Days of melancholy light
Hanging there,
A closet
Tightly shut,
With edges
Bleeding through
Into the day
Turn off the light honey
Says my sweetheart
As we lay together
In the dark
The closet light
Bleeding as it always does
Around its edges
Bleeding into the space
Between us
Bleeding into my dreams
Of all held dear
Bleeding from infancy
Adolescence and adulthood
Into now from then
As sure as rain is rain
And snow is snow
Turn off the light dear
It’ll be dawn soon
Just rest
And let your troubles be
At peace
At last
Without you
To hold them tight
(10/5/26)
At the city park,
the playground gleamed
beneath a ruthless summer sun~
all steel and consequence.
The jungle gym was
a mountain range of
hot rungs and skinned knees.
The slide could blister
the backs of bare legs by noon.
But the merry-go-round
was legendary!
A circle of metal bars
spun by us wiry kids
who believed speed itself
was a worthy ambition.
We ran alongside,
shoving hard,
then leapt aboard,
breathless and triumphant.
Those who held on
stayed.
Those who didn't
left in spectacular fashion~
rolling through dirt and crabgrass,
wearing gravel
like temporary medals.
No one explained the rules of survival.
The machine did that.
Round and round,
it taught us
what childhood rarely says aloud:
The world moves faster than expected.
Grip what matters.
Laugh when you fall.
Climb back on.
Years later,
I understand why I
so vividly remember
the merry-go-round~
Not because it carried me,
but because it let me go.
miles away from town
the screen door opened for me
to gentle breeze, letting in summer
escape from those who troubled me
the lake down the slope glistened
stillness and reflection of open land
while I idled and gazed at the sky
in the place I learned to wonder and dream
and each passing cloud I named
in the place learned to wonder and dream
while I idled and gazed at the sky
stillness and reflection of open land
the lake down the slope glistened
escape from those who troubled me
to a gentle breeze, letting in summer
the screen door opened for me
miles away from town
*palindrome form
Daddy put it up
in the old oak tree.
Four strong ropes
and an old black tire.
Hours of fun
swinging and twirling
through the long
summer months.
Childhood memories
never to be forgotten
as we played together
on the old tire swing.
GROWING UP
Candles and nightlights flickering bright,
blackout curtains shutting out the moonlight.
Snuggle down cosy with blankets tight,
perhaps the war will end to-night.
Dripping setting from Sunday's roast,
spread so thick on Monday's toast.
Meat bones simmer on the old gas ring,
Pa's homemade soup,the 'real thing'.
Paper chains cut and glued,
beer in glass bottles brewed.
Christmas puddings with threepenny bits,
the Meccano present made to fit.
Sunday school outings upto Coombe hill,
my first ever train ride,so quite a thrill.
Walks over corn fields to the Bugle Horn,
crisps and lemonade upon their lawn.
A weekly soak in a round tin bath,
towelling off by a fire in the hearth.
A viewpoint from childhood scene,
growing up at sixteen,Beech green.
Rumbling like the grumble of the stomach
Lightning cracks and screams,
The sky weeps today.
So sad it turned black like the doomsday,
Crying over the dark world for the child
Who went hungry today.
The building are decimated,
No house to sleep.
And the sky can't seem to stop it's weep.
Truly heartbroken from inside they both are.
Blood, blood everywhere,
Stained on the machines.
Hefty people everywhere,
Decimating everything like machines.
Justice seems far,
Death is nearer.
The path has never been clearer.
But he longs for justice.
May the blood get washed away,
For the sky weeps today.
May they both become happy someday.
May he eat food under the blue sky someday.
Autumn leaves; auburn pages of my past,
torn from a weathered book.
Who thought we’d be eighteen?
And yet here I am
-an adult?!
Sat on the waterfront,
watching the last of the autumn leaves fall.
Autumn leaves.
And with them,
the days of summer peel away-
brown fragments that crackle
on the water’s surface.
Each one turns
in the pale autumn light,
like capsizing miniature boats.
The evenings draw in.
The sunlight fades earlier,
spilling weak gold
across the lake.
And somewhere beyond the trees,
the cold is gathering.
Yes, this autumn has left,
and with it, my childhood.
But autumn leaves never truly will.
In their beautiful shades of gold,
I see your faces.
