In Melancholia
by
Vincent Moore
Copyright
© 2011 Vincent
Moore.
Smashwords
Edition
Cover Design: SilverGenes Media.
Notice of Rights
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Notice of Liability
The author wishes to make it clear that any character named, described or otherwise referred to in any of the writings contained herein is purely fictional and does not represent any real person either living or dead.
Dedication
This collection of poetry is dedicated to all those who have survived and thrived despite a difficult and challenging past.
My
Lost Youth
Everybody
Knows
The
Drunkard at Her Table
This
Boy
Alone
In His Room
A
Town Without Pity
Like
a Bird On the Wire
An
Angel Wept for the Children
Broken
Dreams
This
Man, Once a Boy, Comes Home
A
Boy’s Love for his Father
He
Fought the Law and the Law Won
The
Death Mask of Love and Forgiveness
Beneath
His Feet
Down
at Old Sharpie’s
Sanctuary
A
Christmas Hallelujah
Main
Street Poets
Beneath
My Skin in Color
Tsunami
I
often think of my boyhood days
in a friendly village near the
shops
of railroad yards and factories.
In
deep thought 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
reliving how we kicked the
can
and hide and seek'd
and tried to lasso the moon
and
waited on mother’s call.
On
my street I can see
the shadowy lines of trees
and telephone
poles and catch
the aromas of stews
and fresh baked bread.
I
remember the open windows
with cigarette smoke swirling forth
and
old ladies chatting back and forth
hanging out mattresses filled
with straw
to air them out for a good nights 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
and king of the castle
while
tumbling down
with scrapes and burns
to give our mothers’
chills.
I
remember chasing the girls
around the block and begging
for a
kiss then running to hide
after a bell was rung
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.
Boys’
thoughts are lonely thoughts
but not forgotten
thoughts of long
long ago.
Some
things I cannot speak
of thoughts that make the strong heart
weak
and pale and 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
do they
appear and leave me
dreamy for those days
that found me
wandering there.
We
walked the streets of abuse
and lived the sins of our fathers
who
took the liberties
while their children cried
for chocolate
nothing more
and wept for being children
living in the poverty
of hell.
Everybody knows
These
children of the damned
who left for school with empty
stomachs
souls and dark eyes from their cries
for help and
whimpers from listening
to their mother’s tortured room.
Everybody knows
The
basement of their schools
where they found their fashions
hanging
like rags forgotten
by the rich kids up the hill
these poor
kids put them on
so bright the colors
to cheer their souls.
Everybody knows
The
wrath of peer pressure
came with blood and guts that spilled
so
freely from our fists
taught by being watchers at home
and
other kids left us alone
for these gawkers feared the recoils
from
the bottom feeders
at the foot of the hill.
Everybody knows
We
were waiting for a miracle
from whom or what we never knew
but
we waited all our youth away
just waiting for a miracle to
come
and take us all away from the pain
and guilt.
We felt
our pride slipping away
standing by our windows
watching out
and waiting
for the miracle that may never come.
Everybody knows
We
hate it here
the judgments are severe
for being simple
children
chewing bubble gum and waiting
for our miracle to
come
for our angel to fold us in her wings
and hold us near
nothing left but to wait
for this miracle to come
in dreams
we are lost like nakedness in the night
our bodies feeling and
waiting
for the miracle to come.
Everybody knows
We
need our sisters of mercy to go on
or else our song is lost
and
forever gone out of our control
we are pinned to the floor
in
the Hell of revenge
so sisters free us and let us confess
to
them as the dew melts
from the finger tips of their hands
binding
us close to their hems.
We are just lost children
please wake
us from hell
and show us heaven under your moon.
Everybody knows
Our
Hallelujahs echo
through our bedroom doors
in pain so softly we
cry please lift us
from this empty shell and shout
out
Hallelujah
to the children within your throne
of
Grateful Hallelujahs.
You've seen us long before we knew you
in
this cold and broken wretched life
of empty pathetic
Hallelujahs
of forgiveness and maybes
of cries your children
cry
while everybody knows our pain
we bow before you begging
you
to take us to your chamber of glorious
Hallelujahs.
I
am destroyed in youth and only time
has tried to heal and hide the
scars of long ago
when alcohol was in our house
and lives were
sent in turmoil.
School
books are left at the door
and mocked as being putrid
and
kicked into the corner by this Demon
unmerciful drunkard at her
table.
Alcohol
and cheap tobacco
fills the kitchen where he sits
stalking
Captain Morgan and
plotting vile upon the mother
so protective
of her child.
The beatings she took for
being a woman so
defiled
by this demon
who plots the kill of self and others
for
being weak to his will
alcohol his poison
this drunkard at her
table.
Fighting
in the past was fuel
for their fires of hate
love and lust for
each other
yet all the while lingering explosive
by each
passing minute
lurking to erupt upon this mother
the venom of
hate
this snake and drunkard at
her table.