Long Boyhood Poems
Long Boyhood Poems. Below are the most popular long Boyhood by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Boyhood poems by poem length and keyword.
I’m Huck, and my last name is Finn.
On the great Mississippi I’ve been
playing hooky from school
‘cause there ain’t any rule
that can keep Huckleberry caged in.
I bet that you’ve already read
about the fun life that I’ve led,
how I got a bad foe
that they called Injun Joe
and how me and Tom one time played dead!
I ain’t nothin’ special, just Huck.
In my boyhood forever I’m stuck.
Just one kid needs to look
at the words in Twain’s book
and I’ll stay alive - with any luck!
*My character, of course, is Huckleberry Finn, taken from the novel of the same title, written by a very witty humorist, Samuel Clemens, AKA Mark Twain.
Written 4/20/14 by Andrea Dietrich for the "Become a fictitious character taken from a book (or a movie) ! Free Poetry Contest" of Giorgio A.V.
aforementioned author born
February 7, 1812
the long deceased (centuries) storied author
I toot and trumpet virtual horn
accompanying pet rooster
first thing in the morn.
Greetings mutual friend,
hard times dash Great Expectations
in this Bleak House
whereby battle of life ensues
when Sunday chimes
from Master Humphrey’s clock
somber American notes
invoking overshadowing doom
from young gentlemen:
Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby, Barnaby Rudge
Martin Chuzzlewit, David Copperfield
and Young Cricket on the hearth Little Dorrit
collaborated on Pickwick Papers
with Dombey and son detailing
how I (a haunted man/
ghost’s bargain) alias Mudfog
self absorbed in his Old Curiosity Shop
hunted down by boyhood days
(akin to an endless Christmas carol
frieze as child’s history)
now a thick dust covered holiday romance
memory portraying this signal-man
(according to George Silverman's explanation)
eerily similar to
the mystery of Edwin Drood,
exiled after his trial for murder
birthing three ghost stories
inhabiting a haunted house
affecting the young couples lamplighter,
an uncommercial traveler
evidenced by pictures from Italy
prone to speeches, sketches
by Boz and his lazy tour
an oft repeated Tale Of Two Cities
best read at dusk.
Each of us = our own worst enemy
Hyperbole escorted ushered down aisle,
no critic within google x bajillion mile
(give or take a million) approximates
limitless potential regarding self said
epithet vile expletive spewing wicked
vituperation, vilification, vexation,
vandalization, undervaluation, uglification,
transmogrification, terrorization, suffocation,
stultification, strangulation, recrimination...
custom made swiftly tailored harried style
unbounded poetic license curtly vile
distilling, kickstarting, whipping...
hewed, patented, trademarked... versatile
methodologies, modalities to compile
masochistic punishment exhibiting agile
proactive innovations linkedin to avast
amalgamation, where synonyms connote
inflicting physical/ verbal self harm while
alone within emotional wilderness I'll
venture to add non active means to torture
including versus being passively servile,
and case in point with yours truly exile
isolate, entombed, locked, sequestered...
in bedroom of boyhood cherished domicile,
no matter whether violent or tame recourse
good n plenti abominations populate fertile
two clenched fist sized gray matter awash
where rage against our thwarted ambitions
dreams, goals, joys, motives, most pregnant trial
birthing most brutish, horrific, nasty... nemesis.
Please excuse this wurst wordy wayward bard
cuz here cometh the tricked out guard
(oh my...dog he attired just like me)
as everyone else within this isolationist ward.
Whom the horse is looking for
Every day in the scarlet breeze
It comes and taps at the door
Have you forgotten your blue cheese
Is it the one I dream of
Accompanied by the charged shiver
Especially when I am burnt out
Like the lean exhausted river
The last time I saw it
In blue light it stood
The pink link it signalled me
I was in a restless wood
I tried to recall
Where had I seen it
The tempest and the thunder squall
Then the ocean of the mist
But how come I am morose
I have got nothing to do
With this equine inquiry
Then what for the blues overdose
But the residual pink remains
I have seen it somewhere
Beside the blue Euphrates?
My another mind inquired
A Freudian explained me
Your horse misses you
Your bosom friend of the boyhood
Longs for a hue or two
He reached me a magazine
Inside I came across the faces
Of lovely blonde and black women
In very skimpy dresses
I couldn't remove my eyes
Was in a reverie
What is it, the analyst asked
Is it the equine spree?
