There’s a kind of power in my failure.
Like a bell that always rings inside me.
Not too loud, but at the same time,
its echo feels like a song teaching me
that failure is but a phase.
It makes the world unpredictable.
It rings when I fall,
as if it's a sign I will rise.
It rings when I cry.
Yet when I hold a pen and paper
and write my pain out,
it barely makes a sound ,
like a bell too shy to ring.
So, I let it ring in its own time,
like it always gives me a chance to be me.
Yet on those days it rang,
it showed me that I was here,
and made me turn failure into a song,
a melody that lingers, uninvited yet welcomed.
When we were kids, you liked to torment me, go to the park and climb the highest tree.
Run across gullies at high speed, leave me on the other side with shaking knees.
But then there were days by the TV watching Banana splits and Christopher Lee.
Going to the fields to hide in long grass then run round the streets and fall on our ****.
We moved like gypsies from place to place, new schools, new people, we accepted our fate.
The boy with the golden hair was by my side and I wasn’t lonely cause we were best mates.
Then came the day we no longer roamed, found schools with good teachers, at last we were home.
We got on our bikes to explore the estate; cautious and wary we sped round the place.
To our surprise the kids were friendly and fun, not hostile or tough, or in your face.
Young ones, older ones, boys and girls, down by the brook all summer long.
Through escapades, bonfires, occasional tiffs, the Steppingstone gang stayed strong.
The autumn moon at Halloween,
the teacher’s greatest fear.
Kids go crazy, we all know,
a full moon will soon appear.
Add in candy, costumes too,
the kids try to act a fool.
The kids’ minds are somewhere else
instead of here at school.
From childhood
To adulthood
Many things we faced
Before we overcome
Emerging who we are today
Some mistakes
We don't want to repeat
Because it keeps us in the pit.
Mistake repeated
Are lessons forfeited
Mercy after forgiveness
Is not useless
All we practiced
Because we ain't perfect
Rapid growth our goals
Always finding a way to be on top
We don't want to be
A result of our society
Because it comes with insults
Standing out wasn't easy
But we always hold
Tight to our dreams
Steadily believing even when
The odds are against us
That one day we'll triumph.
He Was a Child Once, Too
He was a child once, too—
before the dusk outgrew the dawn,
before his little hands knew
how much a heart could carry on.
A face once lived beyond his sight,
then slipped away from memory’s light;
and childhood, like a fading tune,
grew quiet beneath a borrowed moon.
He became a roof in someone’s rain,
a little warmth against their pain;
he gave his flame so others could see,
while darkness kept a place for him silently.
He wore the years like a borrowed coat,
kept every storm inside his throat;
and though the world saw strength in him,
I know the child still lives within.
To me, that man is not merely strong—
he is the real hero of my life.
I love you, Abu.
— Zehreen
Ewwy, gooey insides.
Scrape the pumpkin clean.
Carve some eyes, a funny grin.
Happy Halloween!
I was a child with questions, no answers in sight,
Why was love absent, why was home not so bright?
A little girl stood in a storm alone,
Searching for love that she had never known.
But then two hands held me, old yet so strong,
My grandparents whispered, "Child, you belong."
They did not ask about my scars or past,
They gave me love that would forever last.
They taught me to read, to write, to dream,
To find my voice, to proudly scream.
Where mother left shadows, they gave me light,
They turned my darkness into mornings bright.
So no, I am not broken, not lost anymore,
I have found what I was looking for.
I am not the tears my childhood knew,
I am the love my grandparents grew.
red balloon rising,
girl drifts through pearled blue water
carrying her dreaming light.
fish glide like soft thoughts,
stars bloom where her wonder moves,
imagination afloat.
“Somewhere beyond the sink-hole, past the magnolia, under the live oaks, a boy and a yearling ran side by side, and were gone forever.” ~ The final sentence of The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings.
A child was gone forever…
Was I, too, once a child?
Would it be that never,
I’d again run free and wild?
Would I simply pass away
like little Fodder-wing,
not to see another day
where I might fly or sing?
