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Narrative Home Poems | Narrative Poems About Home

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

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Details | Narrative | |

Will You Tie My Shoes When I Grow Old

You were beautiful, 
my tiny child, 
wrapped tightly in my arms, 
close to my heart.
I listened to you breathing.
I counted your fingers
and your toes.
Helpless, 
you cried out to me
and I loved you
with every ounce of my soul.

Will you hear me
when I cry out? 
Will you hold me close
as I held you then? 

I remember the day
You took your first step.
There was no stopping you.
Your feet gave you freedom
to explore the world
like never before
but danger lurked.
I opened those doors anyway, 
cautiously, 
and introduced
you to the world.
Where will you be
when my legs
no longer run? 
no longer work? 
Will you realize
that I love
freedom too? 

I laugh
about that day
you first tied your shoe.
We tried and tried
to get that rabbit
in that hole
and you finally did it.
You pointed your toes
for everyone to see
how proud you were.

I am proud too, 
of my writing
and my drawing, 
of my needlework
and my cooking.
But my hands are beginning to ache
and my fingers will not bend.
I will lose the things
that make me proud
except for you.
Hopefully not you.
Will you let me
brag on you? 
Even tell wild stories
that are a bit beyond the truth? 
Will you be proud of me too? 

I waved good-bye
that morning when you left
on that large, yellow bus.
I was so scared.
I know you were too.
You waved at me bravely
through the dusty window
but I saw the water
forming in your eyes.
You came home, however, 
full of pride and joy.
You sang the alphabet song
and got most of it right.
You practiced for hours
until you could sing it
even in your sleep.

But 
I'm afraid.
I forgot
whether I took
my pills today or not.
I forgot
if I told this story before.
I even forgot once
who you were
and it terrified me.
My mind
is my treasure
the only thing I have left, 
and I heard you make
fun of me
for not remembering
that I gave you the
same gift as last year.
Will you love me
when I no longer
know who I am? 

You came home blushing
from the glow of
your first kiss.
Your first love, 
the one you thought was real.
You talked about him non-stop.
You changed for him. You gave.
But he left you anyway
for a blue-eyed girl
and I held you
while you cried for him.

I too have a
broken heart.
The love of my life
left me after
fifty-six years.
He left me here
to live life on my own
while he moved on
to another realm
And I cry for him too.
I long for his shoulder
and strong embrace.
I feel betrayed
because he and I
made a deal
that we would never
leave the other alone.
Yet I am alone
sitting in an echoing house
with no hands to hold.

You welcomed her home today- 
your tiny baby girl.
She has your eyes
and possibly your toes.
I see you counting them
as they roll me
into the room.
You finally came
to visit.
It has been a while.

You look up at me
with tears in your eyes
and ask
almost desperately, 

"Will she tie my
shoes
when I get old? "


Details | Narrative | |

Eat Pray Love

On the edge 
of the evacuation zone
Miyuki holds her daughter 
tip-toeing in pink sneakers 
her small hands fragile 
blossoms opening
to the man with the beeping wand 

They were outside in the karesansui 
washing and raking 
rocks, when the school 
heaved, convulsed 
then pressed into silence
one-hundred-and-seven 
voices rising inside

So now they wait with strangers
in ordered lines of sorrow 
for bread and drinking water 
as an adolescent, eyes downcast
sees the small pink laces and
offers up his only ration 
of precious onigiri

Hooded and white masked they walk 
three days and bed-less nights toward 
Ishinomaki by the ocean
to family, friends, and home forever 
transformed 

The landscape jumbles unfamiliar
with plastic wreckage 
and automobiles 
detritus flooded in a field
where Japonica once grew
while moon-suited men 
and women gather
albums for the living

And after sunset Miyuki moves 
her little girl away 
from a white-taped blue-bagged 
lifeless form 
toward the humming black-robed Monk, his
prayers for light 
and workers burned
exposed to radiation ten 
thousand times too high 

