Death of My Childhood Place
I miss the place so much
where I could climb trees
ate star apples and green mangoes
from fruit trees near our house
bath in the river
made a raft
out from banana or bamboo trunk
go boating with my brother
and enjoyed swimming in the river
Where we made a makeshift dam
got some catfish
or played with the tadpoles
and shooed away the frogs
and on rainy day
played with my childhood friend
creating pots and anything from the mud
forming clay vases and figurines
and enjoy the drizzles of the rain
But father sold the place
and we moved to an urban zone
where trees don’t bear fruits
and fruits are not on trees but in groceries.
and clays are beneath the cemented road
and during rainy days
people will not go out
and everyone seems so busy on
their business and their job
so in grief of my childhood place
and gone with it is my childhood stage
poem by Champs Ulysses Cabinatan
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Related quotes
I miss my childhood
I miss my childhood everyday
This missing increases day by day
I miss those days of happiness
which were full of joy and naughtiness
I miss my grandpa's magnificent love
I miss my grandma's food serve
I miss my village and my darling home
Now I am sad and alone
I was used to go garden daily evening
where I see the day changing
I play their with my friends
who were perfect in that and were legends
I miss stealing of mango from trees
I miss those mountainy friendly trees
I miss play of hide and seek
we hide on guava's great peak
I miss my fields and ponds
I miss that sweet smell of my lands
I miss the scolds of elders
I miss my village builders
I miss my grandpa's old shoulders
I miss my village's brave soldiers
I miss my cow's sweet milk
I miss my cranky and playful tricks
No one can return my childhood
And that hunt for fruits in woods
I have left my childhood very far
But I need life like that with no bar
I am hungry for that love of village
my hunger becomes more with age
In this world of stress and worries
I want back my childhood glories
Life is such a name
That plays with everyone, a different game
But in every game there is some hopeful ray
I miss my childhood everyday.
(27 march 2010, Lucknow)
poem by Shashank Dwivedi
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My Old Hometown
Long before it became a city-like,
The chirps of the crickets at night,
And the crows of the roosters at dawn,
Sunrise, mid-sun, sunset,
Is how we told time
In this place now I call it
My old hometown
So before sunrise melts the morning mists,
‘Till it sets across the mountains,
We farmed as hard as we could,
But no matter how poor life is,
This place was my paradise.
Like the crowns of acacia and tamarind trees
And the arcs of bamboo poles
That looks like a tunnel to the south
Made this place enchanting to my memories,
Down by the valley onward to the northwest,
Along the cradle of its crystal lake,
With choir of birds and scents of ilang-ilang,
There! It remained the life of my childhood.
Banog Norte is a small barrio of Bani in the province of Pangasinan, Philippines. Now, I also call it ‘the corner-end part of the world’ simply because it lies onto the very western tip of Central Luzon.
Amid the rice field, where our small house made of cogon roof, bamboo walls, and bamboo floors, I was born [here] not knowing how mother looked like. Thereby, the chirps of the crickets at night were my lullabies.
During my childhood, there was nothing more I enjoyed than getting soaked in the carabaos’ puddle or ride on their back elsewhere. Swimming was beyond my playful interest; thus, the choir of birds, who sang to the river, and the scents of rice straws in me have all captured in my solitude.
poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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I miss my childhood
I miss my childhood,
Miss my mommy’s lap,
The lullabies that my grandpa sung,
The breakfast my granny prepared for me.
I miss my childhood,
Miss the brother-sister fights,
The way the small secrets we kept,
The days we dreamt of becoming someone big.
I miss my childhood,
Miss the friends’, who were never mean,
The teacher so caring,
The playground where we played for hours’.
I miss my childhood,
Miss my dad’s arms which did hold me and wrapped me throughout,
The chocolates he bought so frequently,
The wonder rides he took me to.
I miss my childhood,
Miss the tree where I sat for hours,
The teddy which was my life,
And the way you consoled me dad whenever I cried….