Autumn leaves fall,
and nobody knows
what will replace them-
only that life will persist,
In all its strange beauty.
And perhaps
that is all that is needed:
let now become back then,
and wrap yourself tight
in those almost-forgotten smiles.
She stays up way past midnight,
just checking on your breathing.
She keeps your terrible drawings
taped up like priceless art.
She lets you spill your mess,
your worries, your endless questions,
and somehow makes room for all of it in her small, tired heart.
She’s the one who holds you
when the world feels far too big,
the one who roots for you when nobody else shows up.
Even when you walk away to build a life of your own,
she’s still standing in the driveway, waving until you’re out of sight.
A strangely solitary child
Allowed to wander around
The working Forge and
The foundry ground
Unaware then
That it couldn’t last
And I was quietly recording
A fast approaching past.
It darted here,
It danced there,
Applying force with
Precision and care.
Here a tap,
There a thump,
Turning that once
Near molten iron lump
Into a shape
Of near precision
Each blow landed
With skill and decision.
Each piece judged
Solely by eye
Before quenching water’s
Acrid hiss bubble and sigh.
Uncle’s old hammer
Would peal and ring
Making his old anvil
Vibrate and sing.
Shires and Hunters shod,
Machinery cleaned and mended
A myriad of essential tasks
To be organised and tended.
When that Old Forge was
Full of movement and creation
With a craft that thrived then died
In a single changing generation.
Preserved for posterity it now stands
There in the old Smithy ground
I wonder if Uncle’s old hammer
Has still been kept around.
A more simple time
Easier smiled through.
Could it otherwise appear?
Whose air, echoing, more clear
Freedom's shout. Friends drew.*
Daring wanderer's;
Undespaired about!
Home door, ma? Dusk-oped, received.
With nothing bought as retrieved
Pond, storm drain from out.*
* Large green spaces
* Tadpole, ball
Little
old furniture
something is a bit off.
The birth of a haunted dollhouse?
Painful.
This toy holds a ruinous past
no innocent should know.
Leave offerings,
or else.
Children are very BRIGHT and their INSIGHT just MIGHT
DELIGHT, when watching them INTERACT so MATTER-OF-FACT
As they TRANSACT in PLAY and listening to what they SAY
Any DAY while sharing their WORLD that’s so UNFURLD.
Being CAREFREE and with GLEE accept what they SEE
And never BE caught in AFFAIRS needing REPAIRES
That are not THEIRS, remaining AHEAD and not MISLED
But INSTEAD, they are GUIELESS and therefore stay TIMELESS
Seizing the MOMENT without OPPONENT or POSTPONMENT
Take this COMPONENT and FOREVER will ENDEAVOUR
To lose it NEVER, instead just CAPTURE childhood RAPTURE
And MANUFACTURE life that APPEALS to their IDEALS.
Echoes of a Summer haze
Long and everlasting days
Sunkissed hair and warming skin
Gently ripples beneath the swim
Delicate rays of dappled sun
Illuminating children run
Grassy scents and floral ember
Etching memories to remember
Daisy chains, as threading varies
Chasing dandelion fairies
Sweeping swathes of green oasis
Hold in place a sweeter stasis
Tranquil pools of sparkling darkness
Emphasised in brutal starkness
Heady days of warmth and laughter
Reminisced forever after
Eternal reeling films enraptured
Of loving memories recaptured
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.
Our outhouse was attached to the rear of our home.
In times of foul weather, negating any need to roam.
It was all about convenience. Never heated,
permanently air conditioned, and two seated.
It was one of the best and quiet thinking spots.
Because the door lacked a lock or handle slots,
there were occasions when interruptions occurred,
encouraging one to butt out of there inured.
Winter weather could be nasty and cold,
causing meditations to be short, thus quickly unload.
Summer was warm with breezy invasions,
entertaining lingering and tingling sensations.
There was never a need to waste water and flush.
Spreading lime was used to keep nasty fly's from us.
Outside and behind was a sliding door,
Where once a year I was 'encouraged' to explore
and clean our outhouse with pail, rake, and shovel.
A chore that trained me to write poetry and grovel.
Childhood Categories
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bad, celebrating, early, friends, funny, growing up, happy, innocence, lost, memories, nostalgia, trauma, sad,
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Definition | What is Childhood in Poetry?
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Related Poetry Forms
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