Spun Tales Of A Boy's Childhood Put Into Proper Context Poem by Ted Sheridan
Spun Tales Of A Boy's Childhood Put Into Proper Context
The little boy closes his big brown innocent eyes and slowly
Very slowly
Starts to turn his body in a full and perfect tight circle
With his little arms outstretched and with his eyes still closed
He clamps them shut even tighter with every rotation he makes
As if by the centrifugal force of his spins they will be pried open
To reveal some secrets secret about being a kid
His body spins faster ever faster
And the circles it makes grow wider and ever widened
Spinning and spinning more wildly than ever
He starts spinning and then whirling out of control
Until….like a wooden and brightly colored top on its last few spins it topples
Its colors beginning to bleed out and in
His own motion finally shows signs of slowing and his dizzy head and body
Fall to the ground where he is cushioned by the tall grass of a perfect albeit out of focused world
Like a small well crafted line taken out of context from a poem
Scribbled on the inside wrinkled wall of an old man’s mind as he remembers….
How many years it has been since he used to be like the little boy
But alas his youths been spent keeping his feet beneath his head
And his arms in tight to his body
He is no more…...that little boy
The little boy lies with his arms and legs spread wide to each side of his body
His big brown innocent eyes now opened wide to the clouds and the sky overhead
He takes deep breaths and fills his expanding lungs with gallons and gallons of air
Hyperventilating over the thrill of being dizzy and having relinquished total control
To the unknown forces of youthful thinking and being
He lies there enjoying the view and taking in everything the spinning world has to offer
The old man sets down his glasses and his wine and reads the lines of his masterpiece
Out of focus but now completed in the knowledge
Which only an occasional spin can provide
2007 © T Sheridan
Ted. Wow. And then... wow. This is quite simply brilliant. I've never known someone have such a way with words, generally. You know, I was just thinking the other day that if we were presented with a few hundred poems with anonymous author it would be the easiest job in the world to pick out which ones were yours. (Er, yes, bit of a random thought there) . Love to you, t xx
A fascinating and different perspective, Ted. I enjoyed it. Marilyn
I now want to go out to the nearest field and spin till I throw up! This is gorgeous Ted, really really gorgeous. Hugs Anna xxx
i'm not sure how anyone can say a poem is 'brilliant' when almost every line has totally unoriginal language in it, just goes to show how little people really know about poetry, very very strange
Meticulous detail, and an effullgence of imagework highlight this most ''well spun'' story, and poetic gem... Ted, you indeed impress, and never disappoint...Stellar Craftsmanship, my friend. FjR
With every joyous spin, I read and remembered, and regretted the loss of that 'Boy's Childhood' when he was growing up, trying to keep his feet on the ground under him. Perfection of memory and love for the little fellow, cause I know he still exists in your heart and soul. Linda
I sometimes come acroos a poem that I think: 'S\He's not going to better that. However difficult it is in your case to say this, this one tops the lot that I have read of yours. It is one of the best poems I have read on this site- and there has been (and will continue to be) great poetry. I can't say anymore!
Ted, your oeuvre is expansive and, IMO, absolutely delightful. You are a breath of fresh air at this site. I applaud your love of poetry. You make all the fools here, quite simply, disappear. Thanks.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/23/2024 7:56:56 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Without taking in the context of my frienship and great respect for you, Ithink this is the finest poem I have ever read at poemhunter, you catapult our human souls into lost worlds. lost illusions, this is honestly beyond the scale of 10 even on the graveyard of sleeping racist soulst who at the age of 61 are spinninhg hate..spinning spinning..just cannot duplicate your spins Ted Sheridan I give up Yes I am a Poet you made me Man in these few words.. as ever bimbombay little boy blue