@copyrights reserved with Author.
poem by Jinal Oswal
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We Decided To Cut Some Trees
we planted the seeds together
we were thinking of fruits
for our children
we were thinking of the shade
where they can
in the future play
then the fruits in bounty came
mangoes loaded
and some water apples
shining on the twigs
the fruits ripen and some birds
came and ate them
the fruits ripen and some fell
on the ground and some
worms came and ate them
the trees get tired finally of the
seasons
flowering, fruiting, falling and
rotting and trying to
repeat the cycle all over
again
for years and years
we got old of waiting for something
new and exciting
we got bored of the fruits
the children of the neighbors
got married and left the place
we got old and tired and this day
we decided to cut the trees
some for the first time
we are too shaded
we want to see light come
we want to know what sunshine is
again, after all those years
of coldness and darkness under
the shady trees
perhaps, this is something new now
light and sun and another way to look
at our lives
something exciting something to open
to see blue skies to see the full moon
to feel warmth to let the worms sing
to see some precious stones
hidden all these years in our common paths
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Deserted Fields
seldom do you find this place
tall grasses on the fields
white herons feeding
upon the green frogs gallivanting
on the muddy pools
bluer skies fresh air
trees nested by sparrows
trails of men
there are no houses here
flowers on the pavement bloom
nobody comes here anymore
most of them have left for good for the city
where work is available
where money can be harvested
like fruits from concrete trees
from cemented fields
under the flicker of neon lights
from unfriendly people
i am here, at home, with all my silence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Childhood Garden
my childhood garden
my childhood garden
lush and green
it was so happy it made me scream
my joy and hopes
and all my mopes
my childhood garden
my childhood garden
with the ups and downs
when i jumped i could not touch the ground
with my purle ponys
it made it homey
my childhood garden
my childhood garden
flying high
with the little lies
the grass fine
up in the sky my kite
my childhood garden
my childhood garden
now in the past
i now know that it can never last
now as i get taller
it was differnt when i was smaller
my childhood garden
poem by Danielle Eager
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Home Sweet Home
sunday on a home sweet home
from the city
to this little nipa hut
on top of a hill
that father built
where the guava trees are filled
with ripe fruits
where i climb and gather and taste
the sweetness of its pink flesh
where the carabaos rest
in the coolness of mudholes
where i take my ride on them
in the river nearby
on crystal clear waters
where some fish swim on shallow waters
inviting me to fish and catch them
for lunch of pearl white glutenous rice
and with banana leaves as plates
and some wild chicken's barbecued breast
and with my bare hands and
some childhood friends
we shall take this simple feast
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Fish Pound and Violin
My grandpa stay in the house
Near the river
Where its water flow end in the South Ocean
His garden hedged with Bamboo trees
In front of the garden planted three tuft trees
The children like to climb the tuft tree
Pick up the fruits and eat on the tree
Glad and laughing
My grandpa was silent and said nothing
He just smile subtly, and gaze at far away
There is a fish pond in the backyard,
In its edge planted pineapple and banana trees
My grandma always give brand and papaya leaf to the pound
Giving food for the fish like Gurame, Sepat dan Nila,
While my grandpa make a biola, gitar and bass
In the litlle studio, near the kitchen
I passionatedly gaze the fish jump around
And glad
While they don’t know their destiny
Decided by mothers in the cities
On the frying pan, roastibng, caserate,
With imagine to ecpanced their plan on the rice filed
Near the road forgeted how farmer produce,
Fish, rice and vegetable,
And actually
Their Self conscience.
poem by Prasetya Utama
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Childhood Memories Sung to the Tune of Shawnee West Franklin Bison Blues
Some people have a childhood garden
Filled with green and growing things
Some people have a childhood garden
Filled with purple peonies
Mine is sere
Throughout the year
Nothing grows here
Some people have a childhood rainbow
A sea of colors all aglow
Some people have a childhood rainbow
Red to violet in a row
Mine is gray
Bow of clay
Without a ray
Some people have a childhood temple
Covered with a million treasured dreams
Some people have a childhood temple
A sunny Wat of Gods and kings
Mine is plain
Squats in the rain
Functional 'n sane
Where childhood memories abound
Life flows vividly around
Where childhood memories have fled
Hearts lie dead
I'Need a kiss
Sunday is a holiday then we are going to that place.
That silent place full of silence, we are there standing,
we saw the so many coloured greenish leaves big trees.
so many birds, and butterflies decorating the blue sky
Then a butterfly dancing in the sky.
Together we Keep a released longing.
sitting near in the shallow river.
We see fishes in the depth so calm
We look up at the rainbow in the sky.
