So someone threw a stone back, and each fracture, each tiny break wound itself together into thread and the thread pulled itself around him- your great-great-great-great somebody.Īnd on the other side of that wall they were knitting just as fast, and theirs fit them just as well but only slightly different shade. And the crack in the skull that it hit fractured perfectly outward, like twigs on the branches on the limbs of a family tree. Cos your mother and your sister will help mend it- patch the holes, sew the tears, replace a button or two, help you back into it and tell you how proud they are of you, how good it looks on you the same way it looked on your dad, and your granddad too, and on his dad before him and on his father before him.īut back then, back then there was only sand until someone drew a line, someone built a wall, someone threw a stone. Maybe the holes in the sleeve are from the bullets you dodged yourself, so when it rips, snags on a barbed wire fence or someone else’s family, don’t worry. And the longer you wear it, the better it starts to fit, until some of the stories are your own. The bathroom mirror tells you you look good in it, that it makes your fists look a lot more justified, when you dig your hands deep into the pockets you’ll find stories hidden he left there for you to hand out to the other boys like car bombs.Īnd on days when everything else is slipping through your fingers, this you can wrap yourself inside of, this will keep you warm at night, help you drift off to sleep with a certainty that no matter what, it will still be there when you wake up. I know you think you’ll grow into it, that your arms will beef up after all the fighting and it will sit on your shoulders if you pin it on the right places with well-placed conviction. This poem is dedicated to Tante Wally who was our Light during the. It’s a few sizes too big and everyone can see it doesn’t fit you, makes you look silly, hangs loose at all the wrong places, even if it does match your skin colour. It was my neighbour who brought the Light Vlasta Grabovac. Whose feet thrilled rapture through this lawn,Ĭalled to their young hearts without cease.I know you’ve taken to wearing around your father’s hand-me-down anger. The young, whose hearts romped shouting here: That bright young creature? Take the book Whose high soul-yearnings nought can smother To friends who once would ’round you gather Nestled quietly, a supine stare erodes both time & place Till the bared branches scratched the north wind.įor the ceremonies on the arrival of MessiahĪnd bobbing small fishes snapped sun splintersĮlsewhere, cicadas whittle about the octogenarian heat. Parading monasteries moved slowly to the Black Sea Grave steel palaces with smoking torches, ![]() Hides the swinging steps of my first love How many loved your moments of glad grace,Īnd loved your beauty with love false or true,īut one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,Īnd loved the sorrows of your changing face Īnd bending down beside the glowing bars,īehind them a gray haze topped with silver Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep When you are old and grey and full of sleep,Īnd nodding by the fire, take down this book,Īnd slowly read, and dream of the soft look Mourn not the seasons past with useless tears,īut greet the pleasure of the coming years! Laughter and friends and dreams of Fairyland! ![]() When youth and childhood wander hand in hand,Īnd give you freely all which best can please – What splendid hours of your life are these With dross which they regret when they are old. Though few are willing, and their years they fill Our days, and lives, with fingers firm and bold,Īnd make them noble, straight and clean from ill, Now has rich time brought you a gift of gold –Ī long sweet year which you can shape at will,Īnd deck with roses warm, or with the chillĪnd heartless lilies – God gives strength to mould How far the unknown transcends the what we know. Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Published by Family Friend Poems April 2011 with permission of the Author. Which, though more splendid, may not please him more I believe its reassuring to many that theres hope for a childs fear to end as an adult, that our fears can end for were now grown enough to care for ourselves the way we. Still gazing at them through the open door, ![]() Leads by the hand her little child to bed,Īnd leave his broken playthings on the floor, Let’s dive into it! My Favorite Poem About Growing Up Take a moment to reflect on these powerful works and the universal themes they evoke. With our handpicked selection, you can find the best poems about growing up all in one convenient location. Our selection features works that explore the joys and challenges of growing up, including poems about growing up too fast and the experiences of growing up as a boy. 6 Poems About Growing Up as a Boy Our Handpicked Poems About Growing Upĭiscover a carefully curated collection of the most inspiring poems about growing up, thoughtfully categorized for your browsing pleasure.
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