The joy and the tears from my childhood years
showed me what was to come.
The good and the bad, the happy and sad,
with two brothers, my Dad and my Mum.
In a kids’ gang of four with the boy from next door,
we roamed far and wide, so free.
Away at the park we played until dark,
then Mum called us home for tea.
She didn’t yell — she rang a cow bell;
you could hear it in every street.
With bleeding knees (we’d been climbing trees)
we dashed home with our muddy, bare feet.
Dad hammered and nailed, and then he unveiled
the best thing that we’d ever had —
a dog kennel hut and a labrador mutt!
The name that we gave him was Chad.
When one brother died, I was ten. How I cried.
Then Mum died when I was fifteen.
With two of us gone, I was forlorn;
I soon learned that life could be mean.
Now there’s just me. When I look back, I see
days of freedom and fun in the sun —
riding our bikes, going camping, and hikes.
Oh, if only those days were re-run.
It all comes to pass that our rose-tinted glass
helps to safeguard our memory's needs.
I’ll remember the laughter forever after,
in the graveyard as I pull out weeds.
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Writing Prompt |
Write a rhyming poem about your childhood. It can be good or bad, happy or sad. |
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Childhood Contest Winner
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Author Notes
Author's Note:
You will see from the spelling of "Mum" that this is not an American childhood. Also, being called home for "tea" does not mean a hot drink - it is the evening meaL These differences aside, I am sure there will be echoes of similar childhoods in your countries.
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