A wellspring of
Eternal joy
Unfolds within
A little boy
He schemes and
Dreams in
Fantasies
Things no man
Could ever be
But somewhere in
His youthful eye
The boy must know
The man will die
Carolina home
In the great Palmetto State
Place where I was born
Boy was free to roam
On a ninety-acre farm
Free from fear and harm
In dirt, sand or mud
We sandlappers had it all
To work, play, or brawl
Turning the dark dirt
Putting the hounds on the trail
Tussling with cousins
Having dirt clog fights
Making toys out of pine bark
Plowing fertile fields
Running through the pines
Wading through the boggy swamp
Swinging from a vine
Down in muddy swamp
Turtle is called a “cooter”
Anglicized slave word
So my cousin says
Parents were missionaries
Belgian Congo
Many days have gone
Much water under the bridge
Since I left that home
Days of yesteryear
Now, home is where I reside
But memories last
Through every field, copse, and wildflower,
Ran a little boy every happy hour,
Until, once, the troll king, ripe with power,
Imprisoned him in his dreary tower...
Never again, to see the light of day.
How ever hard the poor wee boy may try,
Or how many tears the angels might cry,
He'll sit in his cell and one day will die,
Before the mad, laughing troll's evil eye...
Oops, what do I hear the troll king say?
"How did the boy disappear and escape?",
He cursed and cried with his foul mouth agape.
I must tell you, he was bent out of shape.
He dissolved in a puddle, that hairy ape...
And the carefree boy will forever play!
He was born young, I mean really young
His hair was curly, fluffy and beige
His skin, for milk and fire a bridge
His eyes, orbs of fiery passion
Favoured was he by Aphrodite and Adonis
He is he that is moulded by time and endless time of daydream.
Bite Size Poem no48
Boyhood Blues
It feels like summer –
The s(h)immer of an enduring sun
Sitting down at a family dinner with the front door open
Nostalgia coats everything like a thin layer of dust
Stale memories swirl about in each breath
It smells like a childhood home and tastes of summers past
(lost freedom and simplicity wait in every bite)
It feels like summer – and I don’t know what to do
Because summer is a scrapbook
discovered in the attic amidst swirling dust
pictures stained with déjà vu and paper scraps curled from age
Because heartache strips me down to a few golden-egg moments
Because I’m exposed against the battering winds of Time and Fate
(As they weigh me down in their entrapping fog)
You see, summer is not a season but a tangible sliver of the cosmos
that brushes up against us and moves past
KP hill commune
4 seasons promenade play
wonderland of friends
school was out
vacation touched our gate
long days
bedtimes late
time
routines
we relegate
bird nesting
climbing trees
building dens adultless
scenes
picnics and make-believe
imagination-filled
dreams
unsupervised
wandering free
adventures
sans boundary
no cares no chore
natural boyhood
...to the core
BOYHOOD UNEARTHED
It’s
cool
X X It’s awesome
X X Can I keep it forever...
X the fort X
9/13/2019
I'm a little silly boy hanging in the tub
Scrub, scrub, scrub got to wash away all the ketchup from when my dad becomes the hulk.
Mom came in and saw the ketchup water turning red she she said I hope this isn't my baby boys final waterbed.
Then laughed and left.
My mama mrs. G is silly and playful but she didn't make no tea.
I got a little tired and fell asleep, the water filled my lungs and I couldn't make peep.
then my momma came in and said guess I was right . LOL XD. little did she know I was very thirsty. Slurp Slurp Slurp.
A long time ago when I was a boy
Christmas was a special time of the year.
A time of glad tidings and of good cheer;
memories of these days still bring me joy.
Christmas Eve night was a magical time;
a time family together would enjoy.
The hope that Santa brings that special toy;
one gift we open then into bed we climb.
Up Christmas morn to see what Santa brought;
then off to Mass to start our Christmas Day,
and greet the Christ child on our knees we pray.
Our faith came first, this is how we were taught.
Back home after Mass, we had breakfast first
then we all opened presents one by one.
Laughing and playing and having great fun;
the day proceeds as seemingly rehearsed.
Late in the day to Grandparents we go;
many aunts, uncles, and cousins to see;
a large extended family have we,
and our Christmas buffet was such a show.
These my fond memories from days of yore
when I was a young boy way back then.
If I could I would do it all again;
sometimes I wish Christmas was as before.
December 1, 2017
The coarse green fatigues
etches away at me, cracking
and burning my skin.
The hands I once so warmly held
are replaced with the cold sternness
of pistol grips.
Every shot of my gun whips
me into form, chipping away
the soft ends of me. They hammer hard
as the army sculptures another soldier.
I've forgotten the lift of careless laughter
as these muscles tense and freeze.
As we march and our boots thump
against hard mud in this dark jungle,
I feel this cold settle in and wonder
if this is the passing of boyhood.
The coarse green fatigues
etches away at me, cracking
and burning my skin.
The hands I once so warmly held
are replaced with the cold sternness
of pistol grips.
Every shot of my gun whips
me into form, chipping away
the soft ends of me. They hammer hard
as the army sculptures another soldier.
I've forgotten the lift of careless laughter
as these muscles tense and freeze.
As we march and our boots thump
against hard mud in this dark jungle,
I feel this cold settle in and wonder
if this is the passing of boyhood.
My eyes groaned , morning arrived, I realized,
Then a moment of dire shook my entire stiff body.
Did that night really happen? Did that happen to me?
Was that a “gift” from my uncle Toddy?
I was high, couldn’t move, when he raised my back up and then
… oh no, I had to go spew.
I couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, my body was numb,
No one knew what I knew what I went through?
Then, it never happened, not to me, I was in control,
I was only crying from watching movie features.
I had to get busy, that was it, at fifteen, study at school,
I’d concentrate on each of my teachers.
Since then I can’t play footy, sleeping’s a memory,
I don’t talk to family about sexual assault.
I hate being in crowds, don’t touch me, I don’t go out,
And, yes, this is all my own stupid fault.
Now my beautifully effective tool dealing with nightmares
Is to drink and smoke and inject.
I think I’m coping alone in my head really well,
But my wife says I’m emotionally wrecked.
A mind like an overcrowded nation
plagued by emotional congestion,
caused by the misguided traffic light of attraction,
just to nurture an unrealistic mission
with senses blinded by an adolescent vision
to peel more, the already growing lesion.
Causing a yearning of her attention
even if it’s just a fraction.
But this is simply experience’s portion
which will be passed by the wheels of life’s motion.
Love and lust rubbing the same lotion
confusion then becomes
a very tender but heavy laden emotion.
There is a poignancy in boyhood...
The high voice, and ineptitude,
The yearning to be free of mother's strings;
The awkwardness of age fifteen, to wit
A boyish sullenness.
There are some things lost when manhood gained -
And mothers cry on thinking.
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3/10/2015
Featured poem of the week commencing 8/13/2017
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