#childhoodmemories
There are things that I'll treasure,
Something, whose cost is above any measure.
Wherever I go in my life,
One more is added to the hive.
Memories that they hold,
will never ever go old.
From small trinkets to significant charms,
They hold a place in my heart, so warm.
From bought, found and gifted,
My hopes, they've always lifted.
Yes, I'm talking about key chains,
And to promise you-
My love for them will never drain.
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 12:23 AM UTC
They say childhood lives in back gardens,
in scraped knees and dinner bells,
in front doors left open
and laughter down the stairs—
but mine lived under fluorescent lights
on Ward 10,
behind curtains that whispered
like walls pretending to be home.
I played hide and seek
between metal beds and quiet machines,
counting seconds in heartbeats,
laughing louder than the beeps
that watched over us.
Ward 10 was my playground,
its corridors my streets,
and every child there
was family for the time we had.
We weren’t supposed to run—
so we ran.
We weren’t supposed to wake each other—
so I did, whispering,
“come on, let’s play,”
like the night belonged to us.
And for a moment, it did.
A nurse would sit with me,
paper and pencil in hand,
turning homework into something softer,
like it wasn’t work at all
but time together.
She’d let me write my name—
crooked, unsure, mine—
then trace it back
so the world could read it clearly.
Someone always came around with toys,
with something to do,
so I wouldn’t feel the quiet too much.
And when the day was done,
they’d run me a bath—
bubbles rising like clouds
in a room that smelled clean,
not like fear.
Fresh pyjamas.
Warm water.
A small kind of peace.
I was mischievous—
always pushing the edges,
always smiling,
because there,
being a child didn’t feel like a risk.
I even had keys—
little bits of responsibility
that made me feel big,
like I belonged.
Like I mattered.
And maybe that’s the strangest part—
not that it was a hospital,
but that it was the first place
that felt like home.
No shouting through walls.
No waiting for something to go wrong.
No learning how to be small.
Just rooms filled with people
who showed up,
again and again,
without hurting me.
So yeah…
my happiest memories
live in a place most people fear.
But that’s because
it was the only place
I didn’t have to.
Ward 10.
Where I wasn’t just surviving—
I was a child.
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 12:09 PM UTC
***
Winter Mischief at the Brickyard
Every winter, like clockwork,
he’d turn up—
this old donkey,
like he knew exactly where he belonged.
Right there,
at our brickyard home.
He wasn’t just any donkey—
bit sly, bit cheeky…
always up to something.
You could see it in him.
Me and my three brothers,
we took to him straight away.
Didn’t matter the cold—
we were out there,
following him,
laughing, messing about,
letting the day run where it wanted.
He’d took the lead, always—
like he was one of us.
Or maybe we were just part of his world.
Then one morning,
he vanished.
Turns out he’d wandered up Carlton Top,
caused a bit of trouble—
enough for the police to bring him back.
Mum wasn’t best pleased.
We got the telling off—
but even then…
we couldn’t help it.
That donkey—
stood there like nothing had happened,
just a look about him,
like he’d had the best day of his life.
And maybe he had.
Thing is,
he wasn’t just trouble—
he was something else.
Freedom.
Mischief.
A break from the ordinary.
Every winter he came back,
same as always—
like a reminder.
That life’s not just rules and routine…
sometimes it’s about running a bit wild,
having a laugh,
and not worrying too much where the day takes you.
That old donkey—
he gave us that.
Apr 18
Apr 18, 2026 at 4:05 AM UTC
— Where Innocence Still Lives —
***
Laughter echoes across endless playgrounds,
playgrounds that still live quietly in our memory,
memory carrying the sound of who we once were,
were we ever as free as we felt back then?
Then innocence would rise without question,
question nothing as we swung higher and higher,
higher on tire swings that carried our dreams,
dreams that lifted us beyond every small worry.
Worry didn’t stay long in those days,
days spent skipping stones across rivers,
rivers that stretched out like open paths,
paths leading us into small adventures.
Adventures shaped the way we saw the world,
worlds we created in bright crayon strokes,
strokes of colour filling blank spaces,
spaces where anything felt possible.
Possible was everything back then,
then came simple joys like melting ice cream,
ice cream dripping through sticky fingers,
fingers holding onto moments we didn’t want to end.
