There is a place
No, rather, a sanctuary
Where I go to find solace
Its surfaces welcome me
Handles, jars, spoons and boxes
All lovingly placed, by me
I know you better than all of them
Only I know exactly where everything is
And where everything goes
I know your secrets
And you know mine
Yes, you know quite a few of mine, don't you?
A temple of endless comfort
Bad dreams and bad days bring me to you
To indulge when I should not
And to nourish when I need
I adore the sweet sounds
Of your bubbling metal pots
The enticing things we create, together
Scents that warm the other jealous rooms
But when I'm here, with you, in your little chair
Staring at the little plant in the window
The soft light of the lamp on the counter at 3 AM
The sound of water running into my glass
In this moment, I want for no other room to have me
And will have none but you
Copyright © Jeremy Martin | Year Posted 2013
Oh how I wish
I could set free
the native American Indian
with pride and dignity
taking them back
across the great open plains
to their sacred home
in the lush green vallies
where buffalo are plentiful
so the Indians can live in peace
one with nature once more
where the eagles soar
setting them free as the wind
wild untameable as a magnificent stallion
running toward the setting sun.
Copyright © Peter Dome | Year Posted 2013
The"tail" I have to tell, starts off really sad.
My sweet doggie Murphy died and my heart, it hurt so bad.
Until one day in early spring, I got a call that made my heart sing!
There were some puppies born in Waco, the daddy -Jasper, and mommy- Juneau.
Four little boys, three little girls. But the picture of one boy, made my heart twirl!
So I waited for a week or two, to meet my little puppy-oh so new!
I named him Humphrey, such a handsome boy! He has brought laughter back and oh what a joy! He's super cute, and very smart. Many would say, he's a work of art!
He's learning new tricks, and how to potty outside. So many rules to learn and abide!
Humphrey is growing so quickly, the puppy breath will soon disappear. He will be an adult in less than a year! Every stage of his life is a blessing from above. I guess that's the true meaning of what we call "puppy love".
Copyright © Meghan Palmer | Year Posted 2013
THE HOME GYM
If you’re looking for a
workout to improve
that sagging core,
It’s entirely free of
membership – and
won’t become a bore.
From the pruning of
the roses to the
trimming of the hedges,
Listen to the music
while you’re dusting
round the edges.
In the kitchen at the
cooker, be a shaker and
Do a twirl or two while
getting down and dirty
with the Hoover.
As for cleaning windows,
move those funky feet.
All chores become a
pleasure when you do
them to a beat.
Put the magic in the
duster and the rhythm
in the broom.
Up the volume on your
Ipod as you sweep
around the room.
Gyrating to the music
as the dinner you are
Rocking with the
washing up and rolling
with the baking.
Music is the answer to
Getting housework done.
Plus it’s brilliant exercise
and also lots of fun.
Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2015
A summer love, so riant and so warm
Underneath the rays of gold
Though covered with sudor, I want to be around your arms
Forever is nothing but what I hold
And yes, it was but summer
Goodbyes are kept until we're home again
We spent the season out of the boundary
But it wasn't like what I remembered
And so I yearned for home, refrain
The way back home is my quandary
Copyright © Hansteven Selfa | Year Posted 2016
As I picked up the glass
I felt its weight
I felt its coolness
Its perfect smoothness
So where does gravity find a grip?
As I sipped the wine
I tasted aromas deep
I tasted the sun on rounded grapes
Grown in distant, romantic landscapes
So how did the taste get to travel?
As I saw the light reflected red
I saw the rings of colour
I saw the glow, I saw the faded pallor
In the edges of the light
So why did the light leave no mark?
And as I turned to weightlessness
And became a deathly stench
I turned into eternal light
My hand being firmly clenched
So why are You taking me home?
Copyright © Daniel Human | Year Posted 2014
My Home Sweet Home (Part One)
New York City...My city of reality...my city of those broken dreams...my city of the business schemes...new york city....my home sweet home...the only place my heart will roam...so i could never ever leave it alone...new york city...my city of broken homes...my city of broken coble stones...my home sweet home...
New York City...how damaged it seems to be...but more beautiful than people see...so deep with secrets and schemes....that broke peoples dreams...a heart skips a beat...people labled bums living in the street...the weak could never speak of...once rich with love...drunk in the morning...park bench at night to sleep off the drug...
mean mug with a gangster lean shoulder shrug...little eyes bare witness growing up to become a thug...nightmares is kiddy play...innocent people slaying...government playing with our money...delaying our dreams...as they think its funny...but we still love our new york city...no lie...we could move but why..?
