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Introspection Home Poems | Introspection Poems About Home

These Introspection Home poems are examples of Introspection poems about Home. These are the best examples of Introspection Home poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Light Poetry | |

OLD HOUSE

I’m looking at an old house
Called home    by someone

I will look at any old house    new    or    old    but
Home is ALWAYS an old house

Old people open doors
Walk the floors

Old people light the candles
Decorate the mantles

And    the roof ever slants
So young thoughts may go

Sliding down    to settle on ground
In front of home

Seasons come
Seasons go
 
Cloudy    bright
Rain    or    snow

Inside    though
Home is    ever    warmed

By timeless ghosts
Of hearth    reborn

I’m climbing the stairs of an old house
Called home by someone

To open a door
Find stairs     and    climb some more


To follow the footsteps of some vague someone
In an old house called home
...............................................................
For Trudy






Details | I do not know? | |

That Bullet Was For You

While walking through a hospital one day, a veteran I did see
He was in a wheelchair with both legs missing, and he did it for you and me.

I turned around a corner and down another hall
Only for my eyes to behold a family who has lost it all

A five year old cried out,"Why did daddy have to die?"
The mother held her son closer while she greived and began to cry

The mother of that young Marine, who had fought over in Iraqu
Wandered why her son so brave, didn't survive the enemie's attack

The father of that soldier, hung his head to cry
He was a retired soldier himself, why couldn't he have been the one to die?

His heart broken sister, sits in shock and tries to deny
The death of her older brother, he was killed and don't know why

A few days later, a family, everybody all dressed in black
Went to the funeral of a twenty-five year old who too our bullet in Iraq

The Bible says "thou shalt not kill." and "Love your neighbor" too
Maybe our soldiers aren't doing what's right, but they still take your bullet for you

They sleep in foxholes, and eat in trenches, and do all that they know to do
They rest in the sand with no comforts of home and they take your bullet for you

The restless nights turn into days, you wouldn't believe all they go through
THe rest of us sit at home and gripe, and still they take your bullet for you

The next time you hear a 21 gun salute, don't condemn as others do
The next time the taps are being played, remember, they took that bullet for you.


Thanks, Veterans for your sacrifice.


Details | Rhyme | |

Going Home

The path leading home is a narrow road
More so if you do not know the way.
The burden of many years a heavy load
As mirages of memories dance and sway.

I teeter on yesterday's sheer abyss
Avoiding the solid boulders of time.
Afraid that unknown turn-offs I'll miss
For yesterday's roads have no reason or rhyme.

The road back home moves over treacherous terrain
Winding through the lonely corridors of my heart.
Black crows keep pecking at my sickly brain
As the descent into yesterday rips me apart.

The road back home is desolate and bare
The landscape so foreign and unknown.
Easy to lose my way,easy not to care
For yesterday's promises are tossed and blown.

The road leading home is one of defeat
A journey searching for fragments of me.
For reality can simply not compete
With the illusions I call my memory.

Home is where the heart is, so they say,
Between self and heart lies many years.
The heavy toll simply too much to pay
For the way back home is obscured by tears.


Details | Narrative | |

Death Of The Saints

A cousin called the other day saying "Another cousin has passed away".

Well my husband said "How old was she.""

"Ninety-eight".

A stalwart woman who had served family and community well. Producing one child that 
became a missionary serving in a foreign land..

While talking the cousin asked "Did you know ______"?

My husband answered, "Well, I don't think that I knew them".

The cousin proceeded to tale this story.

"The man had been down with cancer for a while and passed recently..The funeral had been 
conducted and the hearse had gone on to the cemetary..The family car with the family was 
not to far behind..But when it pulled up, the wife of the deceased did not get out and the 
funeral home staff was gathering around..The funeral home director decided to go see what 
was going on ...."

The cousin said, " That this funeral home director told him". "That he had been in this 
business for thirty-five years and faced something that he had never had happen to him or 
any other funeral home director that he knew."

The funeral home director said, "When I got to the family car, I found the wife of the 
deceased had passed from a massive corornary."

She had said, "I don't know how I will live without him." She didn't have to learn. God called 
her home..

The roosters crow, the crows craw and are answered by the gobble of the turkey across the 
way..


Details | Dramatic monologue | |

Cry only for those who cannot hear you

The wind did stir the thought in kind wanting - for if she knew my soul, just a spark 
of it, I would be a rich man...

So long this ribbon of love that flows over the rocks of age and distant torment...
The gate keepers sit alone watching, waiting for the violators who dare not call 
mundane theirs...

It is those shackles which bind misguided dreams that which make fertile ground for 
the barkers at the door, for what else does one need to grey the vision and dull 
delight?

You carry the scent of the well-traveled said the withered old man - I too know your 
pain, that which comes from never knowing home - those of us who seek blindly 
that which the world cannot give - home is not a place but a thought in time and 
nothing more than a stop to rest your ambition...

Cry only for only those who cannot hear you, for it is selfish to do otherwise and 
seek home in the gentle embraces of those that know you...

Be kind to those who would bite you, for in doing so it will bring light to a dark path...

AND

Always rejoice in life - it pisses them off and helps them to see the tragic flaw of 
their diluted beliefs...


Details | Free verse | |

LOVE

Loyalty
One self
Virtuous
Eternity


Details | Haiku | |

The Internet: Return

A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...
Procrastination!


Details | I do not know? | |

The Speed of Life

In the childhood home her mother spins her child
Round and round we go happiness seems to overflow
And the childhood  goes by; faster, faster

A growing child with so much energy running and having fun
Careless and free he runs across the yard
He is growing up; faster, faster

Only in middle school and already a rebel
Sticking up for a friend and getting in a fight
He has courage but still he runs; faster, faster

High school has come at last
The odd man out he cries for attention
Into depression he spirals; faster, faster

At the high school prom he meets a girl
The hearts beet together and the music beats in their ears
They are falling madly in love; faster, faster

Barely a year and a kid on the way
To work and back the same routine, every hour, every day
A wedding is coming closer; faster, faster

So far a happy life, and a good career
They buy a home and outside he spins his child
Another childhood is going by; faster, faster

His life was long another one has started from it
But now the ambulance move; faster, faster
And his heartbeat fails; slower, slower


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A PART OF SOMETHING

God created hands for building things. Sometimes before you build something, you must first destroy something else.

Wildfires are never supposed to be put out. Their sole purpose is to burn the entire forest to the ground, transform living things to fertilizer, making room and preparing the soil for new growth.
It is almost paradoxical, 
that there must be death before birth

My hands have stared the grim reaper’s reflection inside the pool of my best friends blood. An old student I used to tutor told me that I am the best brother she could have asked for
She said she will always love me
This was after I burned every bridge that traversed the gaps between us
Stared at her from across her desk
Told her that she will never be my sister. That our bloodlines will never match.
Our gene pools are just strangers that made the same wrong turn.
I spent so much time trying to find my way back that I never realized I was home in being lost I found something comfortable, without expectations. I only corrected myself after she spoke,
because I heard something familiar in her voice.
She sounded like family.

I have the scarred and wrinkled hands of a senior citizen
I’m only 22 years old
I once got my palm read
This gypsy woman told me that my lifeline should have been cut short when I hit 17.
That was a year ago.
What do gypsies know anyway
I have defied the odds my entire life.
Been broke down and built back up too many times to count
My fingernails chewed raw to the cuticle out of anxiety
I enjoy the taste of my own pain
Sometimes I use my own hands to destroy myself just to see who my real friends are who will build me back up when I can’t do it alone

My hands have a desire to learn how to cook, but I’m not that great.
So when I am alone,
I tend to be hungry, not just for food though.
I starve for someone to talk to
It never satiates, because it’s not you.
I know what it tastes like to completely give myself to someone.
My biggest fear is being abandoned.
When I look into your eyes, I am not afraid.
I need to cook you up a feast of myself, then feed it to you every day for the rest of our lives
Please tell me what I really taste like,
Be honest.

Years after my grandfather passed away, my grandmother moved into my aunt’s house.
Since I was 5, every time I speak to her she asks me:
“Spenser, did you thank God for waking you up today?”
I think to myself, I never did tell my eyes to open themselves. It just happened.
So I don’t know how to respond to her correctly.
I tell her that I love her, that I am writing a lot.
She tells me that she puts her hands together for me every night
Prays that I will get the job I want
I guess some prayers do get answered.
Sometimes two hands in the right position, matched with a conversation with God,
Can change things.
I even accidentally call that place home sometimes.

