Long Childhoods Poems
Long Childhoods Poems. Below are the most popular long Childhoods by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Childhoods poems by poem length and keyword.
Child of the stars, my voice carries you through the cosmic darkness,
We speak of sparkling children, burned by the golden light of ambitions,
Childhoods scattered among book pages, too wise, too bright,
Stars of the neighborhood, shining like gods among mortals,
They make you feel divinity flowing through your veins like a river of light,
But tell me, do you remember how gods fall from their golden sky,
How they grow into angels with shattered halos, with ancient melancholies carved in their bones,
Echoes of philosophy and empathy, with crushed hearts and broken homes,
With the desire to fly far away, toward horizons untouched by time,
You understand, don't you,
When I tell you I hate the pyramid's peak, the altar of childhood sacrifices,
Child of the stars, do you hear my call from the depths of heaven?
Perfect grades adorn my grave with medals and certificates,
Like ghosts of subjects I didn't enjoy,
Knowledge maimed by the boundaries of grades,
Curiosity suffocated by cramped pages,
A curse so brilliant, a golden mistake,
Do you hear me now?
Do you understand why my wings tremble at the sight of mountain peaks,
Do you remember the loneliness from the heights of heaven?
Our deepest fear is to fall,
To transform into memories carried by the wind of oblivion,
In a world that wanted us as gods, but left us as lost angels.
It’s that time again,
that airy hallmark intro, the vibrant soul ensemble.
Signpost to an hour long journey where passage, paean and piece come out to play.
Odyssey for fantasist and literary scion.
Earnest open invite to the madcap mind,
mine and those of others.
Each and every Sunday I’m religiously transported to exotic beaches known to veteran nomads.
Boundlessly I leap across the airwaves only to be stranded in some Middle Eastern plot,
the likes of which would put twin peaks to shame.
Without a fear I flit medieval back streets like
this ghost from other worlds,
cobblestone character
on wings,
melting pots beyond our daily grind,
landmarks that I’ve never seen before.
Out of body drama for us
fervent wishful thinkers.
Roles from ancient history now assumed but for an inkling, the icons I become, those rapid twists and turns of me the centre piece.
Maybe I’m that innocent abroad, clueless hiker, stony broke,
wandering a land whose complex tongue I’ve yet to master
or that moth-infested secret of the thirty year rule.
With a little latitude I’d silhouette my reverie landing on some poet’s scented flower or just as likely eavesdrop on the mocha sipping Monet, coffee cup aloft,
cast among the butterflies,
harvesting my thoughts on barren canvass.
Going back in time to famous childhoods
I’m some regal mother’s one and only joy,
a fragile baby cradled by maternal soothing sounds.
Imagine for a moment me the swimmer,
wallower in oceans Maya blue,
driven by the prospect
of Olympic medal glory,
fuelled by live wire rushes,
or the influential orchestrator sculpting drafts so lyrical they lift the Sony user into orbit.
But alas this wondrous flight ends far too soon, as that sonic rich arrangement slowly morphs into the haze.
Perhaps one day I’ll be the voice that hypnotises souls,
filler of a void with vivid wordscapes,
teleporting lives to fourth dimensions.
There’s always hope
Poetry is like medication, in each release of expression,
there is healing - Poet.
In the realms of lost childhoods,
where demons prey upon the defenceless -
no one hears your screams.
I wandered spiritless,
like an abdicated soul,
renouncing my existence.
But the pain kept me alive.
I was an unknown vagabond,
forgotten and begotten,
within an eerie mist of misunderstanding.
Sly shadows with crimson eyes
tracked my silent sighs of sorrow,
so I suppressed sincere secrets -
too embarrassed to express.
Until I fell upon verses from dead rhapsodists,
which taught me to become that poem.
With blessings from pseudonym poets,
wounded words began to burn in metaphors.
Ink engulfed in sizzling lava dripped
in impulsive poetic allusions -
expression led to a catharsis of clarity.
I found an abode in decorative alliteration,
a perfect province in personified prose,
where each stanza became my sanctuary.
Under the shelter of fervent free verse,
I collected every shard of hope,
and placed them in my heart.
Sonnets of sentimental dwellings,
revealed syllables of an untold narrative.
The curse of Iambic pentameter
could not prevent bleeding blisters from healing.
My quill is now a silent juxtaposition
of deafening poetic onomatopoeia.
EYES WISE AND OLD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We are the children of Gaza~
we’ve tasted fear, smelt burning air,
a generation forged in conflict
We are the children of Gaza~
our feet are shoeless and dust-caked,
wartime rubble, our playground
We are the children of Gaza~
our crayons and picture books destroyed,
replaced with shrapnel and fear.
We are the children of Gaza~
sirens are our lullabies,
the news, our bedtime stories.
We are the children of Gaza~
our laughter is a fragile bird
taking flight between explosions.
We are the children of Gaza~
we build castles of dust and sorrow,
imagination, our shields against war’s despair.
We are the children of Gaza~
we long for normalcy, wish for a swing set,
yearning for a simple, unbroken day.
We are the children of Gaza~
we learned survival before subtraction,
experiencing loss before love.
We are the children of Gaza~
our childhoods stolen, piece by piece,
by the cruel arithmetic of war.
We are the lost children of Gaza~
our eyes wide and old,
hold stories we shouldn’t know.
In the nearly 200 countries in this world spread out across the 7 seas
how lucky are we to discover friends with whom to share our histories.