Why let those broken coble stoned stoops kill our dreams....? Why let the business schemes take our money we couldve used to fix broken scenes....? We are New Yorkers....home of great talkers....but no action.....beautiful lights....but knocked before we reach our heights....deadly fights....
staged in a park in the dark....different colors are threats...race factor and hate crime...amongst crime itself...yet we are still the greatest city...as silly as it may sound...I will be buried under New York City ground....
New York City......my city of reality....some day we will all see...triumph of humanity....where else would I be....right here....my home sweet home...
I will never leave it alone...
By: Peter T DeSpirito
Copyright © Peter DeSpirito | Year Posted 2015
Oh Georgia, my orchard heart
The king is waiting on his throne
Of red clay, of glass jars and strings
Cicadas shriek into the wind
A doe, she turns to me
then turns back again
Oh Georgia, my gentle sky
The perfume of your trees
Three a.m., do I still know where they lead?
Tie the ribbons, to the branches
I watch the day's afterglow
So much to pick up,
All these twigs and stones
interstate seventy five
Like the pulse of my southern land,
I'm still alive, I'm still alive
Copyright © Jeremy Martin | Year Posted 2013
Sitting here at my desk
Two hundred meters above
I watch the bustle of life below.
The slow moving traffic, the crowd at lunch-time
Pedestrians at the traffic lights
Heavy blue-black glass blocks towering to the skies.
In this austere concrete jungle.
A few patches of green in-between asphalt ones
A blue gum tree here and an ashen eucalyptus there
At the corner of the street.
My thoughts flee from this stifling claustrophobia
Thousands of miles away.
To the sugar sands where once we walked
In the warmth of an ever-summer sun.
Blue-green waves tumbling with unrestrained energy
Shores framed by coconut palms dense green
Stretching in an unbroken line to the horizon.
Cries of the seagulls mingle
With the deafening roar of the waves.
The shells were still white-foam laced
When we picked them from the wet sand.
Salty breeze carrying our laughter away
As we watched the fishing canoes come in
Riding on the waves.
Remember when we walked through
Golden paddy fields of ripening grain.
To sit under the ancient banyan tree by the river
Watching the canoes slide past
Carrying coir and spices from villages afar.
Trekking up mountain-paths
And down lush tea slopes.
We gathered wild jasmines and gooseberries
And sat by gurgling streams listening
To the cow herd's flute in the distance.
Returning at the peep of stars
We stood by the gate
Under the deep blue velvet folds of the sky
Listening to the rhythmic clanging of heavy chains
As the local saw mill elephant
Passes on her way back from the woods.
The air is heavy with the scent of gardenias
Only the chirping of crickets, the hum of mosquitoes
And the gentle brushing of palm leaves
Breaking the cool stillness of the night.
And, I return to the vast plains of this southern land.
Breezes that blow unchecked
From coast to coast
Over blue mountain ranges
And great red monoliths
And the sun at its mightiest here.
Unique life forms, sweet smelling gum trees,
Picturesque shores that line the coasts.
Countryside stretching to the horizon
In the flattest continent of the world.
Special this land in every way
Its beauty and curiousness of life.
The land I have come to love
The place I now call home.
Copyright © fousiya bismi | Year Posted 2016
Ye, the goddess of flame, fire and eternal love
From Tahiti you found home in Hawaii Kilauea
I accessed your gateway with deep feelings of love
With your archetypes *Kali Ma, Sekhmet and Durga
You falsify that women are weak and incapable
That to be feminine to be fragile and helpless
You’re a beauty with dignity & divine power all
Ability to shape shift woman or crone effortless.
Known as Pele energy or energy Pele-kino-aha-nei
Your four sisters using same will Pele-kino-aha-nei.
As a young woman you fell in love with Lohiau
As you left volcano, pining for you & dying nearly
You sent Hiiaka for him, she fell in love with Lohiau
You found Kamapua, but allowed them to marry.
All in Hawaii know your defined potential of fire
And stories about your many loves & infidelities
Your father sent you away because of your hot temper
As you seduced your sister’s husband with abilities.
Finally in Hawaii with blatant infidelities and passions
Manifested in the Big island’s volcanic activities.
