Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jul 2018
While meditating earlier today,
a flashback leapt
     clear for me to assay,
those ever receding

     early boyhood daze,
     now subsumed within fifty,
plus nine shades of gray
blissfully innocent naivety,

     (though blessed) no way
would, aye desire to turn back
     the hands of father time (hypothetically),
     where unstructured play

regularly with older sister
     (thirteen plus months
     my senior) predominantly
     slicing, sliding, and slipping

     stockinged feet skittering
     across slippery basement floor,
     this then soul full
     skinny thing bellowed hooray.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"I'm Matty Mattel; I got hurt;
     Can you go out?"
Those words uttered
     by the very first

     pull-string talking doll
     Mattel did tout
circa nineteen sixty
     revolutionizing the birth

     of quasi simulated (lifelike) toys,
     and made of common
     materials found scout
ting around the house simply comprising

     hard vinyl (i.e. pseudo
     plaster of Paris) head he did flout
     with remaining body
     stuffed with padding,

     a definite no
     no (chew toy) when Fido about.
Actually that pooch,
     would be Georgie to you,

     (a hybrid Boxer Dalmatian)
     with docked tail
my young parents acquired,
     when as a newborn,

     aye did inconsolably wail
though recollection of such memory
     fifty nine years ago tis of no avail
yet, a resumption of meditation,

     sans lightness of being
     (analogous trancelike state),
     that doth prevail
replaying silent film preceding,

     when psyche seem so frail
plummeting into emotional abyss
     the nadir i.e. anorexia nervosa
pleading return to nostalgic boyhood
     decrying change hide didst bewail!
Written by
matthew scott harris  58/M/schwenksville, penna
(58/M/schwenksville, penna)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems