screams.
I wandered spiritless,
like an abdicated soul,
renouncing my existence.
But the pain kept me alive.
I was an unknown vagabond,
forgotten and begotten,
within an eerie mist of misunderstanding.
Sly shadows with crimson eyes
tracked my silent sighs of sorrow,
so I suppressed sincere secrets -
too embarrassed to express.
Until I fell upon verses from dead rhapsodists,
which taught me to become that poem.
With blessings from pseudonym poets,
wounded words began to burn in metaphors.
Ink engulfed in sizzling lava dripped
in impulsive poetic allusions -
expression led to a catharsis of clarity.
I found an abode in decorative alliteration,
a perfect province in personified prose,
where each stanza became my sanctuary.
Under the shelter of fervent free verse,
I collected every shard of hope,
and placed them in my heart.
Sonnets of sentimental dwellings,
revealed syllables of an untold narrative.
The curse of Iambic pentameter
could not prevent bleeding blisters from healing.
My quill is now a silent juxtaposition
of deafening poetic onomatopoeia.
Author: Runping Chen
The desk sends forth its particular fragrance
That gladden people’s hearts.
That is the sweet-smelling of the old camphor bodies
And into the impression of my childhood immerses.
The shade extended my fellow villagers’ strolling;
Countless summer nights embraced people’s joyful cooling.
The huge and tabescent trunk held up
The wind and frost for generations’ living.
The refreshing breeze was kissing the head of the tree.
Kindly pulled the old camphor closer
Some strands of cooking smokes
Vaguer and vaguer.
The production teams’ whistles were resounding over the village,
And grownups shouldered the sun and moon
Hurrying to the hills and fields
While the old camphor collected the children’s imaginative yields.
--In its chest
The childhoods would not be lonely and flurried
Counting from the stitches of leaves
Thousands and thousands of suns.
Many rivers of time were flowing around;
With no sense of time, the sadness I’ve known.
Since I was away, many shifts of the sunrise and sunset
I came back home and found the old camphor fallen on the ground.
It’s lying on the ground with no voice and sound,
Being dying and breathing
The merely last fragrance of its life
In front of the horrible carpenters who circled around.
The carpenters held their stainless saws
Ignoring the old camphor’s itches and aches.
On its shoulder was an owl
With the mouth open, and family ruined after all.
Prizing up the mouth for no use of vomiting sadness,
The birds sang no songs any more in the sky
Because they could hardly find back
Houses and household articles among the green leaves.
Children carried in both hands the remains of the old camphor’s bones,
Hating to pile them in the firewood house.
When the setting sun was sliding down the west hill ridges,
I walked back and forth around the old camphor tree.
I am confounded, confused, truly perplexed
By people who are selfish and mean.
Were they abandoned in bathroom stalls?
Did they have to survive on a cold tile floor?
Was their world so cruel that they think only of themselves?
I am confounded, confused, truly perplexed
By people who are bossy and belligerent.
Do they think this is the way to influence you?
To make you a friend? To straighten you out?
Why is their way the only way?
Were they raised by alcoholics? Not able to change their sad childhoods?
I am confounded, confused, truly perplexed
By people who are perpetually angry and grouchy.
Do they never find their bliss? Do they frighten away their soul mates?
Do they not know that sadness is at the root of their anger?
Why do they not reach out for help? Do they trust no one?
Were they raised in houses where mothers held I-pads instead of them?
I am confounded, confused, truly perplexed by depression,
Anxiety, and grief. These feelings are terrifying for me. I am
An empath, so I have to stay away from these feelings. I hope
You understand. If my empathy perplexes you, I get it.
We navigate our childhoods
With our parents at the wheel,
Smooth sailing for the lucky ones;
For others, an ordeal.
Along the way, we learn and grow,
Absorbing what we see,
Then choosing what we’ll keep or toss,
Deciding who we’ll be.
At some point we can steer ourselves
And once we take control,
Our moms and dads no longer play,
For us, a starring role.
It’s strange that all that effort,
Which is parenthood’s intent,
May yield outcomes unexpected,
Not requiring consent.
I wore no uniform—
just silence and suits.
A ghost in global rooms,
a whisper behind the curtain.
I was a civilian,
but my job was war.
They called it "analysis,"
but what I did was study souls.