Because Hawaii sits on the mountaintops of Lemuria
Lemurian Goddess energy is a still a strong vibration
Coming to Hawaii, feels good like coming home area
Within their cellular consciousness with love’s vibration.
Ye, Goddess Pele is surprisingly playful and light
With three dynamics, well being, play and flow
You, as healer, love to heal and love to be brought
If not treated with respect , you have the power to blow.
All visitors you listen to the Pele archives as I do
Believe that miracles can come from teachings due.
* Names of Indian Goddesses
Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2011
I thought I'd seen it all before
What else could life now have in store
She called the game at half past three
The patients stared
Some stared at me
Cards were laid out nice and neat
All waited for the late day treat
The caller let the numbers flow
Her pace, of course, was very slow
Finally a hand went up
A quarter in the winner's cup
Copyright © Gary Kraidman | Year Posted 2013
By Sashi. Prabhu(zeauoxian) 1/3/2012.
Often, I glimpse from my roof top garden, leftward,
From the sedentary swing but I know the descent of woodpeckers have soared.
From the vertical column sans a crown of leaves of rotted dead wood,
Once, which was in its own right a magnificent coconut tree where it stood.
Freshness, splendor, Vitality and flexibility of a live tree all depleted and gone,
T’was a pertinent choice for the woodpecker mates to build a home foregone.
Abundantly birdies flock, Pigeons, robins, mynahs, hornbills, cranes and parrots,
On the evergreen nearby tamarind tree, but the woodpeckers my eyes ferrets.
From that eventful day my eyes they set upon,
Their wood pecking bills would on the bark sculpt and impinge on.
A homely hole to drill,
Their head moving rhythmically and looks like a cap with red frill.
Twenty five days back they first arrived I lucidly recollect,
Ten days, a pair of hatched altricial chicks, mates from adversaries’ have to protect.
One morn had me glancing to the oval cavital hole on the bark,
And feasted my eyes on feeding chicks being readied, their lives to embark.
Blissful and content , I recollect now I sat a bit longer to observe and discern,
Glorious hues, auger bill, cap with red frills, of the peckers as they take their unambiguous turns.
To zip across like beige, buttery yellow plumaged darts across the lush foliage all green,
Within, watchable bounds to fetch, insects, worms and saps as nutriment routine.
The chicks I saw they peek out of the shielded barky holes with awe,
Strength it seems to me have filled their wings bill and sharpened claw.
Now I wonder if I can listen to the joyous feminine “chrr”
and the shrill masculine “kwirr”.
As the young chick in the hole frolicking, giving it a try to fly,
Away in the wide world after saying a good bye onto the sky very high…………
Now the mates without emotions, kerfuffle and ado,
To each other, their home and their prying neighbour me have bid “adieu”.
Often, I glimpse from my roof top garden, leftward,
From the sedentary swing but I know the descent of woodpeckers have soared
Copyright © sashi prabhu | Year Posted 2012
Once a man of steel,
cuckolded by foreigners,
made to bear a rusty belt
And belch hapless smoke in shame.
Once a spiderweb of commerce-
now a conglomerate of strangers,
united by dementia-ridden streets
frayed and cracked by Erie’s buffets-
but the breakwall soldiers still hold the line.
As do the masses, when they can stand
the agony of Sundays as crying sots,
drenching the gutters in saltwater
beers, burying the despair behind
frozen, grim, angry brows.
On they fight, under the evergaze
of endlessly winking red guardians
who still believe, as the men below,
that Cleveland still rocks, on and on.
Copyright © chris kane jr. | Year Posted 2013
Identified by a combination of the third and eighth letters
is this region considered the best place to be born,
and also housing one of the most welcomed topographies
in a habitat highly rated and respected globally.
The father of the Red Cross
with a long standing tradition
of political and military neutrality.
Little wonder, its social vices are measured in a micro scale.
A quadruple identity of communication,
having the topmost position in chocolates making
and an unbeatable reputation in affluent watches,
Vacheron constantin being the unequaled and consistent trail blazer.
They seem to be the reason for soft drinks production.
They ensure Guinea pigs must be kept in pairs as pets.
The birth place of world most famous companies
and its power house decorated in over a thousand artificial springing waters.
Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2015
It’s all about my home
Home, sweet home,
Home of my ancestors
Land of the hills and valleys of happiness
It’s all about Bamumbu, the land of the famous gorillas
It’s all about my roots, the origin of my quest for knowledge and wisdom
It’s all about Bamumbu, the mountain surrounded and beautiful loam
It’s all about my fatherland, land of the yet to become great
It’s all about Bamumbu; the African unique habitat of the marmoset
Its all about my native land, specially favored by the Lord
It’s all about Bamumbu; land of abundant food.
It’s all about my homeland, land of peace lovers
It’s all about the land of the most brave century hunters
It’s all about Bamumbu; land of the most protective and solid rocks
It’s all about my home; abode for the defenseless
It’s all about Bamumbu; though forgotten, the mother of tomorrow leaders
Copyright © Tangwa Livinus Acha | Year Posted 2015
(Part 2) The Next Few Hours,Then Homeward.
To soon, the road an end did come
and I that dreaded stake to the ground did lay,
Where without ado, they laid that Holy-man down,
Over that stake and through both His hands
that they placed above His head, and home they drove
that awful iron spike, and not a murmur or cry
did that Holy-man uttered in pain, that morn,
Not even when they spiked His feet, apart to the post
Then three plagues in mockery was nailed to the post
above His hands, in the languages used most common
at the time, one in Latin, I read out to myself
reading, Iesus Nazarenus Rex ludaesrum,
Then below another in Greek and one in Aramaic,
The latter I could not read and spoke but a bit,
Now anger and rage was seething through my veins
away I had to flee, away from that gruesome scene.
Away I fled, a half league or more, I paused
my need to rest and myself to calm,
Never could I understand the bestiality's of man
there under a barren Olive tree, I laid me down
and soon asleep I fell, for the horror to escape,
It was the chill of the afternoon that woke me
in the haze of sleep I heard an anguished
cry, rendered from the heart in a voice loud,
In Aramaic, I could tell sounded clear
"Eli, Eli Lema Sabachthani"
which meant to me "My God, My God why have you
abandoned Me", and of a sudden the sky
grew dark and foreboding, and a lull fell over the land,
Enough now had I of ludaea, enough
of cruelty, and of mayhem rife, home-ward
I decided to steer my way, home to my land,
Just on a score of days I traveled
to my home, my family and land,
Now often as I work the fields and plough
I still feel His hand, His Holy hand
upon my shoulder, see His gentle smile
and His voice sweetly, coursing thro' my mind
"You too will sip this cup with Me
to the end of time", and indeed truly blessed I felt.
Now I have heard along the grape vine
that Holy-man was called Jesus by name
and that as His name implies, meaning
a Savant Saviour for all, that and much more He was.
And wonders of wonders they said
He rose from the dead, He never died
Praise God I said, He never died on
That torturous detested stake.
Copyright © Christopher Stopford | Year Posted 2012
The wind is still.
The trees are sad.
The night is dark and solemn.
Our son has come home
in cold whispers and tale.
We saw him leave home to fight.
We sang a song for his homecoming.
We sat around burning logs
to tell his gruesome spear write
the history of our land.
But tonight is different!
It is the ominous voice of the Owl that we hear.
Our men whisper in small circles.
Our women hide behind thatched doors.
Our son is come home a hero
borne on the shoulders,
our his surviving mates.
Copyright © k k iloduba jnr | Year Posted 2008
Berkshire is a landscape
Of beauty and perfection
Unless you live in Newbury
You'll cling to this perception
Even though this town
Seems quaint unto a stranger
He is yet to analyse
the average locals behaviour
A rich man races horses
Then drives back to his village
A newburian's quite different
He'll sniff, he'll lie, he'll pillage
The highstreet displays character
Cafés, shops, all humble
Yet despite the architecture
Walk 10 minutes, you'll take a tumble
Because instead of affluence
And you'd hardly be surprised
There Are inbreds and their friends
On meow and bicycles, looking for a fight
Or boasting of their business
How on a bench they reproduced
Paired their genes in a manner vile
Another generation of no use
The girl speaks in tones so shril
The boy brags of being arrested
She didn't take her pill
And he got his genitals tested
Their parents are no different
It's why their youngens are this way
They yell from withered snouts
But if you heard the content
Of their hostile cries
Why, you'd understand
There's nothing in their lives
And it's all because Newbury is really a shithole, you either leave here or rot here
Copyright © Isaac Rye | Year Posted 2015
I am on a journey
I have been for quite awhile
I know not how much further I must go
But I know the destination;
it is to be enriched by every life I meet on the way
and to enrich every life that grace mine on the way
So I must stop,
to smell every rose,
to cheer every heart
Though the way may be fraught
with fog and tempest,
I have no fear and I am not lost
I still remember the way home
and I am fond of home
It is a place of eternal life
It is a house of endless love,
a house of peace,
a house of joy
In my home,
there's always laughter,
hearts never break,
smiles never fade,
spirit and flesh never frail
fear is never around,
friends never leave,
loved ones never die,
no sad farewells there
I will go home,
when my journey comes to its end
To my father’s house will I go
To the house of endless love, peace, and joy,
will I return
Into the waiting loving arms of my father;
into the warm happy embrace of friends and loved ones,
who had been on the journey and gone home before me,
eagerly awaiting my return
To my home, to my father’s house,
of endless love, peace, and joy,
will I return
The day of my return, I know not,
but when it comes, I will know,
for my father will call me home,
When he calls, I will hear
I will answer his call
I will run to my father
I will be home
(Dedicated to Merl Butler)
Copyright © oliver Okoli | Year Posted 2006
There is nothing like one’s home –
A haven which flows with milk and honey,
A home built by hands from holy heaven
Which we bought not with money
But with obedience which was no burden.