My dream is that my hands evolve into wolves, become part of a pack and work together with other hands to make a difference
Some days they will be the alpha male.
Full of confidence, at the head of the pack
Other days I need someone to show me the right way to go
Because if I’ve learned anything
It’s that I am not always right
I can not always be in control of everything
The only thing I have ever really wanted is to know
That my hands were truly
A part of something.


Details | I do not know? | |

The Beach of Promises

The Beach of Promises


1.


Fingers entwined, barely touching,
turquoise waters teasing your dancing toes,

strolling along that serene deserted beach,
our promised dreams within aching reach.


2.


Hands clasped, holding on,
sea-breezes tickling the nape of your neck,

walking together, alone, vowing to never breach,
the dreams dreamed on that faraway velvet beach.


3.


Hands in my pockets, alone,
traces of you linger, teasing,

lost in my scribbles, your memory fading out of reach,

my thoughts ablaze, now and then,
catching a whiff of your fragrance,

wafting through alleyways of nostalgia,
your hand in mine on our pristine beach.




Details | Acrostic | |

Reflections: Midlife Crisis

P     aranoia permeates, etching itself into your fractured face,
A     cacophony of constant pressure; life remains a stressful race,
N     othing to hope for, no positives like promotion in the workplace,
I      nability to love, relationships lift anchor and set sail without chase,
C     hildren crushing dreams under mortgages; age grows with disgrace
!!


Details | I do not know? | |

The Women



The Women



(for the countless women, names unknown, who bore the brunt of Apartheid, and who fought the racist system at great cost to themselves and their families, and for my mother, Zubeida Moolla)



Pregnant, your husband on the run,
your daughter, a child, a few years old,

they hauled you in, these brutish men,
into the bowels of Apartheid's racist hell.



They wanted information, you gave them nothing,
these savage men, who skin happened to be lighter,

and white was right in South Africa back then,

but, you did not cower, you stood resolute,

you, my mother, faced them down, their power,
their 'racial superiority', their taunts, their threats.



You, my mother, would not, could not break,

You stood firm, you stood tall.

You, like the countless mothers did not break, did not fall.



You told me many things, of the pains, the struggles,

the scraping for scraps, the desolation of separation
from your beloved Tasneem and your beloved Azad,

my elder sister and brother, whom I could not grow
up with, your beloved children separated by time, by place,

by monstrous Apartheid, by brutish men,
whose skin just happened to be lighter.



You told me many things, as I grew older,
of the years in exile, of the winters that grew ever colder.

You were a fighter, for a just cause,
like countless other South African women,

you sacrificed much, you suffered the pangs,
of memories that cut into your bone, your marrow,

you resisted a system, an ideology, brutal and callous and narrow.



Yes, you lived to see freedom arrive, yet you suffered still,
a family torn apart, and struggling to rebuild a life,

all the while, nursing a void, that nothing could ever fill.



I salute you, mother, as I salute the nameless mothers,

the countless sisters, daughters, women of this land,
who fought, sacrificing it all for taking a moral stand.



I salute you, my mother, and though you have passed,
your body interred in your beloved South African soil,

you shall remain, within me, an ever-present reminder,

of the cost of freedom, the struggles, the hunger, the toil.


I salute you!



(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours,
who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)






Details | Italian Sonnet | |

Come and Join My Fantasy

Two Sonnets for your enjoyment, joined by the same quatrain. 

Come and join my fantasy Anyone with a mind can be a part You just have to listen to your heart Music adds such harmony All spirits have compatibility You will be happy as a lark You will feel the joy from the start One cannot describe the joy inside Join me in this peaceful place See the eagles flying with such grace This is the home of imagination Here dreams do come true In this place of our creation Interruptions are very few Love is found on every shore Ever after comes every day Happy is just another way Life in forever is never a bore Live the memories you have stored Here fairies and butterflies play Come in and with me stay You will never want to leave Come and share my fantasy On the wings of love fly free This is the home of imagination Here dreams do come true In this place of our creation Interruptions are very few


Details | Ballad | |

My kiss from Heaven

My Kiss from Heaven

I used to have a Ouija board
I’d play with it for hours
I never really believed in it
I thought it had no power
It was just a novelty
To me, a piece of fun
Then once when I was playing it
Just before the day was done

All of the room went kind of still
And a silence touched my soul
It felt like angels were all around me
And my world felt kind of whole
My hand went whirring round that board
Like me, I could not stop it
I felt that I had no control
It disturbed me just a bit.