Was the horse now inside me?
Something I felt scary
Does Mathew still hold good
Was it the visual adultery?
From above
Dropped a dew
Are you living still
In the age of Mathew
Was it the horse
Yes, said he
Goading you
Into harmless glee
And my thoughts
Went astray
Last night in Paul's house
How charmingly in the sofa she lay
The tremor in the cup of tea
Now the horse again for the infidelity
I knew it for sure
It was the mental adultery
Now Mathew not alone
Beside him glared Mark
I was in a blind cone
This crimson sky how to shirk
Tush tush
Smiled the analyst
Without the child
You can't exist
You are living in the light speed life
It is the child that slows you down
Makes you smile amidst your strife
In the mirror you wear a crown
February 12, 2018
Loss of an Innocent Mind - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
It was just this morning. That it was.
At the table there sat only three.
There was Tux, the foam Linux penguin.
The others were my oatmeal and me.
I never do tire of oatmeal.
But the penguin was growing old.
I stared at its unmoving face
As my oatmeal began to get cold.
The face on this penguin companion,
Which ten years on my table had been,
Speaks with remarkable eloquence
Despite its immovable grin.
I found my thoughts drifting to boyhood
To my grandmother’s green backyard
Where I gathered and ate fallen walnuts,
Eating insides, the shells to discard.
From that walnut tree, a rope swing hung
That could lift you to clouds in the sky.
From the world below, it made you free.
Like an eagle, it helped you to fly.
To sky I’d climb from wine grapes below.
The magic swing would descend and rise.
To its rocking reeling rhythm and rhyme,
Plans and dreams would emerge and arise.
As that swing left the orbit of earth
Making people the size of small fleas,
So, too, I would leave for strange lands afar
And sail away across distant seas.
One day, I would be a brave hero -
And defeat villains, nefarious,
And with help from my trusty sword, I’d be
Extricated from jams, precarious.
When I could, I’d refrain from violence,
And peacefully take Billy the Kid.
Then, I’d be off to the world’s other side
To the Taj Mahal and the Great Pyramid.
I’d go to London and Paris
And see artworks of beauty and grace
And resplendent castles of kings and queens
And one day marry a princess named Grace.
“Wait a second”, interrupted the penguin.
“You never did that or any such thing,
Before or after that conference
From whence me to this table you’d bring”.
This penguin had the nerve to tell me,
“It’s junk heap time for you and your sword”.
So, I tossed him in the recycling bin
Along with my flattened cardboard.
Happy 212th birthday Charles Dickens
Though written three hundred
and sixty five days ago,
the following poetic commemoration
doth not warrant any modification.
Said prolific author born February 7, 1812,
whose living descendents
I would be thrilled to befriend,
hence if anonymous reader
by some genetic fluke
linkedin to said
prolific storied author
please kindly reciprocate.
greetings mutual friend,
hard times dash
great expectations in this bleak house,
whereby battle of life ensues
when Sunday chimes
from master humphrey’s clock
issue somber american notes
invoking overshadowing doom
from young gentlemen:
oliver twist, nicholas nickleby, barnaby rudge
martin chuzzlewit, david copperfield,
young cricket and on the hearth little dorrit
collaborated on pickwick papers
with dombey and son detailing
how I (a haunted man/
ghost’s bargain) alias mudfog
got self absorbed in his old curiosity shop
hunted down by boyhood days
(akin to an endless Christmas carol
frieze as child’s history),
now a thick dust covered holiday romance
memory portraying this signal-man
(according to george silverman’s explanation)
eerily similar to the mystery of edwin drood,
exiled after his trial for murder
birthing three ghost stories
inhabiting a haunted house
affecting the young couples lamplighter
an uncommercial traveler
evidenced by pictures from italy
prone to speeches, sketches
by boz and his lazy tour
an oft repeated tale of two
cities best read at dusk.
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.
Finally after twenty two plus
years of marriage,
a husband (namely yours truly -
hitherto known as Matthew Scott Harris)
exhibits glint of care and concern
toward his significant other,
which wife bemoaned
absent expressions of love
particularly before the
honeymoon even occurred.
I readily admit shying away
from emotional intimacy,
especially toward the gal
whose pledge I trothed
July twenty fifth nineteen ninety six,
(fifteen days hence)
yet even formative years (mine)
scant overtures displayed toward
me father, mother, plus
older and younger sister
(neither non twisted).