We have become strangers in a foreign land
Because of our sin and perversion.
Give us a second chance in that lovely land
To create, O Creator, the first impression.
Just a glimpse of home would make us less forlorn.
O Albatross, lead us to the East
From where we were hauled to this lawn
Where even red wine and bread made with yeast
Make our hearts sad, yes, forlorn.
Copyright © Onwuka Akuma | Year Posted 2011
Visiting with memories
Childhood days, thoughts remembered,
Things of me that used to be.
House that's aged, weathered and grayed -
I feel its splintering pain;
Watching me as we all played.
Elements she held at bay;
Her walls hold cherished secrets;
Creaky floors gave me away.
Love has gone, home lost it's shine.
Here I sit, this last recall,
Earth to earth, dust to dust, pine.
Once I left she lost her spring.
Her heartbeat beat its last breath
No more a home but a thing.
Memories stand strong as she
Reigned her years; everyone's gone
Moving on as it should be.
Thanks to you my ode homestead,
I grew up secure and loved
And trips to the wood shed.
My heartfelt tears have a smile;
Emotions, both joy and sad;
New owners, life's worthwhile.
Copyright © Jane Renwick | Year Posted 2005
Old warrior, in the bar...
Sips on his small, warm beer...
It's still 1943 to him...
And inside he still holds fear...
The world hanging on the edge,
What the future held,
No one could see....
Served his country,
Of that he's proud....
Seems no one any longer cares...
And his fellow warriors are now,
Above the cloud...
Soon he'll climb those stairs...
Vanishing like dinosaurs,
This American-Spartan hero...
Has little left to do...
Ask him about World War II,
He'd be glad he met you...
To show interest
In his sacrifices...
His wounded memories...
His changed life...
His long dead buddies,
His long dead wife...
His mate long gone,
He stares blindly at the TV,
Dressed in the poverty he lives
No one can get inside his head,
Save those so long dead...
He has nothing else to do
Be home alone, with old address books,
Of all his long dead friends,
Except to him,
Time has cheated him,
By leaving him here
In the lonely bar, so dim...
Struggling to make ends,
Six dollars on the bar,
The past in the air,
At home he never cooks,
He just no longer seems to care....
Cigarette smoke in the air,
A forbidden pleasure now,
No one seems dare...
Used to be normal,
Things have changed so,
But not our old warrior,
He'll be the last of his kind
If today is his last,
That's just fine with him....
His future days will be the same...
The final die is cast.
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2008
The clouds rolled in quickly
As the cars rolled out
No one had a clue
What Katrina was all about
They packed things lightly
“We will be home in a day or two,
So feed and water the pets,
We’ll be home when the storm is through”
Side by side they slept
On cots and sleeping bags
While the Dome began to crumble
Changing their riches into rags
Not so still waters
Began to rise so deep
Only debris and disabled cars
Are what’s left on their streets
Power lines amongst the ruin
The dog walks slowly along
Looking for the home
To which he once belonged
Tent cities on the highways
Where they were safe from the disease
The view from where they stood
Brought them to their knees
No lights to come on
Only sirens, screams and cries
Searching for the living
While the dead float on by
Copyright © April Kersey-Strong | Year Posted 2005