Long Boyhood Poems
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Paternal grandmother's headstone - Beth David, Elmont, Long Island
Shaindel (Sadie), variant of Shana Harris
died May 13th, 1959 exquisitely chiseled
alphanumeric characters legibly engraved
sepulchral casket entombing lovely bones
deoxyribonucleic acid repurposed into me
Matthew Scott Harris patronymic protector,
when I die taking family surname to netherland
who unwittingly named his youngest daughter
after his recently deceased father's mother.
Mortality encompasses subsequent cremation
never mind death of yours truly unbeknownst
mine soul will migrate towards deceased kith
kindred folks only known courtesy genealogy
descendents called Eastern Europe homeland
upon landing at Ellis Island émigrés hugged
immigration officials and illegibly scribbled
unpronounceable/ unreadable birth names
subsequently adopting common shorthand.
Chromosomes reconstituted genetic material
gifted from forebears ecstatic immigrants apt
to be regaled by relatives hustling newcomers
into fast paced frenzy, the latter gesticulating
at cityscape marveling over hubbub jabbering
babble synchronized in tandem with hawkers
and vendors selling, peddling comestibles,
gewgaws, papers, et cetera predating buyer
beware analogous to innocents abroad say
by George an American in Paris humming
Rhapsody in Blue.
Agog regarding novel sights never seen within
father/mother land, viz supposed New World
blitzkrieg eventually quieted, relegated, shelved...
analogous by Dickens perusing tchotchkes
commonly found within olde curiosity shop,
yet no matter acclimatization arose espying
eye opening merchandise, the dirt poor status
regarding bloodlines a couple generations ago
immediate deterrent experienced by Aaron
Harris (papa's father) as a boy, who provided
for his family, their hardscrabble existence
only somewhat alleviated thru hook and crook.
Please pardon poetic license usurped,
especially slight exaggeration of penury
promulgated concerning up by bootstraps
scenario evinced by paternal grandfather
after he attained and emerged out boyhood,
though destitution imprinted thru his infancy
until growing up hardened qua hard school
of knocks limiting him to eighth grade education.
In those early years, growing up in the country
Walking barefoot, on old gravel roads
With neighborhood friends, a dog or two
Pulling a wagon of pop bottle gold
We were pirates, marauders, searching for treasure
In the ditches, as we walked, to the store
In simpler days, with much simpler ways
Soon, to pass in, to folklore
It had an old screen door, with a long squeaky spring
Which greeted you as you entered
Slapping shut behind you, with a distinctive, CLAP!
Bringing the storekeeper front and center
While the old man figured, what was already known
We each grabbed a little paper sack
Just like 49'ers, digging for gold
We mined the penny candy rack
The thick gray planks, were buckled from age
Some held by a single nail
A few odd chairs, scattered about
Hosts to many an exaggerated tale
So many memories from that old porch
Telling stories and eating ice cream
Counting the cars, on the passing freight trains
Each one, hauling a different dream
Over a half a century, since those boyhood days
But I can still hear that clicketty-clack
Still taste the penny candy, see the old man smile
Hear him say," Thank you and ya'll come back.
by Daniel Turner
Offenbach to boyhood, I pined nostalgic
Tale of (H)offman woe (mine)
linkedin, speedier than quick
brown fox jumps over the lazy dog,
fast as fired ballistic
soon after conception, when
yours truly a mere embryonic
nudnik, nonetheless I venture
to advance hypothesis fantastic,
and farfetched as said theoretic
conjecture deoxyribonucleic genetic
housed within chromosomal material generic
human being eventually
coalescing into holistic
corporeal and spiritual essence intrinsic
being christened Matthew Scott Harris,
wherein unbeknownst manifest destiny poetic
primate took shape pronouncing
his bent quixotic
also riddled with predilection toward panic
attacks, generalized anxiety frenetic
disposition and moost definite laconic
demeanor most evident,
when he cast characteristic
contemplative, intuitive,
not necessarily universalistic
as unfavorable inherited, plus behavioral trait
generally articulate, delicate, intricate... pacific
progeny afflicted with psychological honorific
schizoid personality disorder deeply affecting
mental, physical and spiritual bailiwick
rendering him beset with idiosyncratic
faulty cognitive mental health issues
super tramping, thriving,
albeit teetotaling opportunistic
mailer daemons upending
with horrific, capitalistic, and academic
failures, (I will spare thee graphic)
details only offering synopsis
such as anorexia nervosa,
generalized anxiety, obsessive
compulsive disorder fatalistic
outlook encompassing pathetic
purposeless quirky ritualistic
counterproductive mindset atavistic
beastie boy propensity, who must exit
regarding call of the wild this urbane rustic.
timid, meek, and demure (effeminate) me,
essentially ruled the roost
regarding Harris household
sole son characterized vis a vis
presented passive resistant
outward nonestablishmentarian mold
worst case scenario
would witness Matthew Scott Harris
spending longevity old and feeble minded
at 324 Level Road
outliving parents, pets
(comprising inordinate
number of dust bunnies) and siblings
(an older and younger sister),
the latter whose globetrotting exploits I envied,
nevertheless outlived anyone polled
even Methuselah, where mein kampf
blissful, fanciful, nouveau poet
nearly long forgotten boyhood charade,
facade inlaid masquerade
crumbled like broken scaffold
attaining centenarian years old -
faintly maintaining umbilical stronghold
considerably surpassing mommy dearest,
born November 13th, nineteen thirty five,
yet moments before her passing
she barely audibly apologized
for occasions she did reprimand and scold
retaliated against grim reaper,
he whisked her diseased riddled body away
after completing seventy plus orbits, all told.