Two old friends decided to get together…they hadn’t sees each other in years
Will he remember me? one wondered…Will he recognize me? the other feared.
They’d both grown a little older…but doubts…they immediately overcame
because their eyes had that same sparkle…their smiles were the same.
They sat down and reminisced about the last time their paths crossed
Immediately forgetting all the time between them they had lost.
They talked about their childhoods, their children, their ailments…and more
remembering and laughing at good times they shared before….
And when they were finished…they walked away contented…each one giving thanks
for this time they had together…to fill in all the blanks…
To get caught up on each other’s lives…to renew their laughter…their friendship…
and then
parting with the knowledge…their paths shall cross again.
And glad to know in nearly 200 countries….across the 7 seas
they were lucky enough to find someone with whom to share their memories.
We all started life a sheath of blank pages
Able to be shaped into anything.
Paper aeroplanes, an artist’s canvas, a library book.
Our parents determine what kind of paper we are
-Cardstock, coloured tissue or plain white sheets.
As we grow, our friends, our families, our teachers
Etch the ink into us,
Page by page, letter by letter
Building up our childhoods.
We felt everyone knew better than us,
(and perhaps they did)
So, we obeyed, listened and absorbed everything
-morals, actions, behaviours-
Until attentiveness turned into reticence,
Til compliance became blind trust.
We trusted everyone by our sides, trusted what they said,
What they told us to do.
Until we realised we shouldn’t.
Nobody had ever showed us
The callous hands that tore instead of turned,
Ripping out our pages for their own.
Nobody showed us what it felt like
To have your story stolen,
To feel oneself drown beneath another’s ink.
Now I have just one question
How do I rewrite what was burned?
Modern Problems
Look inside this feverdream we call Our Times:
How we call ourselves masters of our lives
Binding ourselves in chains of thoughts
Forgetting powers we used to have
When we were wild naked beasts
Part of a world dangerous, strong, unfettered,
Free in cycles of creation and dissolution,
Balanced in a perfect dance
With no meaning apart from itself.
See how the world bleeds now
From a thousand different wounds
Opening and closing daily.
See the men who live in fear
Of animal tastes,
Who cage their spirits in cells of confusion
See the women,
Cool and distant on hard city streets
The dark fire they once carried
Now burnt down and out,
Empty, shapeless stones, hearts poisoned with suspicions
Growing ever thinner...
Thinner like shadows of a picket fence
Fading into uncertain infinities of twilight -
So look at this world we've made my child
See how it turns against its ancient ways,
In places now a thing once perfect
Made weak and warped through our excess
Watch, see how we older ones
Changed with decisions things best left alone;
Persist in your sweet childish madness
Bravely believing in the magic we have ceased to see;
Walk in dreams with your heads held high
Proud to gather the beauty we've forgotten;
Draw it into yourselves and love it
With pure and simple souls
Wed your childhoods to your spirits
Hold it deep within as a sacred secret
Hidden, but alive with hope of better days to come
When you may fool the dry and empty ones
And bring new life to this fools' desert, Our Times.
Waiting on the line cos there’s nothing else left to do.
Waiting for the time when we share the ground with you.
Words, meanings, thoughts are blind but our bayonets are sharp and are magazines are full.
Waiting on the line - let’s see what we can do.
Childhood memories flood the mind where life was warm and blue.
Laughter, friendships and joy were the days that we did find and strangely I think of the stranger of you.
Waiting on the line, huh… for certain childhoods through.
When you’re in that sight of mine the bullets will follow through.
I look into your eyes and see that there was nothing wrong with you.
Quiet and cold where once we’re smiles and now this is what’s left of you.
Standing over the line trying to understand why mankind is the kind of fools.
Tears fill my eyes; I knew I had to die or I had to kill you.
I am confounded, confused, truly perplexed
By people who are selfish and mean.
Were they abandoned in bathroom stalls?
Did they have to survive on a cold tile floor?
Was their world so cruel that they think only of themselves?
I am confounded, confused, truly perplexed
By people who are bossy and belligerent.
Do they think this is the way to influence you?
To make you a friend? To straighten you out?
Why is their way the only way?
Were they raised by alcoholics? Not able to change their sad childhoods?
I am confounded, confused, truly perplexed
By people who are perpetually angry and grouchy.
Do they never find their bliss? Do they frighten away their soul mates?
Do they not know that sadness is at the root of their anger?
Why do they not reach out for help? Do they trust no one?
Were they raised in houses where mothers held I-pads instead of them?
I am confounded, confused, truly perplexed by depression,
Anxiety, and grief. These feelings are terrifying for me. I am
An empath, so I have to stay away from these feelings. I hope
You understand. If my empathy perplexes you, I get it.
Like a nymph walking through the woods,
She glides soundlessly through the trees,
Remembering their lost childhoods,
She lifts her face to feel the breeze,
And soft leaves crunch under her feet;
She glides soundlessly through the trees,
Her head moves in tune with the tweet,
Obscuring her tears as they fall,
And soft leaves crunch under her feet,
Around her heart, she's built a wall,
Which crumbles here amidst the leaves,
Obscuring her tears as they fall,
Her soul heavy, their deaths she grieves,
In silence, mourning for their love,
Which crumbles here amidst the leaves,
She knows they're watching from above,
Like a nymph walking through the woods,
In silence, mourning for their love,
Remembering their lost childhoods.