A message, well it seemed to come
It seemed to say to me
“Phone your father in the old country
And do it speedily”
So I did this, I phoned Mum up
She told me dad was sick
And If I wanted to see him alive
I’d have to get back quick.

Well I got back to see my dad
Then he died not too long after
I let him know how much I loved him
And we shared some tears and laughter
I ask, was this a kiss from Heaven?
It seems like this could be
All I know is I’m glad it happened
It changed my life for me.

11 September 2013 @ 1453hrs.
Peter Duggan.








Details | Free verse | |

Last Bell.....

Man, I remember the thrumming of that last bell of the school year.....
Like a prisoner being furloughed into the warm sun, buzzing of grasshoppers.
Field stickers burrowing into your ankles, joyfully, while you take the wrong way/long way 
back.
The sound of whispering gold as your armplane wings dislodge future assaulters of ankles.
I always liked sighs in the summer.....those sweet drones were the tones of freedom.
In the distance you hear Shirley scream as Brad tells EVERYBODY she likes Ralph...
You knew you should be gettin' home, but, confound it, this one brief moment was yours. 
Eternal.
There was a sound, like a shell to the ear, of all you had learned, escaping as if under 
pressure.
To thwart it was to stop a tsunami with an umbrella.....ineffectual....unnoticed.
But, also vacant, was common sense; probably why I went Jake's way that day....
Oh, he was there, lurking...lying in wait for my almost clock-work arrival.
Many a day I had screamed a million insults at him as he chased me like Satan,
Hoping "today" wasn't the day he caught up with me.
His exhalations never sounded labored, as if he was letting me get ahead.....
But not today!!!!!.....I JUMP......He LUNGES......and his teeth gain purchase on my seat!!!!
However, I escape....My bottom, that much cooler than it was before and will probably be 
later!
........................
.........
.....
...
Home.......... you see mom in the kitchen, drinking sun tea and waiting for you to arrive....
"So, How was school?"..."Uh, fine, I guess."     "What did you learn today?"......."Uh, to never 
underestimate the value of Gym Class!!"......"Well," she says, "if you took home economics, 
you'd be able to fix up your pants before Dad gets home and sees your underwear!!"......

Parents NEVER respect an Adventurer's near-fatal exploits!!!


Details | Free verse | |

The Glass Goddess

All around me
Great cities made of sand.
Green sky scrapers poke through the ground 
To thrive in life’s strict conditions
And melt away with the tide…

Great houses made of cards
Form lines, and tightrope walk existence,
Knowing that any moment, the wrong brick may fall
And buckle our world to its knees
As Mother Earth shouts Jenga! from the sidelines.

So while were here
We dance with the Glass Goddess 
Poised miles above reality,
Leaping over the heavens on our domino stilts-

We floor it in the sky
Living death in the fast lane, 
Seizing the day
Because any moment 
We could disappear 
Into



Jacob Reinhardt	
10/15/2013



Details | Rhyme | |

Instead

On television movie "Dirty Dancing" again
To tell honest truth I felt warm after glow
This looked like a fun thing to do from where I stood
I thought and on my "Bucket List" it will go

But when I moved from my sitting stance_no_no way
Even though this "Dirty Dancing" fanned my flame
At my age just don't have youthful energy left
I will just have to pen a "Bucket List" by name

A very long list of fun things before life's end
Seek map and then go down a never travelled road
Go on a surrey ride to hear the horses' hoofs
Would that my love and I for horse not be heavy

In a hot air balloon basket flow on warm air
Only so many years_go to states not been in
No longer sit at home breath very deeply sigh
I'll be able to tell generations where been

No longer sit home and watch each and every leaf
My life wil move now as if it was set on fire
Skateboarding looks like so much fun_might fall and break arm
Join circus learn to perform by walking high wire

When I look at my "Bucket List" I get so sad
Like New Year Resolutions that I never kept
Need a new list of very achievable things
When I seriously thought about this I just wept..


Details | I do not know? | |

The Nameless - for South Africans of all colours who fought for freedom


The Nameless


Slipping through the sieve of history,

the nameless rest.

Not for the nameless are roads renamed, nor monuments built.

Not for the nameless are songs sung, nor ink spilled.

The nameless rest.

Their silent sacrifice,

quiet ordeal,

muted trauma,

remain interred,

amongst their remains.

The nameless rest.

Not for the nameless are doctorates conferred, nor eulogies recited.