And in the shadows one old man kneels
beside a fetid pool and scoops  
rice to carry back to neighbours 
moved to higher ground, un-opens 
one last bottled spirit
bows his head and offers
Miyuki and her first and only 
everything  he has 

At last they reach the shelter’s glow
beneath the starless robe of night 
not used to wearing 
shoes indoors
Miyuki helps her daughter fold
sheets of painful news into
an origami box to hold
her last and only pair

And in the morning as they face
the stretch of road for home 
to unknown love and losses there 
they turn and gaze toward the east 
awaiting still 
spring’s warming breeze 
to rise with brilliant red once more
new light of wondrous dawn 


      ~~~~~~~~~

'karesansui' is a Japanese rock garden or 'dry landscape'.  Rocks are often washed.
'onigiri' is the emergency rice being distributed to survivors in Japan.
'Japonica' is a type of (short-grained) Japanese rice.



for Debbie Guzzie's contest, 'Tribute to Japan'

by ~Soulfire~ 

 


Details | Narrative | |

The Story of the Door

Part One- Reality

The door is closing
I’m loath to close it
And yet….and yet
I feel….I must
Close it gently
Close is surely
Close it….SLOWLY
Oh, so very slowly
Hoping against hope

Part Two- Fantasy

How I long to fling it open
And dash outside
Grab your retreating frame
And pull you inside
Eager to show you
The wonders I’ve prepared
The love decorations I’ve hung
Perhaps if you could see
With your own eyes
My little and cozy heart
The warm fire that continually burns
The bed that I’ve prepared and perfumed
The food…delicacies for your tongue
Treats bursting with flavors 
You’ve never tasted before
Sweet dainty desserts for when
The night has turned to day
And we arise hungry
Searching for what will sustain us
For our next expenditure
Of passion tinged energy
From which we never tire
Perhaps then
You'd come inside 
My heart kingdom

Here, you reign
In this kingdom
All is under your command
My soul and body
Yours to do with as you wish
Without asking
Without demanding
For I belong to you
And I know you well
Aware of what will please
When to appease
When to placate
And when to tease…

I serve you with tender hand
Longing to satisfy you
So you will never want to leave
To make you dream contented dreams
As you sleep soundly
On the soft silken pillows
Of my body
And awake to dream again
For life is but “A Dream within a Dream”

Part 3- Back to Reality

No, your figure continues to retreat
My voice does not reach you
My tears fall unnoticed
This door of my heart
Must close forever
I will bolt it too
For I cannot bear the thought
Of letting another in
Only you
Only you…

I sigh behind the door
Looking at the bed
That will not hear
My moans and cries of ecstasy
Nor your contended sighs
A bed that will never hold
Our entwined bodies
Tossing and turning
Finely tuned to the rhythm of delight
A bed that will never feel
Hands that clutch at its silken sheets
Desperate to hold on…a little longer
In that pulsating world of blinding light

Part 4- The Final Act

I lean with all my strength against the door
To close it “forevermore”
And yet…
There is resistance
It will not close
Frustrated, with tears spilling down
Threatening to turn into a deluge
I fling the door open
Only to look at a massive chest
My eyes travel up to your face
And those beautiful eyes
My source of delight
Your hand reaches out
And wipes away tears
My breath catches in my throat
As I hear your mellow voice speak
“Won’t you invite me in?”

Part 5- Yes, the happy ever after! 

Eileen Manassian Ghali


Details | Narrative | |

A Dark Man

         This piece is dedicated with love to J.E. Gauthier, Jr. Active addict and father. 
Only by the grace of God may he be saved from the error of his ways.