Endings never seemed real at the time,
time slowed as we built castles in the sand,
sand shaped into kingdoms of imagination,
imagination that made small things feel endless.
Endless in feeling, even if not in time,
time moves on but leaves these pieces behind,
behind every step we take into who we are,
are we not still carrying those days within us?
— By Paul Baldry (LongJohn) —
Mar 29
Mar 29, 2026 at 7:19 AM UTC
The Road That Made Me
***
Cavendish Road,
my street, my home.
My first memories—
Stanley Road school, then Westdale Juniors.
The training started early,
walking that steep hill on Cavendish Road,
age six,
legs burning on the way up,
freedom flying on the run back down.
Back in the ’60s,
the road was our playground—
full of adventure.
Through twitches and alleyways we ran,
racing push bikes from the Cavo Pub to the hilltop,
then tearing back down—
no helmets, no pads,
just bare skin and courage,
scrapes and bruises the prize.
The good old days, we say.
Knock knock on doors,
everyone knew everyone—
and it didn’t take long
for Mum and Dad to know.
And back then,
it wasn’t a soft talking to—
body armour was comics
down the back of your pants.
Wednesday nights were swimming,
and in summer,
Brickyard ponds.
Pirates and Redcoats—
until we lost George.
He just disappeared.
We didn’t understand.
Time and resilience brought us back,
but we never played pirates again,
never swam those ponds.
The teenage years came fast.
Off to Cavo secondary—
good years.
Not much time in class,
always somewhere else—
gymnastics, trampolining,
cross country running.
Anything but sitting still,
writing page after page
about history, science,
or the English language—
something I’m still learning.
I liked the girls though.
Then came a time
they liked me.
What a street I lived on—
everything I needed.
Life was full.
At fifteen,
I joined the Army—
Junior Leaders Regiment, Royal Artillery.
A life of its own.
Coming home on leave,
back to my street—
at first, nothing changed.
Then slowly,
people I knew moved away.
Years later,
back in the Cavo Pub—
the Cavendish, to give it its name.
Old school friends,
old times,
banter, darts, pool.
But shock hit hard—
so many of the lads and gals
lost to drugs of every kind.
I loved my street.
I loved what it taught me—
love, joy, pain, loss.
But life moves on,
and so did I.
A new home,
twenty-six years lived—
but the games were real now:
real pain,
real fear,
far too many losses.
Still—
resilience,
and the pull of memory,
brought me home.
I still love my street.
Cavendish Road—
my foundation.
still that boy,
from my street—
with a life of poetry within.
By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)
Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 6:47 AM UTC
Old rope creaks,
golden air hums,
tyre circles wide.
Sun warms hands,
dog waits close,
guardian at his side.
Dust storms rise,
tail thumps joy,
summer cannot hide.
He swoops low,
teasing his friend,
laughter bright as coins.
Dog barks back,
mock outrage shown,
bounding as he joins.
Grass wave’s part,
soft summer breath,
the moment gently enjoins.
Higher he drifts,
mind roaming far,
childhood’s endless sky.
Barns whisper tales,
promises drifting high,
dreams that never die.
Dog watches still,
world small, complete—
boy, rope, tyre.
Mar 14
Mar 14, 2026 at 5:03 AM UTC
I lost myself a long time ago.
I lost myself when boys thought I was old enough to share intimate things with.
I was 6.
They showed me things I had no business seeing, and they put those things inside of me.
I haven’t been the same since.
When I look in the mirror, it’s kind of foggy, but I see a little girl staring back; she must’ve been 6.
She’s smiling,
Making jokes and giggling.
But
She’s got pain behind those eyes. She looked back at me and said, no one believed her.
My heart broke.
Her voice cracked as she said it.
As I looked closely at this girl, she had bruises all over her tiny body from speaking out, as if being a victim wasn't already painful enough.
The reason her voice cracked was because the people she was meant to trust told her to choke on broken pieces of silence.
Told her to move on,
To push it down,
To forget.
She used what little voice she had left to let me know. I kissed the reflection, the same way you'd kiss a scraped knee to make it better, to help the pain go away. But she’s just a reflection; I can’t make her feel better.
The pain is still there, 14 years later; no kiss can make it better. My heart still hurts, and I still struggle to be around men for too long.
So, to my future love, I’m sorry I won’t be the perfect girl for you.
