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Poems On / About CHILDHOOD  7/10/2014 6:02:17 PM
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Childhood is your youngest stage
The time you will remember in your old age
Remember the day you learnt to walk
Or even the day you started to talk

Remember playing all day long
Or singing your first little song
Remember your first days of school
Or splashing with friends in the pool

Remember your first race
Chest up, keeping up the pace
Your first gang fight
Throwing punches with all your might

Remember your very first sport
Or the first letter you wrote
Browsing the Internet
Or the very first pet

Life will change as you grow older
Yet these memories live on forever

Rishi Menon,12 years
Rishi Menon

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Away from Glass

I've lost my childhood-marbles
In that very childhood

My only resource remained were:
Two mirrors

I've lost one

And the other
You've broken and demolished.

Now the glass left for me
Water all over the world.

Rahman Henry

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In my childhood
I trapped rats
And let them off
Now rats have set
Traps for me
Some at every step
The traps of mind
For the mind
They have made my life
A life-long prison
Without any hope
Of release
In this birth
Or the next

(karnailsingh Heranwale)
Karnail Singh Heirwale

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The Uncertainty Of Memory

my childhood
MY childhood

as i am fixed
the line is dead

oh for a diary
but no one had told me
and no one had said

and all those days
kept from the ink of a pen
an itch not scratched
only shuffled faces
in a box
but do the words match?
and do the lives stitch?

i am set
to this life
and those thoughts moved away
some time ago
from this fractured memory
frame by frame
inventing days to remember?

oh for a diary
just a simple
cardboard box
full of MY days
a book for each year
but maybe it was just
so fucking dull

i try to fill up those spaces
inside this solid warm sparking mass
of my thinking
teased into every corner
of those years
in this place where it all goes on
this well-used filing cabinet
and the lost details
of my childhood
MY childhood

i TRY to be there
i fail
to really be that boy
In my head
at four or five who knows?
the teachers hand
my mothers smile
my sisters face
the house

that boy of seven i was
Elm Park Essex 1961
who was kicking balls
and raiding fridges
for something interesting
and two biscuits made me smile
every day
and of course
the lemonade
on Saturday

and those times of
holding wooden guns
my father had made
lovingly carved
from the noise of his shed
HIS place
he said

in a small bedroom
i moved
too cold in winter
ice inside the window
so downstairs
by the fire i sketched
other worlds

on that white space
killing with a well sharpened pencil
before the uncertainty
of memory
before the correctness
of politics
Tony Sweeting

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Poems On / About CHILDHOOD