Not for the nameless are honours bestowed, nor homages directed.

The nameless rest.

They rest within us,

they walk with us,

in every step that we tread.

They rest within us,

they walk with us,

for their spirit is not dead.


“Your name is unknown, your deed is immortal”
- inscription at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier WWII in Moscow


Special thanks to my dearest elder sister Tasneem Nobandla Moolla, whose conversations with me about life as a non-white person growing up in pre and post-Apartheid South Africa prompted me to write this dedication to the countless, nameless South Africans of every colour, whose sacrifices and dedication in the struggle against Apartheid tyranny must never be forgotten.


My sister’s middle name ‘Nobandla’ which is an isiXhosa name and means “she who is of the people” was given by her godfather, Nelson Mandela, my father’s ‘best-man who could not be, as Nelson Mandela was unable to-make it to my parent’s wedding as he was in jail at the time in the old Johannesburg Fort. This was the 31st December 1961.


Details | Free verse | |

Blue Dot

We should not destroy this thing that keeps us alive
This dot in the universe 
A place where we all can roam
This place we all call  our home
We are delusional if we think we have a place
On the grand scheme of things we are small
Smaller than grains of sand almost nothing at all
This blue dot in space is all we have for life
So why do we quarrel, fight and cause strife
This dot is all we know
Nothing above us and nothing below
A little piece of dust hanging in the heaven's
A place where we work and play
A place of war and peace
In the vastness of space we are alone
Yet we fail to help each other along the way
This blue dot in the vast universe
A place where we should not shed it to pieces
This blue dot we call home
This blue dot that we should cherish.


Details | Quatrain | |

Decisions

Lord, I do not know what to do;
Please, lead me by Your side.
Decisions I'm facing are lost and through;
Please, lead me to do what's right.


Details | Limerick | |

Two-Fifty-Four

Two-Fifty-Four
©2012 C. Brent Cloyd

I bought a new scale at the Wal-Mart store.
Made it secure and level on the floor.
I took a breath, then stepped on.
The digits I saw made me moan.
Surely, I do not weigh two-fifty-four!

Let’s balance the scale, then I’ll try once more.
Adjusted proper, they’ll give the right score.
This time the scales will behave.
I stepped on, tried to be brave.
But with a grin they said “two-fifty-four”.

I would like to throw these scales out the door.
Wish they were lying, but I can’t ignore. 
I’ve gobbled many things sweet
And chewed on too much red meat.
My expanding poundage is “two-fifty-four”.

My belly is huge, my chin is galore.
Need to lose it, but process is a chore.
Need diet low in fat and starch.
So my stomach will not arch.
Hope to be smaller than “two-fifty-four”.

Would a brisk walk cause my health to restore?
Would losing blubber help me not to snore?
Let’s get started. Soon I say!
Well - after the holiday!
Cause my clothes don’t fit at “two-fifty-four”.














Details | Rhyme | |

The Risk of Choice

It would be too easy to not believe
And not have faith in all He wants us to see.
But I don't want to risk my life being saved
Because of a choice I was refusing to make.


Details | I do not know? | |

My Wishes are Simple





My Wishes are Simple


My wishes are simple,
my desires few,

to gaze upon an ocean,
and marvel at a solitary drop of dew.



My wishes are simple,
my dreams not too grand,

to feel the waves teasing my tired feet,
with no footprints left in the cool, wet sand.



My wishes are simple,
my thoughts serenely gentle, calm,

my heart resting beneath a swaying palm,

healing my being, caressed by nature's soothing balm.





Details | Verse | |

Philosophical Poetry Week: Transient Tuesday

I am a misprint,
Ink blot on love,
I remain a maybe
Longing for fact,
No speck of lint,
A hand in glove.
Thunder; a baby
Will only react

When you etch
Parallel clouds,
Whistling on cue
To a dead town.
Dream a sketch
Of silent crowds
Becoming you,
This boiling crown

Chews thought
Into flagellation.
Holes in the walls
To spy through,
Seeking a sort
Of bricked-up sun.
A heaven of halls,
All leaving you.


Details | Free verse | |

PARTED MEMORIES

It wasn't so long ago, that my new wife and I
had to find a place to live which we could call "Home".
We found an ideal place on the northwest side of our city,
easy transportation, good neighbors, and plenty of room.