So many days you have never kiss me.
I'need a kiss, here in the silent place near in the river.
Trees, butterflies, fishes, please we are given a chance.to make a perfect kisses.
Here in the silent place.
My lips are longing after so many days you have never kiss me.
See my eyes, do you know my yearning?
Oh love***kiss me softly now*
everything will be quiet.
Just you and me enjoyed***kiss***
then my heart full of desire, you will know everything.
Your kiss fly with me.
Your kiss will stun me.
Your kiss will softly me soft.
Your kiss is sweet hearted.
Your kiss is a pray.
Your kiss is wanted
your kiss so bright
your kiss is everything.
the fireflies of Puerto P.
we take the boat at night
the sea is having its low tide
we are going to the place where the fireflies are mating
we trace the rivers like blood to our veins
the moon has not come at that hour
the trees along the banks are mere shadows
the fireflies are all there
glistening like stars in the heavens
there is so much silence
what we can hear is only the sound of the boat sliding on the river
i've seen for once the magic of their lights
and there i am but a mere shadow against the trees
the journey towards my childhood begins
where Papa trapped all of them inside a jar for us to marvel
how life gives light and how quick shall death take it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Happened To His Village
He was born just a short distance from Adelaide
And he could see the sea from his back door
And in his young days there were not many houses
But the years have brought great change to Semaphore.
His sea side Village has grown to a coastal suburb
And his old Homeplace has undergone great change
Where once were trees and paddocks now there's houses
A stranger to your old Homeplace seems strange.
What happened to the Village of his childhood
The paddock where he played in years ago
He only can refer now to his memories
Of peaceful place the Homeplace he once did know.
The cottage of his childhood gone forever
A doctor's surgery where once it stood
And not one know him he is now a stranger
In Semaphore the place of his boyhood.
But of the past he still has good old memories
Of his old Village how it used to be
And from the cottage by the wide brown paddock
Six hundred yards off he could see the sea.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Uncertainty Of Memory
my childhood
yes
MY childhood
as i am fixed
here
the line is dead
oh for a diary
but no one had told me
and no one had said
then
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?
together
i am set
to this life
now
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
yes
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
poem by Tony Sweeting
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The Giving Tree
Once there was a tree....
and she loved a little boy.
And everyday the boy would come
and he would gather her leaves
and make them into crowns
and play king of the forest.
He would climb up her trunk
and swing from her branches
and eat apples.
And they would play hide-and-go-seek.
And when he was tired,
he would sleep in her shade.
And the boy loved the tree....
very much.
And the tree was happy.
But time went by.
And the boy grew older.
And the tree was often alone.
Then one day the boy came to the tree
and the tree said, 'Come, Boy, come and
climb up my trunk and swing from my
branches and eat apples and play in my
shade and be happy.'
'I am too big to climb and play' said
the boy.
'I want to buy things and have fun.
I want some money?'
'I'm sorry,' said the tree, 'but I
have no money.
I have only leaves and apples.
Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in
the city. Then you will have money and
you will be happy.'
And so the boy climbed up the
tree and gathered her apples
and carried them away.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time....
and the tree was sad.
And then one day the boy came back
and the tree shook with joy
and she said, 'Come, Boy, climb up my trunk
and swing from my branches and be happy.'
'I am too busy to climb trees,' said the boy.
'I want a house to keep me warm,' he said.
'I want a wife and I want children,
and so I need a house.
Can you give me a house ?'
' I have no house,' said the tree.
'The forest is my house,
but you may cut off
my branches and build a
house. Then you will be happy.'
And so the boy cut off her branches
and carried them away
to build his house.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time.
And when he came back,
the tree was so happy
she could hardly speak.
'Come, Boy,' she whispered,
'come and play.'
'I am too old and sad to play,'
said the boy.
'I want a boat that will
take me far away from here.
Can you give me a boat?'
'Cut down my trunk
and make a boat,' said the tree.
'Then you can sail away...
and be happy.'
And so the boy cut down her trunk
and made a boat and sailed away.
And the tree was happy
... but not really.
And after a long time
the boy came back again.
'I am sorry, Boy,'
said the tree,' but I have nothing
left to give you -
My apples are gone.'
'My teeth are too weak
for apples,' said the boy.
