Childhood Poems
Most Famous Childhood Poems of All Time!
We have created a collection of some of the best childhood poems so you can read and share anytime with your friends and family. Share our Top 10 Childhood Poems on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest.
I know her hands better than my own—
the way they move through every ordinary task,
the way they carry without complaint,
the way they answer before I ask.
Those hands braided hair and dried my tears,
clapped at every...
Her voice was the first safe thing I knew,
before my eyes could make much sense,
before the world had shown its shape—
her voice was the first evidence
that I was not alone in it,
that someone warm was...
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Now that I am older I can see
the things she hid from me so carefully—
the worry that wore her face at night,
the sacrifice she made look light and free.
She gave from empty, never showing empty,
she...
Her love is like a steady light—
not the flash of fireworks overhead,
not the brilliant sudden burning,
but the lamp beside the bed.
The one that's always on when you come home,
the one that doesn't flicker or go...
Father Poems
She braided my hair in the morning
while humming a song she half-remembered,
the mirror holding both our faces
in the light of those Octobers and Decembers.
I did not know then what I was holding—
I thought it ordinary,...
We ran barefoot through the summer grass
without once considering the glass—
the world was large enough to run in,
the afternoon too long to be slow.
The grass knew our weight by heart,
the path knew where we always...
We played until the darkness came to find us—
not until a clock said time was up,
but until the light itself recalled us,
the dusk the only stop.
No one wanted to be the first to leave—
the game...
She told her stories in the language of her hands,
the gestures filling in what words could not—
the demon larger than she could describe,
the hero braver than any school had taught.
We sat in the circle of her...
The backpack was too big for the child carrying it—
it listed to the left on the way in,
but the pride was larger than the backpack,
and the pride leaned into it with a grin.
First day: the smell...
Freedom Poems
Summer vacation was its own country—
a place that operated by different laws,
no alarm, no schedule, no particular purpose
except the great, ungoverned because.
The days were long in the way that only childhood
manages to stretch and hold...
The chalk dust in the morning light—
it fell in the sunbeam like slow snow,
and the blackboard held yesterday's erased lesson
in the ghost of what the chalk would show.
We filed in with our noise and our notebooks,...
I wrote my name for the first time at a desk
that was too large, on paper that was clean—
the letters large and labored and imperfect,
the most important thing I'd ever seen.
My name: a thing I had...
The bell rang and we were released—
the classroom emptied in the ancient way,
the playground receiving us with its particular noise,
the ten minutes that redeemed the day.
We ran with the specific joy of the unconfined,
we played...
What was in your lunch box was a window—
into the home you came from, the hands that packed,
the particular love of whichever parent
had assembled what the morning lacked.
We traded pieces of our lunches willingly—
your mother's...
Hope Poems
The library was the room that held the whole world—
every country, every century, every mind—
arranged along the shelves in quiet order,
waiting for the right reader to find.
I went there when the outside was too loud,
when...
The old house has a smell that follows me—
into every house I have lived in since,
a ghost of wood and particular light
and the quality of every old offense
and kindness—the arguments held in the kitchen,
the laughter...
There was a territory I have not returned to—
the specific geography of a grandmother's lap,
the warmth of it, the smell of it, the telling
of the story that began with once-upon-a and never had a gap.
She is...
We scattered in the years after—
some north, some south, some simply deep into their lives—
and the geography we shared in school
became the country of the archive and the drives
of memory. The faces are still precise—
I...
The old bicycle rusts in the corner of the shed—
wheels still true, the bell still workable—
a machine that carried me through the whole kingdom
of the neighborhood, before the maps were observable.
I knew every house by its...
Life Poems
There was a time before the phone was everything—
before the pocket held the whole world's noise—
when boredom was a country you visited sometimes
and the silence was among the season's joys.
We showed up at each other's houses...
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