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 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.