 For years a dark man walked through a seemingly revolving door
 Steadily leaving his wife and kids as he searched for something more
 Occasionally calling home every now and again
 In his voice they could hear the taint of black sin
 
 Back then life on the road meant drugs money and women far as the eye could see
 He said he'd never look back 'cuz he was born free
 
 Life grew emptier as he grew older
 The drugs grew heavier as his heart grew colder
 His four children left behind with no place to call home
 From day one they made it in this world alone
 
  For years a dark man walked through a seemingly revolving door
 Steadily leaving his wife and kids as he searched for something more
 Occasionally calling home every now and again
 In his voice they could hear the taint of black sin

 Every few years he'd arrive unannounced offering money and a hug
 All while using the garage to hide his drug
 His spitting image could smell his guilt a mile away
 She rolled her gloomy blue eyes in unison with every false word he had to say

 Today his girls are grown raising girls of thier own
 December came and went
 February turned to Lent
 On a stormy midnight he still turns to his blue eyed spitting image
 As the clouds clear she is again lost in the scrimmage

 She lies awake with a bottle of wine in hand
 On her mind weighs a dark man
 His ways make him lonely and lost
 Yet to her death she will fight for him at all costs

  For years a dark man walked through a seemingly revolving door
 Steadily leaving his wife and kids as he searched for something more
 Occasionally calling home every now and again
 In his voice they could hear the taint of black sin


Details | Narrative | |

Remembering The Children of Beslan

It was the first day of the new school year
The children of Beslan had no need to fear
In anticipation they eagerly left home for school
Some walked hand in hand with Mom and Dad
Others skipped along the well known path
Excitement filled the sidewalks and the streets
As fleeting thoughts collided in mid air

Some thought of new friends to be made
Others of old friends with whom to play
A little sister left at home 
Of baby brother asleep in his crib
Much too young to run and play
Some favorite lullabies which Grandmama sang 
As Grandpapa played his violin

The first day of the new school year
Mothers beamed with such pride
How their little ones had grown
Never would they ever want to let go
Others gave in to their children’s cries
‘Mamma, I do not want to go to school.
May I stay with you today?’

On wings of hate evil had already arrived 
With diabolical plans and bombs in hand
To maim and murder the children of Beslan
Who became captives in their little school house
After the dastardly deed was done
Dreams and aspirations lay splattered 'cross the floor 
Childhood innocence forever vanished! 

On the day of internment the sun in his temple hid
Earth wept pouring rain, her bitter tears
As Mothers’ voices cracked and strained 
Cried out loud, their children’s names
While others pleaded in vain for death
Fathers in a state of shock stood stoically in the cold autumn rain
Wearing faces carved in stone

The blood of children cried out to Heaven
Where at the throne of mercy 
Sits a God who is just 
Though their bodies lay broken in tiny white coffins
On angels' wings their souls did ascend  
He will judge all men and their deeds 
All, on one appointed day

A tribute to the children of Beslan, No. Ostetia, Russia 9/1-3/ 2004


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 | Narrative | |

Mike Never Came Home

Mike came home from Afghanistan yesterday,
I ran into him at the VFW...he looked at me
from behind eyes that had seen what no 22 yr. old
kid should have to see....he told me he didn't 
belong here, that his brothers were in the s---
and he wasn't there to help......

Mike came home from Afghanistan two-weeks ago,
but only his body was here, his head was
still playin' tricks on him....... Mike didn't say much,
just blasted his drinks and looked uncomfortable.

Mike came home from Afghanistan three-months ago,
I heard he had been a recon sniper in the Stan,
 and watched as one of his brothers had been 
ambushed and snatched in the distance,
unable to help.......

Mike came home from Afghanistan four-months ago,
people said he went crazy at the bar, raced-off
on his motorcycle and crashed goin' 110 mph.
around a highway crossover in the pourin'-rain.

Mike never came home from Afghanistan,
but his body's in a box, buried in his hometown.


Details | Narrative | |

The Artist

The Artist
 


Once described as an intense artist
He now sits comfortably
Patiently being interviewed 
By a reporter
Half his age
He begins
When I was a younger
I would come home from school
To an empty apartment
To keep myself occupied 
Until my mother came home 
I would spend hours 
Drawing random sketches 
And imaginary shapes in a notebook
That I kept hidden behind a couch
My mind was full of images
I was young
I was vulnerable
It wasn’t until
I got much older
That I decided to study art.

