Running Scared

Running Scared

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Running scared, mamma

said be quiet kids, he’s coming

up the street wobbling, I could feel

her trembling in my soul as I held her

hand and felt the sweat on her palm,

knowing how worried and scared she

is about him coming up those stairs,

drunk and abusive with words.

 

Before he had the chance, she glanced

one more time through the peeking

curtains and said let’s get out of here

kids were on the run, let’s leave through

the back door.

 

Five kids in tow, holding on to momma’s

apron, she was carrying little Joe and the

rest of us were on our toes beside her crying,

momma why are we leaving again, as she

opened up the back shed door grabbing

our coats along the run, all half walked,

and ran to keep up with each other scraping

our knees from splinters rubbed off from

the old shed.

 

Out into the alleyway, winds blowing, half

dressed momma would have us run along

her side as she wept, and shook from the

cold trying to hail a cab to get us out

of the cold.

 

She finally did, and we all packed in

like sardines in an oiled can, shivering with

cold and frost-bitten toes, you see some of

us didn’t have time to find our boots, so

we ran out in our socks and frozen, they

were right to the tips of our toes.

 

Uptown we went to auntie’s house with

her seven cats and Jehovah Witness books,

and magazines strewn about the shelfs in

her living room, and on the end tables,

for you see she was a gentle old soul and

cared for her drunken man who meant

no harm just hid his Vodka bottles

under their bed.

 

Uncle took care of the Lincoln Hotel,

and once took me there for a visit in his

drunken haze and showed how the old

dumb-waiter worked and let me ring

the elevator bell while he closed the

gate and cranked the handle that took

us up to the 13th floor to visit old

Mrs. Dell who gave me jellybeans

brightly colored they were.

 

Our sleeping arrangements were

every kid for themselves, we would

all lay on the living room floor, six

of us strewn about and covered with

blankets and tablecloths, and made up

pillows from knitting wool piles aunt

Nina kept in a cedar chest hidden in

her bedroom boudoir behind a

secret door.

 

At night in the silence of the room

us kids would whisper to each other

such frightful stories, to see who could

be the scariest that night, and take turns

scratching each others back with

promises to “if you do mine I will do

yours” and often I would get mine done

and roll over to sleep, and they

would call me Mr. Cheap.

 

The phone would ring with pleas from

her man this beast monster we all hated,

and would hear her crying on the phone,

knowing that he was begging for us to

come home ,she would relent and cave

in and say to us children we are going

back he said he will change and misses

us all and to give him another chance

again.

 

Kissing Auntie and Uncle Goodbye,

the six of us would take that ride back

to the Hell from wench we came knowing

very well we would all pay for having left

the house of Usher and his chains.

 

© Copyright Vincent Moore. All Rights Reserved.

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more.

He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.
Vincent Moore

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Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more. He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published. In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.

4 thoughts on “Running Scared

  • August 21, 2018 at 9:49 PM
    Permalink

    Such a devastating childhood, so heartfelt in this rendition. It’s always so sad to read of these kinds of circumstances, far too much for a young and impressionable mind to absorb. Too young to discover the harshness of the world. Beautifully emoted as always Vincent. Take care.

    Reply
    • August 27, 2018 at 5:49 AM
      Permalink

      Thank you Tony, how very true, it certainly left a lot of painful memories from my childhood. Ones that a soul takes in and never forgets.

      Reply
  • August 27, 2018 at 2:18 AM
    Permalink

    Vincent you will never know how close to home this is for me. Thinking that you my friend have risen above such a harsh reality. Although it left many scars that can not be seen by those that will never understand.

    Reply
    • August 27, 2018 at 5:52 AM
      Permalink

      Kurt I’ve been told by many how close it hits home for them. We definitely are not alone out here. I have been one of the fortunate ones to have been able to rise above it and put it behind me, however I also know of many who have not and their life to this day suffers for it. My scars are deep in my soul and I am inspired to pen of them from time to time, my Muse finds a way to drag me kicking and screaming once more to my pen to release those demons. Thank you for your understanding and I hope yours have been banished as well from your soul.

      Reply

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