Lately, I’ve been thinking of
a brand-new hopeful dawn,
and the feel of earnest love -
of Jody and his fawn.
I saw a waterwheel, saw a rabbit,
took more than just a look.
Another’s soul, I’d inhabit
in the chapters of a book.
Lost forever to the ages,
a long, forgotten “when” -
four hundred thirty pages
gave me childhood again.
She moves barefoot through the rain,
a small bright wanderer
with petals stitched along her hem
and more gathered in her hand,
an umbrella blooming
against the soft-falling sky.
Color drifts around her
in gentle, shimmering sheets,
as if the weather itself
has learned her palette
and paints the world
to keep her company.
Her fine hair lifts
in the hush of the rainfall,
a quiet banner of childhood
unfurling behind her
as she hurries forward,
certain of her own delight.
Nothing startles her joy~
not the wet earth,
not the wind’s cool whisper,
not the sky’s bright spill.
She walks as though the world
were made for her small wonder,
and for a moment,
it is.
there was a vespa parked on road
billy the buffalo had never rode
it was huge hundred pounds
the vespa struggles under the sound
billy's bellow made it sickly plead
for peace against the massive beast
billy started the vespa fast
and horned loud and rode it past
houses looked at it with awe
uncle hari nicked his ear in awe
the dogs of street glared at it
people in their car stopped to see
it raced and raced till it reached the race
"STRONGEST SPORTS CAR WILL RACE"
billy entered the race with vespa
the poor thing almost collapsed hard
yet raced against fierce cars
till it reached the ending point bars
the buffalo got off and took the prize
the human in car watched in demise
the vespa took a final breath
and fell down on the pavement left
billy jumped into the lake
it had won the race for the vespa's sake
A summer of smiles, a paradise of play,
lively, lighthearted laughter, each delirious day -
I clobbered all contenders in ping-pong.
I sought and I seized every fly ball in the field
in the picturesque park where I wheeled.
The charms of childhood’s recreation revealed -
I reach back and recall a sweet summer song.
I paused by the river in the late afternoon—
how many years have passed!
The plane tree on the bank, towering,
the riverbed unchanged;
what, I wonder, will I find on the other side?
The hollow in the plane tree has widened,
memories stored within its hiding place—
time ferrets them out through nostalgia!
We used to play cops and robbers as children;
dry plane leaves, at the mercy of the wind!
The riverbed, an endless white snakeskin,
stones rolled round like scales—
how often I slipped into its freezing waters!...
my schoolbag a lifebuoy upon my back;
sunken pebbles held hostage in the sand!
On the opposite bank stands my childhood home;
its chimney smoked on a day like this,
the doorway held a sweet scent as Mother passed through,
the courtyard gate creaked at Father’s step;
a robin sang amidst the fresh snow!
A blossom faced urchin me ,
in a dream world as I sketch,
pink cloud smirk, blue vault swallow,
lakes, lagoons, rivers and streams,
a bold impish meander,
praise to the skies from teacher,
“You picture stuff well.”
.
We call it adult humor
Dressed like late night intellect
But the joke is just a cheap dare
We clap like it’s profound
We claim it’s edgy commentary
Wrapped in clever phrasing
But it’s really playground bravado
Posing as sophistication
We say it’s mature wit
Served with craft beer confidence
But it’s just petty mischief
Wearing a grown up voice
We insist it’s highbrow comedy
Sold as cultural insight
But it’s thin skinned teasing
Masquerading as satire
We pretend we’ve evolved past childishness
Framing jokes as worldly wisdom
But the truth is embarrassingly simple
We never stopped laughing at the easy stuff
Childhood Categories
Read wonderful childhood poetry on the following sub-topics:
bad, celebrating, early, friends, funny, growing up, happy, innocence, lost, memories, nostalgia, trauma, sad,
and more.
Definition | What is Childhood in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.
Related Poetry Forms
nonage, juvenility, minority, puberty, infancy, nursery, youth, cradle, babyhood, immaturity, adolescence, schooldays, teens, juniority, pupilage, tender age,