Being a child is the best experience by the way. You are free to do things, to play under the scorching sun.
Many children today miss the way we enjoyed childhood. We played many outdoor games, like Prisoner's base, London bridge, among others, where friendship germinates. These poems might tell the gusto of being a child.
Rejuvinating feeling as you recollect those childhood events. Here are some poems for everyone and to modern children:
SUMMER ESCAPADE
Ticking clock.
Jolting legs.
Tapping.
Waiting.
"Mother is snoring!"
On the window, brats walk stealthy and leap.
Gallivanting around with buddies they keep.
Picking santol,
mango,
chito
and many more
Swinging,
singing
and biting on the trunk
Onlookers look for the old man.
Slash,
hush,
smash
and such.
Running,
chasing,
hiding,
sweat drying;
Along the firth, they suddenly splash.
Lying down on a greenish grasses
Watching above dragonflies flying against the breezes.
Noise of enjoyment they exuded under the scorching sun
As they play hide and seek,
Prisoner's base,
London Bridge,
Chinese garter,
and the likes.
Juvenile games will never fail...
Newfound friends, things and schemes they got from it.
...tell the gusto to modern child,
This is not a fairy-tale.
Setting sun is a sign to say goodbye
And "be home" - mother's rule
Or else, a lion-like roar will be heard from home -
Mother's signal to the brat.
I enjoy recalling the past: youngster's treasure.
AS I REMEMBER: JUVENILE AGAIN
On the day of Summer, jolly shrill of brats awaken me,
Peep them: chasin' and havin' glee.
Grins, chuckles and sigh
Under the golden sun shinin' so warm.
As I eyes 'em sensin' the summer - air balm.
As aeroplane pass - by,
They follow as the weeds whipped by zephyrs,
Chasin' the dragonflys which suddenly appears,
Catchin' the wind as the dragonflys flew so high.
Portrayin' along the wild weeds: wrestle and mirth,
After they got itches, directly splashed upon the firth,
Lyin' in the sand; makin' sand or clay balls,
When stomach starved, go swiftly climbed the guava tree,
Swayin' in the branch like a monkey,
One fall and roll towards the mountain col.
Laughter's they exhibited as they teased one another.
Then, I heard a shout call, "Go home! Your work's not finished."
I thought: Toil, toil and trouble is never ever a child's responsible.
They must sensed their being youngster -
Their right!
YOU ARE READING
The Unknown Poet: Untold Soul
Poetry"Silence is the shadow of my pen." These are not mere poems for me, it is my emotion, a part of my life. ❤️ I now present to you THE UNKNOWN POET: Untold Soul. "I think I'll never be a poet." The Unknown Poet is no other than but me myself, and my S...