My past makes loving me a little harder.
I’m sorry I can’t change time; God knows I’ve tried.
But be patient and love me a little more.
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 3:43 PM UTC
A child finds
a thousand ways
not to feel alone.
Some visible,
others almost
imperceptible.
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 7:30 AM UTC
Oh hagelslag,
You are my childhood joy!
You made being Dutch in a
Anglo-Saxon world a toy;
Chocolate and sprinkles
In one, such fun.
And when you melted
I spread you thick with my thumb!
Aug 6, 2025
Aug 6, 2025 at 10:58 PM UTC
It’s rained.
Crawdads swept up on the street.
I chase them down with small bare-feet.
Across the street, there rises steam.
The neighbor makes hot oysters sing.
Carolina, is still that child—
She’s in my heart, she’s roaming free.
No need to brush your hair, little Bee.
I like it stringy.
I like black feet.
The story here is one of Me.
It’s where I copped the name “Beezee”
Where I road bikes and scraped my knees.
I ducked and dived and climbed up trees.
It’s forever and a day so sweet.
Nostalgia is my favorite street.
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 1:22 PM UTC
Summer in India isn't just a season—
It's a feeling, a memory, a melody of warmth.
It's the season of:
Mangoes and juicy watermelons,
Beaches kissed by golden sunlight,
Pickles drying under the harsh sun,
Ice creams and colorful icegolas,
Breezy cotton and floral prints,
School holidays and family vacations,
Power cuts and candlelit evenings,
Sleeping under starry skies on the terrace,
Holiday homework and handwritten pages, Internships, summer camps, and endless stories.
A season where time slows down and hearts warm up.
Jul 13, 2025
Jul 13, 2025 at 12:56 AM UTC
शाळेच्या पहिल्या दिवशी न्हवती अक्कल
लावता येत न्हवते साधे चड्डीचे बक्कल
तरी निघालो शाळेला वयाच्या तिसऱ्या वर्षानंतर
हातात बाटली, खिशात रुमाल, आणि पाठीवर दप्तर
शाळेत अनेक गोष्टी शिकलो
इंग्रजीतली ABCD शंभरदा घोकलो
मार्क्स मात्र सर्वांना हवे होते पुरे
रट्टा मारून केलेल्या अभ्यासाने मेंदू मात्र कोरे
दिवस गेले, महिने गेले, गेली खूप वर्षं
दहावी आली हे कळताच गेला जेवणातील सर्व हर्ष
दहावीबद्दल घातली सर्वांनी मनात भीती
घरचे म्हणाले, "अभ्यास कर, आपली नाही शेती"
अभ्यास केला दिवस आणि रात्र
MARKS च्या नादात विसरलो सारे मित्र
सोडवले प्रॅक्टिस पेपर्स आणि लिहिलेली जर्नल्स सर्व
अभ्यास पूर्ण झाल्याचा मात्र अजिबात नव्हता गर्व
परीक्षा दिली, RESULT आला
सर्व मित्रांना फोन केला
मार्क्स मला चांगले पडलेले
CONGRATS च्या मेसेजने सर्व CHATS भरलेले
मार्क्स चांगले मिळाल्याने चांगल्या कॉलेजमध्ये झाली ADMISSION
कोणी IAS तर कोणी ठेवलेलं ENGINEERING चं VISION
कॉलेजच्या पहिल्या दिवशी वाटलं की आपल्या कडे होती खूप सारी अक्कल
कारण माझेच मी लावलेले माझ्या चड्डीचे बक्कल...
Jul 11, 2025
Jul 11, 2025 at 12:10 AM UTC
I miss the euphony of birds at dusk’s soft kiss,
Their songs once crowned the Sun in fleeting bliss.
Memory stirs — a street scene veiled in light,
A bygone day reborn in twilight’s bite.
The winding road concluded at the tree’s embrace,
Where stood the Red Box, keeper of time’s trace.
Forged by decree, a carmine sentinel still,
Now fallen silent on the village hill.
In boyhood’s wanderings down that humble street,
I’d pause and wonder what secrets it might keep.
I’d peer within when the Postman came to claim —
Envelopes slipped like whispers with no name.
At dusk, that vision pierced me with its pain —
A relic ruined by wind and rust and rain.
Creepers wound their wreaths around its frame,
While lizards skittered, flies laid siege in vain.
