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Poems On / About CHILDHOOD  12/18/2014 8:12:12 PM
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Best Poems About / On CHILDHOOD
 
 
 
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  325.     

My Memories Of Childhood Are Fading

My memories of childhood are fading as I grow older and more gray
Yet in my wild flights of fancy I get the sweet scent of hay
In the mown meadows of Summer in the far northern July
And upwards above the rank rushes the brown lark carols as he fly.

I'm not what you would call a poet I only pen doggerel
Yet I can relate to my memories and I too have stories to tell
Of my childhood close to Nature in the fields and groves by the Town
Where the deciduous green leaves of Summer in late Autumn faded to brown.

Where male bullfinch the quiet sort of a fellow in his cloak of pink, black and slate blue
A beautiful bird of rare beauty to his wife till death he is true
At dawn at the edge of his borders his quiet though familiar song sing
The orchardists they do not like them they eat their fruit tree buds in the Spring.

In my childhood I grew to love Nature and like every other country boy
To me the voice of the cuckoo in late Spring was always a thing of great joy
But I grew to manhood too quickly and time for me too did not wait
And each day I live sees me closer and closer to my use by date.

I fancy I still hear the dipper his voice is not distant 'twould seem
On a black river rock in the shallows in the heart of the babbling stream
His snow white breast to me familiar his wings and his back darkish brown
And as he pipes forth his scratchy notes his head always bobs up and down.

My memories of childhood are fading suppose nothing ever does last
And 'tis said we should live for tomorrow still we all remember the past
And still in my wild flights of fancy the robin sings on the hedgerow
And in the rank grass in the headland the shy pheasant out of sight crow.
 
Francis Duggan

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  326.     

My Childhood Was Robbed

A man whom I trusted,
A man whom I loved,
A man whom I cared for,
as a father, I thought he did a good job.
But then my childhood was robbed.
He turned violent.
He turned cruel.
His kindness certainly took a fall.

I was innocent.
I was free.
But he took all this away from me.
Why did he do it? I don't understand.
He certainly had the upper hand.

My mind is mixed up,
my feelings are sore.
Will the pain ever go away,
or will there be more?
He hurt me so bad, it's hard to explain.
He physically hurt me, which caused me much grief.
My childhood was robbed
Where's the relief?

He would raise his hand and clench his teeth,
in my family, there was no peace.
He ruled the family with an iron fist,
the result - my childhood was missed.

Now. Later in life, after all the pain.
I have to re-live it again and again.
He must pay for all he did,
because you see, I was never a kid.

So now, into court I have lobbed,
to tell the world....
Why my childhood was robbed.
 
Trinny Trin

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  327.     

I Want To Go To The High-Veldt

I want to look up into the pale-blue sky,
stand next to the green hillocks

and I want to walk on the red sand
when the stormy weather rises
and barefoot leave my tracks there,

I want to raise my eyes to the heavenly lights,
and at night look at the bright stars.
I want to go to the high-veldt,

leave marks that betray my presence,
see the blue-white sparks jump
when the stormy weather rises,

smell the falling rain,
see how the wet ground looks,
stand next to the green hillocks

where nature pays homage to the Creator
and I want to experience the world of my childhood days,
see the blue-white sparks jump

and fold my hand around beautiful stones
and like marbles stroke over them.
I want to go to the high-veldt,

leave no place unvisited on my hike,
find all of the old secret places again
and I want to experience the world of my childhood days,

follow the sun on its bright white orbit,
to where the most distant horizon is,
stand next to the green hillocks

and blinded in the eyes of a child
live out moments of my childhood days again,
find all of the old secret places,

just walking on and on
without diverting from the old footpaths.
I want to go to the high-veldt,
stand next to the green hillocks,

for moments be woven back into the fabric of time
and I want to walk on the red sand,
live out moments of my childhood days again
and barefoot leave my tracks there.
 
Gert Strydom

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  328.     

The Eye

To E. E. Cummings

I see the horses and the sad streets
Of my childhood in an agate eye
Roving, under the clean sheets,
Over a black hole in the sky.

The ill man becomes the child,
The evil man becomes the lover;
The natural man with evil roiled
Pulls down the sphereless sky for cover.

I see the gray heroes and the graves
Of my childhood in the nuclear eye-
Horizons spent in dun caves
Sucked down into the sinking sky.

The happy child becomes the man,
The elegant man becomes the mind,
The fathered gentleman who can
Perform quick feats of gentle kind.

I see the long field and the noon
Of my childhood in the carbolic eye,
Dissolving pupil of the moon
Seared from the raveled hole of the sky.

The nice ladies and gentlemen,
The teaser and the jelly-bean
Play cockalorum-and-the-hen,
When the cool afternoons pour green:

I see the father and the cooling cup
Of my childhood in the swallowing sky
Down, down, until down is up
And there is nothing in the eye,

Shut shutter of the mineral man
Who takes the fatherless dark to bed,
The acid sky to the brain-pan;
And calls the crows to peck his head.
 
Allen Tate

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Poems On / About CHILDHOOD