The psychology of power—
Presidents, rebels, kings.
We knew their childhoods,
their fears,
their fault lines.
I was trained to see through smiles.
To know,
from a handshake,
what could break a man.
Africa.
We watched it like a hawk.
A map of minerals,
and men we could move like pawns.
We flew them to Washington,
dinners and flags,
and while they smiled for cameras,
we read their eyes,
filed their secrets,
decoded their pride.
Every trip—
a trap.
Every handshake—
a scan.
Instability was our most valuable currency.
If a leader dreamed too loud,
if a nation dared to rise,
we lit fires in its shadows.
We funded chaos,
armed ghosts,
named them rebels.
Terror was not born—it was designed.
I have walked through cities burning from our whispers.
I have read reports
on coups we engineered
like boardroom mergers.
We called it "foreign policy."
But it was a slow, brutal theft—
of futures, of hope, of sovereignty.
No country escapes us
without scars.
Only the strong,
the truly awake,
can untangle our web.
I was just a civilian,
but I held nations in my briefcase.
And now I see:
Power without soul
is the truest form of evil.
You are now past “Hogwartz age”
Time to let you out of childhoods “cage”
To turn your life’s book on a new page
So get ready to take center stage
Witches’ brew and Wizards spell
Joyful ringing of heaven’s bell
It’s now the time, can’t you tell
To cast on you a Birthday Spell
Age old wisdom from Dumbledore
Pouring out to you from heaven’s door
All good tidings endlessly pour
Making sure you need not ask for more
A kiss of courage from Harry Potter
The strength of soul is what really matters
Quick wit and charm from Hermione Granger
To preserve you from any danger
Minerva showers you with luck
With misfortune you will not get stuck
From Ron Weasley a friendly smack
That will always protect your back
Snape sends a potion of notion
To ward off all kinds of temptation
From us, our endless love and devotion
A love that is deeper than any ocean
May you always be as glorious as a queen
May your life always be serene
As we cast this spell on you Josephine
On the day that you turn eighteen
Note:
This poem was written for my lovely niece Josephine when she turned 18.
I wish her all the best this world has to offer.
JEB
The day ends in soft sunset as it turns to twilight
The moon’s visage shines at night
Illuminating the scene with its mysterious almost eerie blue light
Cotton candy childhoods’ delight
Is sold by the store
During the day above it birds will soar
Children and adults alike cotton candy adore
It’s strange look for a candy that taste buds will explore
The lantern splashes its light on the window glass
Frost makes bizarre shapes on that glass
When light touches the frost shapes on the glass
It creates a rainbow of soft but vibrant colors that nothing can surpass
The cotton candy makes good metaphor
Representing surreal starship in untraceable soul that is what sugar is for
This is reflection of greater force which growing in true expanse to heavens will soar
As base for imagination not needing base this will score
And as creating the imagination the making of cotton from sugar is good metaphor
Adequate comparison to transitive necropotic energy flavor added to cotton candy is
And spinning sugar forming the candy is euphemism for space abyss
And just like eating cotton candy reflects childhood bliss
The real bliss cotton candy just reflects this theory of everything is
They told me from the time I was two
“One day prince charming is coming for you!”
They made me read these inspiring fairy tales
About mermaids, evil step mothers and
servants whose childhoods were unfair,
They told me that even if I was troubled and had to put up with a lot,
That someday my adversaries would have to surrender
to me and scrub my pots,
They told me I wasn’t alone; animals would be my friend
So I tried that, then one night they bit me,
I suffered another tragic end
They said to always be kind-hearted that’s what all man want,
When I got into high school I found out no one wanted to talk to the fat girl in the corner who ate chocolate glazed croissants
They told me to find seven dwarfs, a crew of little people
My school only had four of them
Their names were; scuba, geek freak, muffin top and meatball
In eleventh grade they said, "ask God for a fairy godmother to get a dress for the prom"
I went to a Catholic Church, got one for 75 cents,
with red stripes and one missing arm
They said after graduation the wise thing to do would be to go to college
and Not rush into getting married
So I got knocked up my senior year by the school janitor,
His name is "Prince Larry!"
I dropped out a month before school ended and you’ll never guess where I reside
I am currently employed doing Disney parties, where I get to dress up as all the great characters who told me those fabulous lies.