One day, they’ll mark it — a relic of our place,
A story sealed in rust and creeping lace.
Yet when I think of that red box grown old,
A boy’s soft longing in my chest takes hold.
Time races on — we too shall find release,
And wish that Red Box might just rust in peace.
Jun 30, 2025
Jun 30, 2025 at 12:49 AM UTC
Have you rested
on an old blanket
‘neath the big pine trees
feeling a warm breeze
and the ****** and dips
of the needle-laden ground?
Have you eavesdropped on the birds
as they gossip
woo
brag
calling amongst
the sticky pine needles?
Have you spied on the ants
on their no-nonsense march
or counted wispy clouds
that lazily float by
laying on your back
on a scratchy, faded blanket?
Have you ever marveled
at the wide, wide blue
that’s neither near nor far
feeling time pause
under pointy branches
lost in restful ease
‘neath the big pine trees?
© 2025 SincerelyJoanWrites. All rights reserved.
May 19, 2025
May 19, 2025 at 10:18 AM UTC
As the days slip
Into chill-filled air,
The watermelon dayz
They seem long gone.
Even with the degrees
Still in the moderate thirties,
I long for those hot, stuffy days
Where we twirled our towels
On our heads and smiled, seed-filled,
And none could distinguish where
Sweet and drippy watermelon grins
Started, and the sweat and slippery long ended.
Apr 26, 2025
Apr 26, 2025 at 12:00 AM UTC
In the woods where the wind hums lullabies,
under branches that brush the sky,
lives a bear with a belly full of honey
and a heart stitched in childhood memory.
Winnie.
The. Pooh.
Not just a bear—
but the keeper of our early years,
the echo of laughter between storybook tears,
the soft-spoken truth in bedtime fears.
His house—
tucked under roots,
marked “Mr. Sanders” though we never asked why—
wasn’t just a home,
it was a world.
A mailbox too big, a door too small,
a doormat worn thin from welcoming all—
Tigger’s bounce, Piglet’s squeak,
Eeyore dragging his tail through each week.
A roof that knew the rhythm of rain,
walls that absorbed every growing pain.
And maybe we grew—
our knees outgrew scrapes,
our dreams got new shapes,
but there’s something about that crooked door
that still fits us,
even now.
Because Pooh’s house
was never made of wood and stone.
It was carved in imagination,
lined with pages and patience,
sealed in the syrup of simpler times.
A childhood shrine.
Where days had no clocks
and the only map we needed
was drawn in crayon and hope.
So here’s to the Hundred Acre home—
to the way it held us
when we didn’t know we needed holding.
To the bear who asked for nothing
but a little more honey,
and gave us
a little more magic.
I go back there
every time the world forgets
how to be kind.
Pooh reminds me.
Even now.
And maybe that's the thing about childhood—
it never leaves.
It just waits at the edge of the woods
with a rumbling belly,
and arms
wide
open.
Apr 9, 2025
Apr 9, 2025 at 7:05 PM UTC
Welcome !!
This is your house,
A door little tall,
The pet mittle spouse.
See ,
Those ten eyes ,
Lids some closed
The view is suffice,
Clatter of wood ,
Thud due wind,
And curtains fright.
Please make your way inside !!
This is the home in which you reside ,
This is where ,
you slept a myriad of nights.
Yes , this is the veranda of
Your childhood sunbaths,
Memory of joy,
Playing hard as mad .
Ooo,
It's your room,
Look at those doodles
On the walls,
Sketches of sun and crows
Signing your name ,
Across.
It's the TV you saw growing,
The fridge which colour's been fading
The bathroom's door which been
Cranking ,
(Joyful laugh)
Come beside,
Let's go on the roof ,
Take a breath
Let's move in a loop,
Sip of fresh air
Then make a move.
Reminisce the sunset ,
& The glare of moon ,
The panorama of lush green
silvered by lune.
This is your home
Not just a brick or stone ,
You spent your life here
Not just a shade of mere ,
This is a sweater of
Wool of will
The sweater that
has to be worn even
It's summer ,
It is an antique which
Only you can weave ,
So tell me ,
Why do you want to leave ?
Mar 12, 2025
Mar 12, 2025 at 3:17 PM UTC
I have never smoked before,
I have never lit a cigar before,
but I can relate this rolled-up tobacco
to my father.