'My branches are gone,'
said the tree. ' You
cannot swing on them - '
'I am too old to swing
on branches,' said the boy.
'My trunk is gone, ' said the tree.
'You cannot climb - '
'I am too tired to climb' said the boy.
'I am sorry,' sighed the tree.
'I wish that I could give you something....
but I have nothing left.
I am just an old stump.
I am sorry....'
'I don't need very much now,' said the boy.
'just a quiet place to sit and rest.
I am very tired.'
'Well,' said the tree, straightening
herself up as much as she could,
'well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting
Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.'
And the boy did.
And the tree was happy.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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When We Were Young
When we were young
we thought we were immortal.
We played at recess, and after
school, ran all the way home.
Barefooted, we moved over
rocks and sticks.
The only stop was at the bakery
and since we were children
we got fresh bread for less.
When we were young
there were no cell phones.
We lived in a rural district,
there were no phones at all,
except the ones we made,
out of empty milk cans
and a piece of cord.
When we were young
we made cars
out of sardine tins
and before we played house,
underneath the cellar,
we carried water in pans.
When we were young
nothing scared us,
besides the reflections
on the banana trees,
on the way to the out-house,
on a dim-lit night.
poem by Buxton Shippy
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The City And The Town
this is what the city has to offer
neon lights, ambulance screams,
loud music, beer and ale,
a small room, a busy life,
a little sleep,
exquisite dinners,
late shows, gags, gigs.
but i have enough of all these,
i went to the little town
and have this wooden house,
beside a river, there are flowers
blooming and vegetable gardens,
and tranquil horizons,
a beautiful sunset
a brighter sunrise,
crustal clear rivers,
home fishing, and mountain treks,
and fresh smell of green grass,
and cool shades of trees,
mountain shadows,
full moons and singing birds
love calls, and fresh fruits
direct from the trees,
wild chickens, and
horses to ride and carabaos
to pasture, goats to feed
and turkey chases,
a very peaceful sleep at night
under the moon
lamp-lit room and some cicadas
in concert with the frogs
and crickets and worms
and then the rain
starts to fall
you hear the sweet hum
of the nearby river
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Haunted Haven
Beyond the woods
The branching oak and canopy of leaves still abide
The bench is there
The leaves still fall
The cree still flows beneath the trees
The difference is
The oak is baren
The shiny bench is covered in moss
The leaves now lie beneath my feet
The place now lacks the presence of life
Though our laughter still echoes
Haunting the place of our childhood haven
poem by Humna Hamid
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Sonnet: Nature Resurrects
The ‘curry-leaf’ tree bears berries again!
The black fruits look enticing, succulent;
And more will ripen with the August-rain,
A feast to the spotted-grey bird, God-sent.
The guava-trees are full of flow’rs and fruits!
They ripen fast each morn to squirrel’s squeak;
The landscape will have ripe fruits like a ‘Blitz, ’
Which many birds will then happily beak.
The rain can do such magic to the lands;
It resurrects the almost dead, dry trees;
Some fairies good are working with their wands!
The fauna seems as busy as the bees.
Thus, Nature sprinkles compassion on all!
Her heart melts to each creature’s plaintive call.
8-9-2002
poem by John Celes
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Nettles Between (From,134 Picture Poems)
nettles between
the red juniper trees
in the grasses crossing
childhood streets
along times
remembered
enjoyed days
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Home, Sweet Home
The childhood home wherein children, we stayed;
The cottage old in which we ate and prayed;
The humble garden, on our own, we laid;
The roof that leaked in rain, though rent was paid!
The tranquil place where parents gave us love;
The wonderful compound, where we worked, ‘wow! ’
The trees and plants that grew by heaven’s grace;
The sun, moon, rain, at which we loved to gaze!
That was the lovely place, in which we lived;
The home we kept quite clean and chores were shared;
Our parents slogged for us and deeply cared;
We sometimes fought although amity ruled!
Our father’s strictness taught us good conduct;
Our mother’s fondness disciplined our mind;
The help we rendered, made us feel the warmth;
Home, sweet home, was great despite some faults!
Home, sweet home, brings memories evergreen;
Comfortable, our mother’s house, had been;
Those days were most pleasant, despite our toil;
We lost our hearts upon that very soil!
poem by John Celes
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