Early Childhood Poems | Examples
These Early Childhood poems are examples of Childhood poems about Early. These are the best examples of Childhood Early poems written by international poets.
Pain creeped in with the early hours of the morning,
I was doubled over in pain.
As I was screaming,
my dad was wrapping me in a blanket.
Off to the hospital he sped,
then carrying me through the big doors.
My appendix was about to burst open,
emergency surgery was for me.
I loved jumping waves on our
family vacations to
random seashores in my youth.
Once in my early childhood,
it was sunny as we drove;
then when we got to the beach . . .
clouds collected; the sky wept.
MUD
water
mixed with dirt
in early childhood
on my knees happily
I formed mud pies with my hand
“the outdoors was my first kitchen”
My early childhood was great, I was the first born.
My mother had five children after me so I mostly remember
spending lots of time with my doting grand-mother
who kept me busy learning to sew & knit before I could read & write.
I had such enthusiasm and benefited from tons of attention.
Creativity was a game to me and I learned to value time.
When I was nine, we moved far away and life changed overnight.
I was really lucky to land a grade 5 teacher who guided me
to learn english at an accelerated rate. I was a good student.
I've always been particularly thankful to both, teacher and grand-mother.
they truly helped mold me into the person I turned out to be.
AP: 3rd place 2025
Comeback-Shirley, starting early,
I'm the sparkle that teases night.
Worship, the Madonna baby!
Comeback-Shirley
Foam hair curlers set loose coils tight.
Strawberry cheeks, fans wish to see.
Appearances, tilt the glass right.
Put your sugar bowl out, missy.
The world shall call you its sunlight.
Stolen cradle, aren't you in glee?
Comeback-Shirley
One could say that my early life's arena
was linked to a street called Issaqueena.
You see, it was on Issaqueena Street that I first
met Mr. May, and I will always treasure that day.
Meeting Mr. May really made my day because by
teaching me to sell, he released me from my shell.
I learned that I did not have to be Mr. May, but I did
need to listen and learn what he had to say.
Mr. May taught me that:
To sell a shoe,
There's more you have to do.
It's a shoe store;
nothing less; nothing more.
Sometimes, you stand on the sidewalk
and give a little smile and a little talk.
Be aggressive and don't be shy
if you want a customer to buy.
There is more to selling a shoe than show and tell.
You also have to really want to make the sale.
"Lights out," Momma said.
"It's time for bed."
But it's too early,
I'm feeling squirrely.
"Pull your covers up," Momma said.
"Don't wiggle around so much."
Waiting until full dark,
I prepare to go out for a lark.
Throwing the blankets back.
Carefully creating a stack.
When Momma looks inside,
She'll think I'm asleep underneath to hide.
Slowly creeping across the floor,
I open the door.
No shoes upon my feet,
Makes it easier to creep.
Down the back doorsteps,
And around the corner.
"Get back in bed!
Thats an order!"
About dropped my tongue,
Scared me so much.
Crept back to bed,
As fast as I dared.
No lark for me tonight,
Momma caught my flight.
Stepping into one hundred degrees of morning haze
Wanting the sun to burn it all down in a fiery raze
'Til all the corn stalks are set to a glowing blaze
Then, rains can come across the plains; turning it to a syrupy glaze
Oh, how I loved these humidity infused summer days
They take me back to youth waking early; to enjoy my plays
I missed the first half of my life; when time seemed to have these endless ways
For adulting means its time to teach my littles how to navigate the craze
Also, to savor the moments 'til their fate reaches this phase
Who knew parenting was just guiding mice through the stands of maize?
I creep around
Before the dawn
The hopeful joy
Of Christmas morn
Each floorboard creaks
As tippy-toe
Snow laden boots
So quietly go
The child-like thrill
Of early eyes
Awake in hope
Of morning prize
For being good
Has been the goal
A clementine or
Piece of coal
Some nuts to crack
With something sweet
Then later
Plenty more to eat
How times have changed
But what remains
Are hope and love
Each gift contains
So lift your hearts
Recall the reason
But don't lose sight
Of why the season
We celebrate..
Not stuff or tat
The world has had
Enough of that
But joy and peace
To quell the noise
For grown-ups
Not just girls and boys
Have a blessed Christmas x
the sun
low in the sky
yearns for a leap into night
as shadows squeeze their way into bedrooms
like shapeless dragons
for children
cocooned to an early bed
staging thoughts like puppet plays
on a wall terrain
of mossy caverns or whispering vines
that never merge dreams smoothly
when children imagine the huff and puff of shadows
like creatures swimming in circles
overlapping at a patchwork distance
before the painted black of night
quiets the pull of imagination
in the candy cane bend of sleep
Of all the senses,
they say that smell
is most closely tied
to memory;
like Proust with
his madeleines;
like blackberries
in July,
in the park where
my mother watched
with patient indulgence,
as my brother and I
propelled our
small bodies down
the shallow hill
in riotous limbs
and giggles; and
in the waning heat
of early evening,
picked blackberries
for pie in the shade
of the bay trees;
fingers dyed purple
with sugary blood
and bellies filled
on stolen ripe flesh.
Our heads grown
sweetly heavy
with the feat of
a day well met.
We didn't know yet
of the things that would
break us.
Only vines,
pregnant with
sun-warmed fruit;
my father's hand
around mine.
In the glow of
golden hour, we
thought the day
immortal.
Reverting to an early childhood spell,
when rainbows had this fascination for me,
and still do much to my delight,
wonder in the skyline boondocks,
hoop of lavish colour one can dream of,
fantasy afloat on sunlit cloud,
imagining another world so bright,
alphabet not needed when budding minds glisten,
to chase that buoyant marvel,
even on a lax afternoon,
is that ultimate peach exploit we cherish,
especially for those who fancy stimulus,
pot of gold prospect never seen but might appear,
band of chalk-spun phantom’s mirror bend,
wizard plait that spur to haunting pigment,
madrigal for pearl-eyed infant haiku,
or maybe tanka, pantoum, verse
on fabulous enthralling pen craft
Arc of hues celeste
weave dreams for starry-eyed who
crave earthling peak bliss
A love too early,
a tear nearby.
I loved you truly,
we said goodbye.
A love too early,
it still remains.
I loved you only,
too early it died.
A love too early,
and memory fades,
Time and new faces
close by my side.
A love too early,
but late as it is,
I question and ponder:
is early too late?
Girls grow up early -
boys are on time.
One grows like cedar -
the other like pine.
Both are completed -
each other to mate.
Minority’s tyranny -
disturbs natural fate.
Childhood, Rising Early On Christmas Morn
Christmas, lone ranger toys, and whole lot more
two six guns, cowboy boots and silver skates
morn rising, racing to paradise shores
sweet childhood memories to celebrate.
Robert J. Lindley, 12-23-2021
Quatrain
Note:
My grandson asked me if I had written a Christmas poem for the children this year. I had not yet I told him. But then I sat down and composed this quatrain from a joyful memory of my own childhood.