When he spurts his venom,
it’s like puffing in
that bitter mellow taste of poison.
Once he shuts his **** mouth,
the bitter taste is puffed out.
It spreads onto the Earth.
It spreads around you
but you’ll act so unaffected by it.
Because you think
the air that circles you
will mix up
with that bitter mellow puff of air
and hope your worries
disappear.
Jun 26, 2023
Jun 26, 2023 at 9:25 PM UTC
i.
It’s the late 1990′s and you’re a kid
You’re skipping down the path in the garden called memory lane
Holding your mother’s hand
Suddenly you trip and fall
You see the lacerations across your knee that sting for days when you try to shower
For the path in the garden of memory lane has tripped you over by your nimble child legs
Wounding you temporarily
ii.
It’s the present day and you’re a grown woman
You’re walking down the rocky road called adulthood, wringing your own hands together in frustration
Your husband was found dead in a crashed car with another woman
Drunk driving and infidelity do not mix
You don’t see lacerations anywhere
Nor feel the ache of wounds that sting for days when you try to shower
For the rocky road whose name is adulthood has tripped you over by your last legs
Wounding your heart instead
For life
Jul 13, 2020
Jul 13, 2020 at 4:52 AM UTC
Childhood address remembered
all these years. Used now as
a password, a code, a credit card number:
the place itself a mist
of memories, light palpable
in the smoked filled air
Lawn springing downhill,
steeply impossible to mow,
steps winding up to a green door
as if in a dream.
garage below where is used to hide
among small dark thoughts
hanging from their webs
barely discerned in the dust
of time.
That’s where it all began
the endless internal battle,
the wasps’ nest of emotions,
the constant buzzing of the mind’s
heavy present that always
“seems to fail this bubble of a heart.”
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 4:13 AM UTC
Gently you patted my cheek,
with a tenderness piquant,
not known hitherto to us both.
Those quivering long fingers
exude motherliness,I miss ever after,
my mom has gone to her last pilgrimage,
And I crave for at moments of pain intense.
From the layers of memory darkened
by distance,I recover that feeling,
to place you instantly at a level higher,
than that of a sultry lover to whom
desire than anything higher binds together.
In to my lackluster eyes, you peer,
see the ineptly hidden drop of tear,
in the corner shivering plaintively
before rolling down to lose forever,
it's in the memory of my mother,
who rhythmically tapped my back,
led me to the cozy cloud of sleep,
when outside raged the rain storm,
I now gather, to a women I owe
when, time after time she takes
another avatar, of my mother,
momentarily, at times,when earth slips,
from under the feet
unexpectedly.
You did see the storm raging
inside and the child looking for solace.
You hold me close to your *****
and I travel to a world gone by again
even when wolves howl refusing to sleep.
and let me doze off to wake up in another world!
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 12:50 PM UTC
i remember
rainy days
spent gazing
out of cold
windows
we'd race
raindrops
with our
fingertips
breath misting
the glass
creating
swirling
inner worlds
of hidden
messages
and signs
we were young
enough then
to remember
how to sing the
melody of rain
and understand
its secret language
of ebb and flow
in an echo of time
ageless and pure
in its sincerity
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
If I went to sleep at night
would it be alright
If I closed my eyes
To the truth that I denied
Lifelessly laying there I cried
For a father whom I despised
Abused and afraid I wondered why?
You broke my heart and you alone did
How could you leave your first ******* kid?
Trapped in a mental cage and one I cannot rid
And ill be honest it still hurts me till this day
When asked about my father I have nothing much to say
You chose another family, another life over me
Made a child and forgot about her so easily
FIGIVENUS
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
me and my dad used to
fight over who
got to have the coveted, comfy, not-made-of-disgusting-yellow-foam
feather pillow
it wasn't really much of a
prize, I guess--
the feathers were so dead the
thing was practically
flat
but
it's the principle of it, the status that
a feather pillow brings to
my sleepy eyes-shut head
most of the time,
I won
he probably let me because
well
he loves me and
that's what parents do
But
he'd still fight
for that pillow he knew
I couldwoulddid fight
back
now, I walk into my bedroom and
see that feather pillow
already on my bed,
clean sheets,
neatly arranged
I wish for the fight
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 11:47 PM UTC