Nostalgia Childhood Poems | Examples
These Nostalgia Childhood poems are examples of Childhood poems about Nostalgia. These are the best examples of Childhood Nostalgia poems written by international poets.
Beneath the amber autumn light,
Where plastic masks were thin and cold,
We wandered in the gathering night,
Back when the neighborhood felt old.
The pillowcases sagged with sweets,
The jack-o'-lanterns burned with lime,
And through the dim, familiar streets,
We walked along the edge of time.
A boombox hummed a shadowy tune,
The VHS was taped and slow,
Under a low, pale October moon—
Forty autumns long ago.
We didn't see the silent thread
That pulled our childhood to the grave,
Or know the voices of the dead
Were echoes of the love we gave.
Now streetlamps flicker, quiet, lone,
The porch light’s gone, the dark is deep;
The ghosts we dressed as turned to bone,
And only memories refuse to sleep.
Years ago, when my friends and I were just boys;
A nearby place provided such simple joys.
To us, it was one of the best local ‘finds’;
“Let’s go to the creek,” never far from our minds.
We usually rode bikes, although sometimes we’d run;
To be first to arrive was part of the fun.
Visiting each favorite spot with made-up names;
Racing leaf and twig boats, playing other games.
Covering stones with mud, shouting “Bombs away!”
Vying for biggest ‘explosion’ of the day.
Pretending that large rocks were islands mid stream;
For hours we’d play in a quasi day dream.
Imagining that millimeters were miles;
Jumping from the creek’s banks to ‘fly’ to warm isles.
When dusk called us home as it did way too fast;
We knew today’s trip here would not be our last.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ hoard of treasure ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ against the door,
Full of ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ lifetime's garnered store -
¦¦¦ pleasures crowned with ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ zest,
¦¦¦ sorrow ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ penance blest,
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ remembrance ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ of yore
¦¦¦¦¦ like a new evangel, ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ halting ¦¦¦¦ toward the best.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ barren after years
¦¦¦ bring ¦¦¦ joy or sorrow, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ knowing not, who cares? ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ we ¦¦¦¦¦ find ¦¦¦ pleasures and ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ remembered childhood ¦¦¦¦ thro' tears,
The best ¦¦¦ Heaven and ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ Hell.
(Blackout of Sonnet III by William Shakespeare)
when I was but a little girl we had a hammock
in our backyard between the trees
it was lovely to crawl in and let the wind caress me
back and forth
I would gather my doll close to my heart
and quietly spend hours swaying, dreaming
oh, so exquisite the wind- like a soft breath
a soft murmur in the trees
I loved the whooshing, hissing, and whispering
and the delicate sound of birds tweeting
I felt tranquility, serenity and calmness
and I could dream of beautiful places and things
as I lay floating in the wind
smelling the aroma of mothers flower garden
oh, the wind nudges me from my dream
with a pleasant poetic breeze
like a ripple on the water
and peace has wrapped me in her arms
Dusk dips, game over.
Hide and seek. Kick ball.
That Slip n’ Slide hurt,
wipeouts were worth it.
Beat the streetlights home.
All day outside,
who needed food?
Nutrient rich,
the old hose worked.
Hydration,
pass it left
share a sip.
Look back,
we were
gold.
The Granite State still sharp and tall,
beyond our old, fractured stone wall.
The maple leaves we used to chase,
have now left an empty, quiet space.
The winter froze the lonely lake,
with memories I cannot break.
We laced our skates in freezing air,
but no one else is waiting there.
The April sun now thaws the woods,
of changing, distant neighborhoods.
The muddy boots and melting snow,
are ghosts of things from long ago.
Rich, with a hint of chocolate.
Every piece is decadent.
Delicious, creamy, and with white frosting.
Varies among cream cheese, buttercream or boiled.
Every birthday I would ask for one.
Layered high with boiled frosting.
Velvety smooth on your tongue, great for
Easter, Christmas or any holiday, and
Traditions of the past.
Cheerful and fond memories of my grandmother.
Always making bakery grade sweets and
Keeping her recipes hidden, written in French.
Every memory of her baking brings me joy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The rusty chains still sing to me
of summers lost in lemon tea,
when sky was high and grass was green,
and I could touch the clouds, it seemed.
The wood is split where laughs once grew,
the empty seat now holds just the morning dew~
yet when I push with my phantom hands,
the ghosts of youthful joy sometimes refuse to land.
Oh, let me swing once more! Just once! And then
I’ll pack up my childhood once again
Until I stumble over time’s invisible gate.
Then my nostalgic feelings return, oscillate.
We had to be back before the street lamps came on,
our bicycles with pedal brakes and a dynamo-light.
Things were just different when we were still young,
all meeting in the park for a game or clod fight.
We dug several forts and built up dirt ramps.
We found a dog skull near a cold tramp's fire.
We improved my friend’s treehouse with a wooden pallet
and made booby traps out of string and barbed wire.
We competed for height in the avocado trees
and made bows and arrows and spears.
We waged war with the ants using firecrackers
and in the river, we piled deep stoney weirs.
No day was complete without a cut or a roasty
though no one much cried until we got home,
where our mothers nursed us with cups of sugar water
and the stinging red kiss of Mercurochrome.
When four I played with my older sister,
she was Suzanne and six and we knew joy;
till the screech of tires took Suzanne away,
and my life was never the same again.
I became lost in imagination,
quiet in my room . . . who would embrace me?
But from grief~ a poet with wings was born.
In childhood at the end of the day
As the air grew cooler
And I could quietly play
The chickens would go their roost
While lightning bugs were caught
Adults' presence gave a confidence boost
Sleep would creep up from the shadows
Neighbors would go home
Cows would lie in carpeted meadows
All of nature's voices settled down
Let those time in the cool quietness
Now slip their arms around
"When you carry your inner child within,
you carry your child-like imagination too."
Quote by _Constance
In grandma's attic,
I found imagination.
Life was traumatic . . .
Reading was my salvation,
a pen . . . my fascination !
with tangled blond hair blowing
I was a picker of
dandelions,
purple thingies growing wild
and tall daisies
that I found in a field behind home-
with love I gave my bouquet to mother
and she put them in a glass
with water
and placed them on the kitchen window sill
with the others _
I remember the room
at the top of gran's house.
Within dust I did bloom,
loved the rafters and junk.
Nom de plume I would write
to let go of my gloom . . .
Daffy Duck, a cartoon from my childhood, slick as can be
came to life on Saturdays on our grayscale black and white TV
He first appeared in Porky Pig’s duck hunt in April of 1937
Porky had a shotgun, and tried his best to send this pest to heaven
Daffy was a character, created by two guys, Tex Avery and Bob C.
They made him cagey and clever, he was hilarious on our old TV
We cheered for him weekly, it was our pleasure to watch him escape.
That shotgun never got him, he was resourceful in every single take.