Long Early childhood Poems
Long Early childhood Poems. Below are the most popular long Early childhood by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Early childhood poems by poem length and keyword.
Helping my father and uncles when I was ten,
felled a tree, on break then ready to go again.
I walked around the corner of the truck
as someone pulled the cord and I got stuck.
Now that chainsaw’s engine didn’t start,
but it didn’t have to, to rip my skin apart.
Right through my jeans, but not too deep,
saw my flesh before it began to seep.
Dyed my t-shirt like a canvas with the body’s ink,
those cells made a mosaic from red to pink.
To my surprise, I was left with no pain,
but anesthetic’s steel lacked the mercy of the bar chain.
Skilled hands drove a cutting needle’s threads
through clotting cascades and capillary beds.
On my right thigh, a scar’s pledge,
for every kind of limb, Stihl has the edge.
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Contest: Any Rhyme Form – An Early Childhood Memory
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Written: 04.20.18
Although she was my grandmama,
We all called her Miss Ida.
Children and grandchildren alike did succumb
To this quaint, obscure, southern custom.
In the days of gold and lavender,
Mother was "Miss," and father was "Mister."
When buttercups danced in the sun,
When skies were vaguely cinnamon.
She gave to me a lilac, gingham dress;
It was cherished for its prettiness!
Among my oldest memories
Are those of being at Miss Ida's knees.
She had a certain wood stove,
Warm like those sunsets of mauve.
And used to cook wild collard greens,
In days when I wore little blue jeans.
When bluebirds flew around the bend,
And crows from the sunny South End,
When cherries drooped upon the trees,
I began life at Miss Ida's knees.
When I was a young child
my parents would be stern, but smiled
when they'd saw me running wild.
I couldn't have been mild,
but full of excitement; cherished memories I've filed.
It only takes a whiff of fresh salt ocean air to take me complete away,
back to my first trip to the ocean beach on a summer day.
It was a trip I couldn't forget, full of excitement and play.
I couldn't sleep the night before thinking about the trip to the beach.
When we finally arrived and walked out as close to the shores reach,
after dad picked out a spot to place our towels. Walked about
and felted the warm gritty sand between our toes. I looked out
and listen to the sound of crashing waves on the sand,
and gulls beating their wings making loud sounds. Mom held my small hand,
as the cold waves would just threw me around.
Walking up and down the beach, I found
seashells that had brilliant colors like a rainbow
that waves had washed up onto the shore; maybe long ago.
Sitting down on the sand,
I built a sand castle and
felt the wind on my face as dad shared childhood stories.
This is one of many of my cherished memories.
4/21/2018
Poetry Contest: ANY RHYME FORM - AN EARLY CHILDHOOD MEMORY –
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
At the Planet Gym
embodying my best business
when suddenly I wonder
Why am I here?
repeats
and repeats
in my wandering ear
And what magic
might appear
Isn't that *****?
Not WHY am I here
with these Straight People
because this overpopulated question
may obscure other
quieter
ambidextrously resourceful directions
less shaded by fear
of robust diversity
I suppose
But, what can I hear
about why am I here?
and not over There
on the Other side
What two-sided relationships
would I need
to become fully here today?
and all seasons yet to arrive
in this sacred home of People
Plants
and PlanetEarth
With gratitude,
I suppose...
but, Why am I here
again?
Cannot mean
only those purposes and means
asso-sedated with my home address
and sometimes needy
sometimes hostile
[downright spankin mean]
neighbors
More creature comforts,
certainly
AND we search for sacred meaning
inside
more intimate
Spiritual enlightenment
perhaps shyer,
timid
early childhood Loser-Trauma
Drama messages
win/lose valuable
Vulnerable communications
with imperfect win/win transparent closets
Hiding chronic stress histories
of anxiety
longing for sacred peace,
or even just a secular piece, you know,
now and again
For chronic stress,
anxiety
Longing for peace
or restored ego-resiience,
or at least a restored recliner
Happiness, and a marketable craft
and EarthMother teaching skills
For relearning happiness
in hope,
joy
in anticipation,
gratitude
for opportunities
to co-invest
in always interesting neighbors
In the Planet Gym
mindbodying
our best health business.
The Florida of My Youth
By Franklin Price
10/12/2019
The Florida of long ago
The one when I was born
Was the one that I remember
And the one for which I mourn
Was a simple life back then
Merritt Island was my home
My youth was spent exploring
Through the orange groves I would roam
My dad worked for the Navy
Soon to be an Air Force Base
My mother was a housewife
Was long before we went to space
My father had converted
A tractor barn into a house
It was the place in which we lived
Sometimes shared it with a mouse
That did not come from Disney
If that's maybe what you thought
There was no magic kingdom
No “E” tickets could be bought
The milkman brought the bottles
With the cream trapped at the top
Had to shake it first to use it
Then remove the cardboard stop
The rooster crowed to wake us up
There were layers in the coop
The eggs were there collected
While avoiding chicken poop
Beside the coop a wash house
Where our clothes were washed and rung
In the yard were lines to dry them
They were pinned and not just flung
The ocean breezes dried them
To provde a smell good sheet
The fresh air not polluted
My childhood days could not be beat
There was no trash collection
No large mountains of discard
We dug some holes to bury waste
That we covered in our yard
Once we dug a large hole
Which we turned into a fort
Made the roof out of a car top
Was a fun place to report
When we were finished with it
It became our newest dump
Did I forget to mention,
Our water came from well and pump
Our waste went to a septic tank
Waste field to cleanse and drain
My sisters preferred to wash their hair
With water captured from the rain
Only one school was available
Had a place for every grade
We rode the bus to get there
To go, I never was afraid
I was the youngest of the children
Four sisters and three guys
Got on the bus together
Even school had family ties
To get there left the Island
Had to cross a wooden bridge
One more thing that I should tell you
We had no ice box, had a fridge
I could go on forever
About my early childhood time
When discipline was rendered
And there was very little crime
You can tell I am digressing
As the past flows through my brain
Maybe next time I will tell you
Of my travels on the train
SHY WITH NO REGRETS
A Catholic uniform from age five.
