![]() ![]() I remember-playing in the luscious grass with all my friends in my class. to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war. I remember-the sudden hot summer's rain, dancing 'round and 'round again. Growing older is a beautiful experience and CaptionCall has compiled some poems to prove that. I remember-endless races we had to school. I have written some stories about a few of my childhood memories which you might enjoy. I remember-of days so long in the past when I wished I would grow up so fast. An anthology designed for the enjoyment and instruction of students from junior-secondary school onwards. Have you written any poems about your childhood? I’d love to hear them. Wrinkles, scars and stretch marks depict a life I’m unwilling to lose. Though the reasons are mysterious, the outcome is grand. I’m the girl whose life vision she couldn’t see until it was upon her. I’m the queen and the orphan girl living under the ping pong table on the east porch Who cried fake tears sitting on a street curb when the funeral processions rode by I am who traded Lifesaver candies for safe passage by the alley boys Who pushed one to the ground demanding apologies for her best and forever friend. From the red headed boy coddled by his anxious widowed mother saving the family farm becoming a doctor simultaneously. This isnt my usual content so skip if ur not into poetry :P This is poetry video I made for a contest and I felt like uploading it here too :) okbyeFollow m. 6 Poems About Children Growing Up Amazing To See Poet: Catherine Pulsifer It is amazing to see Children Are Poet: Herbert Hoover Children are the most. I’m from an old fashioned cow town reluctant to admit it Salty potato salad and the sourest of lemon pie sporting bouffant-like meringue swirled high From the missionary’s daughter raised in Japan speaking nasty slang learned from the maid. #POEMS ABOUT GROWING UP WINDOWS#From a neighborhood church with clear windows encouraging me to see the natural beauty of God. I’m from Me First and My joke is better From Baby Sister and You’re so dramatic. I’m from singing grace at supper and high cheek bones, From the Britts, Scots, Irish and Welch. I am from the towering maple tree who teased me to climb it Who coveted its crimson and yellow leaves collected in the short Indian summer. I am from sweet forsythia blooms Strawberry Nestle Quick and cicadas sirening From the three story house on Twelfth Street, Bricked, lacey ivy covered and hedged encircled From window seats with clanking steam registers warming frozen feet on February days. I’m a member of a writing group who suggested the subject of the beginnings of my life as a prompt, “Where I am from” ![]()
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