My Lost Youth









I often think of my boyhood days

in a friendly village near the shops,

of railroad yards and factories.


In deep thoughts, I walk the streets

up and down and recall who lived

between the walls of those old flats,

of stone and wooden doors.


My youth comes back, haunting my

memory remembering how we

kicked the can, played hide and seek,

and tried to lasso the moon, and

waited on mother’s call.


On my street I can see the shadowy

lines of trees telephone poles, and

catch the aromas of fresh-baked

bread and stews.


I remember the open windows,

with cigarette smoke swirling,

while old women chatted back and

forth, hanging out mattress’s filled

with straw to air them out for a

good night’s sleep.


The thoughts of youth, are deep

and long thoughts that never want

to leave for fear of never coming

back to fill my boyhood dreams.


I remember the fort upon the hill,

being king of the castle, while

tumbling down with scrapes and

burns to give our mothers chills.


I remember chasing girls around

the block and begging for a kiss,

then running to hide after a doorbell

was ringing to watch from hidden

secret places in laneways by the sheds.


I remember my broken heart, when

told she would not take my first kiss

on her lips, but on her cheek, and then

watch her rub it away while a tear

fell from my eye.


Boy’s thoughts are lonely thoughts,

but not forgotten thoughts, of long, long ago.

Some things I can’t speak of thoughts that

make the strong heart weak, and pale,

to bring a lingering feeling from the soul

so deep, and misty eyes that sorrow

for tomorrow.


For the ghosts that hide behind those walls

still are pure, and sweet and echo lullabies

of days gone by, yet never really leave my side.


So leave me in my boyhood thoughts so

keen and vivid, as they appear and leave

me dreamy for those days that found

me wondering there.


© Copyright Vincent Moor. All Rights Reserved.


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