Long Childhood memory Poems
Long Childhood memory Poems. Below are the most popular long Childhood memory by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Childhood memory poems by poem length and keyword.
A picture's worth a thousand words
Grammy's Pen
and
Babyhood Friend
My mother's cherished treasure
for over sixty years
A toy filled with love and memories
And a few of mother's tears.
Picture taken and poem written
by Anna Marie Kaianah
Copyright 1/25/2023 Anna Marie Kaianah
Boyhood was a one-night stand,
So brief and unforgettable,
Full of dreams,
Sweet —like a rooftop party,
Wild and loud,
When the world several feet below,
Full of envy, shouted at us,
“Come down quickly!
Quick!”
Boyhood charmed me and
Did not harm me
It was a different time,
A different boy-game
All was different
Including the falsehood of the time
Fibs were crammed with the essence of joy.
Mawkish, they strengthened the walls of
Defence, by pulse or by slush —
One gave way for the other to flourish.
And I saw things the way they truly were,
Either red or white;
Nothing like reddish-white
Or whitish-red.
Just red or white.
Plain.
Pure and simple.
I didn’t mix colours except when I was painting
With brush and colours on drawing paper
White with the innocence of dawn
Watercolour streamed with tears
Genuinely shed with common bliss.
Our loudest poem was Twinkle,
Twinkle, Little Star
I’ve never ceased to wonder how they twinkled
In the dull eyes of dinosaurs!
And there was Humpty Dumpty,
Our dear friend.
Santa or Father Christmas,
Called and addressed according to your own side of
The pond, possessed the redness that charmed us
And the whiteness that froze us with ecstasy
And with the dynamism of Sunday school songs
Oh, his beard! Mammatus clouds so full and rolling!
The outlines of trees back then resembled the clusters of
Overgrown clouds laughing their senses off
Above us foolish little masquerades
A scene of a flowering act.
With our eyes we saw it all
Just like the television series we saw —
They all made sense —from Gunsmoke to
Bonanza and Hawaii-50
We saw all with grey, tiny eyes on grainy television
Screens, elevated boxes of palatial balls
Those days smelled differently —
With the fragrance of natural love
And the beats of honourable music
And we scribbled figures of maths on
Each other’s back, symbols of agricultural tools.
Oh, the arrangements of the planets,
Beginning with Earth,
Our darling Earth,
Since charity must commence at home.
Politics was far from us
So was double entendre . . .
A one-off incident,
Boyhood is a museum —
You take nothing with you while
Exiting it.
I drive back to it only on the reference gear.
At the end of each summer day,
while laying there in my bed,
I placed a small transistor radio
under the pillow near my head.
Each night that the Reds did play
I listened to the baseball game;
Joe Nuxhall did the play-by-play -
youngest player ever, adding to his fame.
They were the Big Red Machine;
often in first place;
Pete Rose knocking out another hit;
Dave Concepcion fielding with grace.
Ken Griffey - the father -
roaming the outfield grass;
George Foster hitting home runs;
Joe Morgan sprinting in a dash.
Tony Perez, so consistent;
Cesar Geronimo had the perfect name;
Johnny Bench squatted behind home plate,
catching another game.
Through my little transistor radio,
Marty Brennaman and Joe Nuxhall brought it all to life,
as the sun faded away to darkness
on those hot Ohio summer nights.
And at the end of every night,
Joe Nuxhall would sign off all alone,
saying, "This is the old lefthander rounding third,
and heading his way on home. "
Playing on grandpa’s farm,
just I and my sisters, and I’m around five.
What alarm!
Too late we see
we've somehow stirred up a bee hive.
We flee!
We run
to stay alive.
Fun?
Playing on Grandpa’s farm,
we’ve somehow stirred up a bee hive.
Fun?
Aug. 26, 2020
for Mohan Chutani's Contest:Let's Minichu On An Innocent Childhood Memory
Here is the pattern for Mohan's Experimental new form:
Total12 lines (4 stanzas of 3 lines each) Rhyme scheme: Aba, cBc, dbD, ABD. 4th stanza consists of repeat of 1st line of stanza1, 2nd line of stanza 2, and 3rd line of stanza 3. Syllable count : Stanza 1: 6,12,3, Stanza 2: 4,8,2, Stanza 3: 2,4,1, Stanza 4: 6,8,1
Too much work and too little play make for a shameful memory.
Yes, you read it right; not 'too little pay' but 'too little play'.
If I could forget this part of my childhood, I surely would.
Some say they are better because of it; I say I am better in spite of it.
Where one's story begins should be a thing of pride, not something to hide.
Too much push and pull and too little of playing 'jack rocks and jump rope'.
Far too little of 'playing ball', 'cops and robbers', and 'shooting marbles'.