When we decided to take the place, we knew it would be 
the bright, airy, comfortable, and loving home we wanted 
to make for ourselves.  Of course, there was work to be done
before we could move in.  Painting, carpets, and choice of 
furniture would occupy us for many weeks.

I don't know if every newlywed couple is as happy as we 
were.  Our love was enhanced by the work on that apartment,
turning its rooms from bare walls and floors into livable
spaces where we could be alone with each other.  We would even
have friends or relatives over - it made no difference in our
relationship...it was home.

Every relationship has its share of woes, and that apartment 
became a solitary point in our lives.  My idea of a career did not
jive with my wife's, as she so often pointed out.  I don't believe
it was the career, but the fact that I was trying to be someone I
wasn't, work with a company that I did not really know, and do 
something that was inherently destructive to our marriage.

I wanted to prove to her that she could be proud of me by providing 
for her the riches I felt she deserved.  My quest for the golden ring
only tarnished the ones we wore on our hands.  I was just too naive to
think that I was wrong.  I should have taken a step back and trusted
the partner to whom I had pledged my love.  By the time I came to my
senses, it was too late.  I had driven her away by my callousness.

Now, as I stand in this empty apartment, only the memories remain.
The laughter of that first dinner alone...her face in the candlelight, yet
I see it only in the darkened corner of the room.

There were the nights of love and affection in the bedroom...now only
shadows of the sweet passions left in the wake of her despair at
my leaving her alone to face the mornings.
  
Our living area was our pride and joy with the furniture we had so 
carefully chosen, the carpet of jade green, and the love seat where 
we watched our favorite programs...now, just a window to the soul
mate I should have been.

The apartment stands empty again, waiting for another young couple
to make it their own.  It was ours for a while, but now belongs only to
that place in my mind where I hide my personal treasures.  I loved her
then...I love her still. Home no longer, but in my memory.


Details | Haiku | |

MUSIC - HAIKU

Play The Radio Get Up And Dance All Night Long Music Heals The Soul


Details | Pantoum | |

The Blue Knight { Pantoum }

<                                the city he calls his home the beat
                                  waiting for his next dispatched calling
                                  badge gun club cuffs and his new partner
                                  murder's rapes invasion calls to him
                                  waiting for his next dispatched calling
                                  alley's streets underground he searches
                                  murder's rapes invasion calls to him
                                  doctors lawyers fast food he's ready
                                  waiting for his next dispatched calling
                                  badge gun club cuffs and his new partner
                                  alley's streets underground he searches
                                  the city he calls his home the beat




Tribute To 
Police Officers 



Entry For
Jarred Pickett's
Pantoum Contest
G.L. All
                                  


Details | I do not know? | |

The Petty Posh-WahZee - Liberation and Ostentation



The Petty Posh-Wahzee - Liberation & Ostentation


The Not-So Distant Past:

The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.

They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.

Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,

and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.


The Present:

19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,

a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.

I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,

our ancestors' plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.

Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,

babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,

yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,

needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,

for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.








Details | Verse | |

Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Going Home

What is it to see the soil of home again?
A welcome, snow-struck and a return
To cold; sharp white contrasts sunburn.
We converse in broken tongues to men

We know, hooked on holiday language
Comprised of wandering hand signs.
Collect the car and pay parking fines,
Drive through towns and over a bridge

Until we reach the Western gateway.
Oh when will we arrive at our house?
No camels there, only field mouse
Which are eaten by our cat anyway.

The plane flies for an age, slyly yawning
Through the stretching, pealing sky,
A knife through air; what it is to fly.
Our travels over; a new day is dawning.


Details | Couplet | |

My Quiet Place

My quiet place is when my son is at school and my husband is at work the house is so quiet at times I can't remember the joy and fun. I get mighty lonesome at times but I know that I will have Caleb home soon and Wayne sometimes gets to drop by and say hello. He comes and goes so fast I get to feeling like we don't connect with eachother very much. 
I get in my comfy chair and open the door and blinds to see the nature outside. Nature is my most written about subject especially the birds and flowers. 
The different colors in the sky and flowers are a great inspiration to me. I know others who can be in a room full of people and tune out life and keep on writing. That is not me.
I need to be in a comfy envrionment.

My home is a quiet lonesome
Other dwellers roam free
My home is lonely with just me
Others don't care to be

Informed of my heart and souls depth
My home calls me to go
Where One knows and is known truly
Beyond the sky's rainbow

For Sara Kendrick's contest My Quiet Place