A strong suspicion predominates
neurological, psychological,
and social perturbations
commingled while said christened goodfella
developed in utero, whereat genetic quarks
sparked, manifested, and engendered
unforeseen grievous hardship
severely, inexplicably, and figuratively
dislocated, truncated, and uprooted
his promising, (albeit
short lived) blissful boyhood,
which happy go lucky preschool years
abruptly analogously came to crashing halt
soon after setting foot into first grade.
Impossible mission
to tease out telltale explanation(s)
only thru courtesy 20/20 hindsight
can hypothesis be formulated
regarding congenital
chromosomal cellular discrepancy
birthing what appeared a healthy baby
though prone to wailing
without rhyme nor reason,
especially if held
by any person except mother.
At a tender age behavioral blitzkrieg
rent asunder tenuous connections
shattering nascent aggregation
to allow, enable, and provide
healthy interpersonal development
unbeknownst what molecular processes
kickstarted, pronounced, triggered...
wayward son to recoil against humanity
(think how like magnetic poles
repel each other).
Most all mein kampf
scant communication brokered
never establishing linkedin bonds,
nor fostering emotional intimacy
despite witnessing overt caring
among parents who begat me
or siblings, who exuded
natural propensity to comfort each other.
Something so primal as to elicit
heartfelt sympathy I lacked
which aloofness generated offensiveness
essentially buttressed (with flying colors)
hermetically sealed existence (mine)
nsync livingsocial within alien nation.
Since boyhood I did dream
of landscapes with visions so idyllic,
and sitting under a huge pine tree
that the Campanian breeze undulated gently,
they excited me by stirring thoughts so intrinsic...
brighter than gems and stars, and 'till evening came:
the Divine and the Human blended into a harmony
which enhanced the celestial images slowly
and magnificently revealing themselves to me!
Awake the Shakespeare in me,
his intellectual ability
is lava flowing incandescently...
invading slopes with its intense heat and fiery flame
that nobody preventing it from sliding can tame;
it withholds nothing from me and writing
incessantly, I notice all, not letting
images flee memory!
I sought loneliness to contemplate creation
with its awesome sunrises and sunsets:
who could envision Heaven without faith?
I did imagine it by putting in motion a belief which any heart
would accept and be stunned by the moon's colorlessness
as those Cirrus clouds tried to hinder her hazy brilliance,
and it did shine to make me fearless...
and let me explore incredible nights of fascination!
Awake the Shakespeare in me
by gathering an audience before my stage
illuminated by the constant light of the constellations:
will my lines delight faces or cause rage?
Shout and interrupt me, if I fail to entertain you with improvised amazement;
applaud me, if I achieve what I came to do so passionately!
If the captain of a stranded ship challenges fierce oceans,
then I might as well incite profound emotions and lure you into wonderment!
~~ooOO If I Were A Boy OOoo~~
If I were a boy, how cool that would be!
I’d always have a friend ready to play with me
Through boyhood to manhood I know he’d be there
We’d play together always, happy to share.
The cowboys won’t worry if the Indians attack
I’d get out my weapon and fight them all back.
The monsters would disappear from under the bed
With my weapon in my hand, I’d strike them all dead.
Girls they say are faster learning at school
But with my weapon in my hand I’d show them I’m cool.
Writing when I want; my letters nice and slow
I’d even write my name into the white virgin snow.
The life of a boy is all balls it seems,
From baseball to football and cricket.
With my weapon in my hand I’d knock every ball in
Through the hoop, in the net and hit the wicket.
As a man my friend would still be with me
More controlled put away, and not accidentally.
As a member now of the opposite gender,
I’d be gifted with the power of childishness to remember.
Where as girls grow soppy and want a boy to love them
Boy’s grow strong, and want to go out with men.
To swill pints of ale and make themselves sick
But they count every pint as though some great trick.
If I were a boy I’d take my pride in my hand
I’d hit the highest point on the wall when I stand.
I’d have the biggest, most powerful one ever
My throw would be talked about and forgotten never.
If I were a man I’d have huge shoulders, strong I would be.
If I were a man I’d be the man that loves me.
If I were an Olympian I‘d be the pride of the nation
As you know well, every boy is gifted with
A huge imagination.