Too little of 'hide and seek', 'cowboys and Indians', and 'rolling rubber tires'.
They never forgot to pick the cotton or bail the hay, but forgot we were kids.
My friends and I were deprived of playgrounds and merry-go-rounds,
But never deprived of hard working days of sweat under the hot summer sun.
This is one childhood memory that strikes me both as unpleasant and abusive.
It was not parental abuse, because they were themselves abused and misused.
To a greater degree than presently, it was profit and greed above people and morality. These were menaces to childhood and totally unwarranted in a free and Christian society.
073120PSCtest, Dusty Old Memories, Constance La France. 3P
When the twilight embraces us, so does the Light
and with the Light comes inspiring encouragement. Quote _ by Poet
When I was a young child, I would lay on the green
Grass and gaze up to the cloudy dim sky.
Captive to the evening twilight.
Sun rim sank and embraced
The boundless horizons breast and moonlight's magics
Reserved silence and cool sweet-scented air.
It's peaceful brief shelter; lashed nightmares dissolved there.
Reflecting on the past days weaved fabrics
Weight as the evening had unlaced
And drew to a closed night.
Those moments my heart would quiver glorious high
As the opalescence clouds veiled the scene.
Time for bed, my bed beside the window I'd glean
The heavens and smile or couldn't help, but cry.
Famished for warmth, I'd wish the sight
Would stay, so much it graced.
The darkness would wake the night with magical tricks
As shadows danced, I'd say The Lord's Prayer.
1/2/2021
A Little Memory
12/10/8/6/12/10 - 12/10/8/6/12/10 - 12/10/8/6/12/10
ABCDEF - FEDCBA - ABCDEF
My heart roams this wild landscape
in search of a vanished childhood.
I had last seen her walking along this
sandy loam path that cuts between
two pines. There she walked farther
up to the clearing now overgrown
with poison oak. Thistle had not
snagged her gauzy skirt in those
days of childhood wonder. Deer
tracks were recognizable, and scrub
jay feathers were to be found and
tucked into skirt pockets. But now,
even as smoke clouds the horizon,
I find only the rust of pine cones,
a half-eaten bird, and a snake that
choked and died on another
snake's head.
fall forest deer path
I follow heart-shaped deer tracks
still seeking her soul
HOME IN THE WOODS
Through the woods I roam and it's home I see one good breath and my soul is released when we climbed and jumped ran and had fun and in my heart I was once again young but as I'm too old to play in the woods as I stood at the edge of my childhood.
The countless leaves in the trees how they dance so wild and free and frivolouly so unaware how rare were the days catching fire flies neath starry skies so unprepared for the chaotic way reality would play as everyone betrayed their yesterday but the leaves in the trees still dance for me.
The stallwort trees fending the breeze sway every which way chasing their leaves as their towering might empowers and inspires me to stand up to the land razing lumber man proud and unbowed saving my timberlands from which my strength is endowed my oldest friend my wonder kin.
The underbrush moist and lush a plethora of smells making nostrils swell and gives my memory a rush reminding me of the times when living and giving were intertwined like the vines and the leaves fallen from the trees in the thicket with the crickets, and the birds in the trees and frogs in the creek, calling me home.
Next door was a paddock
of long grass and a graveyard
for dumped machinery.
Rusted out boilers, cogs, wheels
and huge presses were piled high
and begged for the sure foot
of a boy to climb and boast
the height.
Strange, twisted shapes
held a pose that seemed to freeze
the agony of being broken apart.
Sinews of wire cable hung
from joints in frayed strands
as if torn out of sockets.
Grease oozed from cracks
like congealed blood.
Nothing seemed to fit
a species familiar to a boy,
each part a mystery as to what
beast it belonged.
There were holes big enough
too fit a head, throated cavities
that harbored unknown echoes
and pipes that would hold
a haunting note when struck
with a stick.
One afternoon on coming home
from school, there was nothing
left but a cleared block.
Everything had been carted away.
A workman told my Mum
that snakes had crawled out
of the place where I used to play.
"How sweet to the heart are the scenes of my childhood"
Samuel Woodworth, 1785-1842
I remember my good old childhood days ~
feasting on fresh fruits, playing indoor games,
sharing home made meals - memory that stays!
Calling each other by naughty nicknames,
driving to nearby districts for weddings;
frozen in mind, those indelible frames!
Attending all cottage prayer meetings,
learning to cycle mid falls and bruises,
being on time for thanksgiving greetings;
playing catch with friends, fights and excuses,
watching cartoons, Shaktimaan* episodes;
we were free from worries and abuses!
Family together time at crossroads ~
that's what I recall as flashback implodes.
*Shaktimaan - a Superhero serial
11.19.2020
For Constance La France's "Terza Rima form" contest