My own silence - how do I survive?
My inner world is quiet, building bricks.
The oldest young paints, with whispered flicks.
The graham crackers and milk are my friends.
I close my eyes - too many colors blend.
The teacher called my mom, after so long.
“Does your child talk or do I have it wrong?”
In first grade I find my best friend, at last,
but bashful eyes move, from busy boys - too fast.
In sixth grade, fretting, I throw off my glasses,
When a guy, I like, peeks in one of my classes.
Too coy to attempt popularity, but it’s no regret.
Looking back, glad my temperament slowly set.
4/20/2018
Line Gauthier’s An Early Childhood Memory Contest
My early childhood was great, I was the first born.
My mother had five children after me so I mostly remember
spending lots of time with my doting grand-mother
who kept me busy learning to sew & knit before I could read & write.
I had such enthusiasm and benefited from tons of attention.
Creativity was a game to me and I learned to value time.
When I was nine, we moved far away and life changed overnight.
I was really lucky to land a grade 5 teacher who guided me
to learn english at an accelerated rate. I was a good student.
I've always been particularly thankful to both, teacher and grand-mother.
they truly helped mold me into the person I turned out to be.
AP: 3rd place 2025
There are seven despicable sins each one
of us willingly or unwillingly commits daily;
I disclaim six, but I willl claim one openly:
it's the irrepressible anger raging inside.
There was a big trauma in my early childhood:
that memory was stored, but cannot be retrieved;
I blame dad for the love he didn't give to his child...
remembering hurts indefinitely, forgetting is hard.
For years, I carried this secret so ashamed to reveal,
mother saw the depth and dimension of everything;
she lifted all the weight I was incapable of carrying,
but my cry wanted to escape and break off the seal.
If I am guilty of this sin, God will not punish me for it;
His sympathy for the ones who weep is forgiveness,
but those inflicting pain won't escape His judgment.
Lord, end at once this anger that brings on illness.
Written on 1/24/2016
About the end of times when
Carts were hauled by Shires,
Coal was king and homes
Were heated by open fires,
A seemingly huge dark figure
From my early childhood days
As he drove his horse and cart
Through the country byways
From village to village to village
Delivering sacks of coal
To feed our coal fires, then
Each home’s heart and soul.
One hundredweight of coal
Measured into each heavy sack
Which they’d hoist off the cart
Onto a waiting broad back
To be carried to the coal shed
To be skilfully slipped
And with ease of movement
Very carefully tipped
Not a black lump wasted
As it piled on the coal heap8
For money was tight
And coal wasn’t cheap.
His horse patiently standing
By each house’s kerb side
Waiting to be led on or
For him to climb up and ride.
Hours they must have spent
Huddled on that cart seat
Muffled up for winter’s cold
Or soaking up summer’s heat.
One day suddenly, progress,
The Shire retired out to grass
The second hand liveried lorry
Shelter behind steel and glass.
Still a hard dirty job but warmer
As the world moved slowly on
King Coal was coldly murdered
And the job was virtually gone.
Just a figure from history
From a simpler, slower age
Not even meriting a foot note
On a social history primer’s page.
Is there a niche in time and space
Where a coal man and his horse,
Waggon piled with sacks, eternally
Trundles his once essential course
A small childish event
slips through an unguarded moment once more,
then a teenage grudge nudges my ego
demanding some resolution.
Big Foot is tearing up the woods.
The interstellar aliens want us all to relax,
to be a be-ing – just a being
not a human doing. No,
we are human beings -
there’s nothing to do.
No fights are worth doing-over, just let it happen,
don't define 'it'.
besides ‘doing’ gives the Universe a headache
you brought upon yourself
back in the early childhood event days.
Let the crap go;
like water it will flow along
the line of least resistance,
then it all ends at the bottom
of a peak you never needed
to climb anyway.
Make a billion dollars,
build that bridge, damn or barn,
let imagination put its hard hat on
and go to work.
Then cut the yellow ribbon and grin.
If it's fun it's done.
When the Master said
we could move mountains
he meant let the mountain move to you -
allow it. He did not mean
start shoveling – that would be dumb.
Bigfoot has left for the Florida Keys
he needs a little rest
from being a doer, forever in training
for his next bloodcurdling howl.