Got to Love fairy tales…
By: Sabina Nicole
1-24-13
"Dead Star Compass"
When you’ve lost
your entire world
and there’s no return,
you either fold your cards
or join the Legion.
we fought
on the front lines.
the Normals said
we were on a suicide mission;
not so, more like we joined
to feel something,
Human.
even
if it was
through
the fire of
others' pain.
those who thought
they weren’t lost,
had just lost their world,
without warning -
or so they thought,
in the blinding pitch
of those ignoble
and damaged
war torn dark night
dire days.
crying tears
of blood
for the loss
of their abducted
innocent children
let's not forget,
the petrified childhoods
they’d lost themselves,
without mercy,
to the unjustified unjust.
there was a place for
displaced perspective.
how shall I put it?
there came to those,
who were
poetically
disassociating,
in that terrible time,
the chronicles
of those long strung out
lost wasted days -
a unique
frame of reference
some might say,
an intuitive inner voice
commanding ghosts,
those surviving discards
covered in visible
and invisible bruises,
a strange need
to put on the armour of
an oddly solitary,
idiosyncratic, and
quite unexpected -
spiritual union?
Inside what remained
of the human heart,
the magnetised poles
like a compass spinning
revolutionary,
unexplained and fast -
hypnotised us,
the tainted discards,
supernaturally North,
towards that which
was long considered
a lost,
dead star.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
(for Michael Jackson and Karen Carpenter)
Dear my other one by the Gemini,
Shadows are a planet.
We live as shadows.
Therefore, we’re a planet. Love,
when striving for stars, it’s what we chose.
Winter charities and harsh summers solve
its problems by fall & spring or enteric
Paul and overcast Penelope. We’re life.
Shadows are life. But all shadows attack
its life source, to seek its meaning’s riff.
But, you leave as a condom or saint,
using this world for your answers, then
departing to hell’s or heaven’s quadrant.
Planets are love because we don’t know. We send.
We receive. We’re confused, but love. We seek.
We’re questions for answers’ birth, not its end.
Such as we lullaby childhoods’ wisdoms, we weep.
But, we should be shadows and planets,
as lovers---beyond God’s lands---Yes…un-asleep!
Why did you desire the omniscient?
Why annul our orbit of many questions?
Paul beheaded and weaving Penelope bent---
not broken. Oh my. Now, guitars are sins.
Violins are no longer constellations, Eve…
Please forgive this Adam’s heart’s terminus.
I dwindle from memories, thinking oversights.
Taking for granted mealtime smells and dance
within our misunderstandings, our blights.
So, I begin as Omega and work backwards.
My coffee swirls as shadows by my spoon’s spin.
The cup is the planet, and I weave forwards
to my life. Beheaded from the past, I leave thin
and thick with grief. This too will pass, here and now.
Shadow is planet; but death does not mean
good grief. It means goodbye as one can know.
We are family,
With different parts, different arts
Different stances, different hearts.
Different functions, different views
Different strengths, of different hues.
Different gifts and aptitudes
Different sizes and attitudes.
Different opinions and different passions
Different childhoods and different fashions.
Different skin, different hair
Different voices and different stares.
Different laughs and different cries
Different anger and different eyes.
Different wealth and different ages
Different minds in different stages.
Different holdings and different power
Are yours and mine and ours.
We are family,
With one life, one season to bloom
One fragrance, one span from the womb.
One “now” one chance to make amends
One mist, one term to cherish friends.
One “carpe diem” (one seize the day)
One chance to grow, one hand to play.
One privileged game, one strategy picking
One time to shine, one game clock ticking.
One unity shared, one harmony sung
One melody hummed, one use of the tongue.
One hand to uplift, one journey we take
One taste you leave, one cake you bake.
One glorious day, one life to bless
One chance every day, one love to finesse.
One hope, one April shower
Is yours and mine and ours.
Old soundtracks,
fairy memories
With some trill ...
laughter rang
Twilight rose's evening kiss
... through the childhoods eyes
Childhoods defended with the snowball,
God's annual medium preserved
the young artist's angel fall,
but man had to make himself served.
The grass still green in January
and the bush is still with berry.
Professor Hinkle's global plans
in all and what to engineer
the sleight of billions of hands
that has made you disappear.