I experienced interminable
relentlessly psyche burning acrid
tormenting, teasing, and talking funny
bullying vulnerability compounded amid
courtesy of split uvula set me apart
alien as a Druid livingsocial
during latter half of twentieth
and first two decades of twenty first century
rather a speech pathologist
informed legal biological guardians
regarding Lancaster Cleft Palate Clinic
minor congenital defect when
attending sixth grade at
Henry Kline Boyer Elementary
i.e., submucous cleft palate, aforesaid
whereby every day akin getting scorched
by some "NON FAKE" ironclad grid
me, this twangy nasal kid
my undersized and socially
withdrawn demeanor contributing
to existence tumultuous and turbid.
Beyond the wave-sacked pebbles
lie the pockmarked dunes,
sea-wind swept heaps,
burrowed by the claws of scaly thrashers.
Here they huddle, the working class,
flogging grim pleasures,
wolfing eggy sandwiches,
dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers
as a chill summer drizzles on.
I am a brine-spattered small fry,
a boyhood caught in a swirl
and flounder, bare feet
skimming the slimy kelp, stalking
an ankle tugging surf.
Mother, her demeanor
soggy and sagging at last,
pleads to be led back
to the creaking camper.
Father smokes a plug of leathery shag,
grunts upright, walks toward the sea,
looks to see God knows what,
then turns to drag me away,
from our holiday day.
Once, a young green leaf I was
Among thousands of leaves on a tree
Proud and vibrant amidst my brothers
Life's most enthusiastic devotee
Night and day guardian I stood
Vigilant the foliage wanted to protect
Producing oxygen and offering shelter
To every bird that I could detect
The Spring, though, went fast by
And was followed by the Summer's heat
Hard times my siblings and l had to face
Till Autumn came and made heat retreat
By the middle of Autumn though
I noticed my color started to change
My siblings began one by one, falling
For nature wished her looks to rearrange
Now, almost alone my self I find
Standing on a practically naked wood
Waiting for the breeze of fate to blow
Reminiscing the vivid days of boyhood
© Demetrios Trifiatis
06 April 2021
Friendship
Up the road, from where we lived, two children came to stay
My parents knew their grandma well, they talked 'most every day
A happy boy, a little odd, but always was so kind
I never was ashamed to say, he was a friend of mine
His sister was my brother's age, the boy younger than me
Products of a broken home, back then a rarity
His drool was always running down, he couldn't make it stop
The other kids poked fun at him, they called him Slobber Slop
I never saw him fight no one, I never saw him cry
His sister did
My brother did
And sadly so did I
Two years went by, their dad came back, time for them to fly
His eyes teared at my house that day, as he hugged us all goodbye
I lived my life, I took a wife, we bought a brand new home
Out of the blue, one day a knock, my how he had grown
Six foot three, two twenty five, a mountain of a man
His drool had stopped
His tears had not
He reached and took my hand
He'd never forgot the kindness shown
Though we were miles apart
The love we shared as boyhood friends
Still lived within our hearts.
Daniel Turner
Scads of decades ago...
Metaphorical mama's yoyo
came undone, unleashing woe
doggone wizard of oz sought in toto
afore final picture show
would play staging pro
sic cuter determining
irrevocable fate oh no!
Approximately this time of year
(circa mid December) as
Christmas holiday doth near,
yours truly donning his unrecognizable
incognito custom tailored corporeal wear
well worn, timeworn, and careworn
birthday suit - most
frightening Halloween scare
transient boyhood lad
spooked with fear
courtesy grizzled old man,
who toothless doth glare
at much younger self
sporting scraggly gray hair
searches happy go lucky,
innocently naive, fancy free
and footloose spare
slip sliding away shy kid 'ere
timid, solitary, reservedly...
imperfect triangulated square
peg in round hole
quizzically, soundlessly... mere
roaring, reflecting, and ruminating
riddled with despair
methinks him foreigner, stranger, harbinger...
unavoidable, hellacious, catastrophic...
pitfalls he ain't aware
impossible mission to bolster near
deadly encounters with
maniacal mailer daemons
stealing his harmony, jollity, spontaneity...
knocking him out stone cold no prayer,
nor wing can revive, he will appear,
whence straddling prepubescence
agonizingly scared shuffling, skulking
sputtering... collapsing upon
his scrawny derriere
bony posterior subjected
necessary iron injections
courtesy Harriet Harris (mother)
licensed practical nurse buttressing
emaciated frame hiding her tear
filled eyes, while sole son
wishes grim reaper cursed harridan
freely clutching him onto elysian fields,
where abound spirits
of grateful dead everywhere.
Without teeth, he gums his peach pie
Savoring the deep satisfaction of the taste
Taste of yesterday, aroma of sweet boyhood youth
His crooked glasses still dignify his weather face
Not much to say when enjoying a slice of peach pie
Enjoy peach pie
He eats his secret treat I sneak to him
Not proper for his diet
He is eighty-three with Alzheimer
One slice of pie won't be the reason
For his demise
In the corner of this massive Veterans Home
He smiles as he swallows the last gulp of his sweet treat
As I gently wipe the mush from his face
I feel the presence of another hand over mine
In within a wink of an eye, I see the pale image
Of my deceased mother shimmering in the shadows
Of an otherwise empty wing chair
Smiling
(11/01/2007)
Bright sunlight tumbles from the crystal blue,
while contemplation plows my fertile mind.
The moon comes early, making its debut.
Dark night will settle, leaving day behind.
These sights implore my consciousness to think,
since days can see their joy sometimes abate.
Such times like these can be a tasteless drink.
As darkness falls, I tensely sit and wait.
Such times have come and gone in rapid fire.
My strained heart wants to know my life is good.
I strive to see the joy through muck and mire,
Remembering the fun of my boyhood.
I’ve heard it all my life in diverse ways.
Are these the times we’ll call the Good Ole Days?