Speaking softly, he continues
People respect art and imagination
But recognition for an artist has a life of its own 
An artist must push himself to do 
What he hasn’t done before
But art is complicated 
What often comes with it 
Is all extraneous stuff
Which you try to control 
Before it consumes you.

The interview
And the questions ended hours ago
Returning home
The artist gazes out his bedroom window
Outside 
The Greek Orthodox   
Dome of St. George 
Maintains a stoic vigil
Over the East Village
Facing upward
Toward the dusky sky
Light from an open window 
Highlights his forehead
Drifting down to his lips
Gradually disappearing
Near his open collar
Only to resurface
In the middle of his shirt
Hands, calloused and strong,
Are down by his side
The left touching his thigh
The right hand dangling in freedom
Deep lines furrow his face
Shadows under his eyes
Mark a life spent
Perfecting his craft.

In the silence
He takes a deep breathe
Grateful
That the Roman in his heart  
Always unwavering
Prideful and defiant
Never surrendered
A day of his life.


Details | Narrative | |

The Cottage

The long drive is almost over
Slowly I head down the hill
In anxious anticipation 
Of what I will find
I don't really know what I'm expecting
Just something new maybe 
An overgrown path in the center of the road
Lets me know I am one of the first
I wildly shift my eyes back and forth taking in all
The beauty this place gives never disappoints
Sometimes it's a flower peeking through the leaves
Or a vine growing, maybe a new bush
Slowly I exit in anticipation of familiar scents
The cedar, the green, the lake all have their own flavors
As I put in the key and slowly turn the knob
The scent of cottage envelops me
For a second, I am at peace, home
And after all is settled, and all is unpacked
I listen, to the sounds of the forest
I try to hear the waves, are they crashing 
Or still, I wonder what tomorrow will bring
But for now, I lie still and exhale
Nothing can find me here
No stress, nothing, but peace
And a familiarness felt by those before me
I often wonder if they visit here too
But for now, I am alone in my calm
Until tomorrow, when I will explore
My favorite places, do my favorite things
If I want to 
Because here time stands still



Details | Narrative | |

The Saddest Christmas I Remember

Love is a season
And holidays mark the seasons, like signs in the road
Reflecting the bumps in our journey, but showing us a way back home...

Sixteen, in pajamas, watching the rain pelt down
It was long past midnight, Christmas eve
Twinkling lights on one house across the road, stared back at me
It was if they were trying to fill our void with color
The block was filled with a hundred black windows
And the blackness somehow seemed more appropriate  
There was no Christmas tree in our house this year
I suppose Dad felt it was too soon, or perhaps just the effort to get through each day
                                                                            had taken all the strength he had...
We had stayed up and watched a Christmas program together...
It was Perry Como, I think....somehow I remember how he sang "Ava Maria"...

My brother had come home from the Air Force earlier that week
He had helped bring us a bit of cheer....at least for awhile...
but he had been called back to duty, and I missed him terribly...

The house was silent after Dad had gone to bed
I wasn't sleepy....and it was lonely looking out at the cold night
It seemed the whole world was sleeping, 
                                 getting ready for the sun to shine on Christmas morning...

I started to head for bed, but noticed a light had been left on in the front coat closet
I opened the door, and looking up, to pull the chain, I noticed the box...
   The little box that kept the sugar cube house
It was one that Mom and I had made together when I was 8 years old... 
         Little sugar cubes stacked into walls and a roof, glued together with red frosting.
We had copied one out of her Ladies' Home Journal....surrounding it with little trees, and 
people skating on a mirror for a pond, things we had found at the 5 and 10 cent store
Carefully packed away last year, on Mom's last Christmas....

Throughout the night, I sat in the dimness of the house, laying out the sugary scene on the 
fireplace mantel....as Mom would have done .

When the freckled morning moved into day...
I woke on the sofa...Dad sitting next to me.  He had covered me with a warm blanket.
He held me and we cried together.
After breakfast....he disappeared outside, and soon came in carrying a sorry looking branch 
from our old evergreen tree.
We decorated that bedraggled branch...it wasn't the most beautiful tree we had ever had
But it brought Christmas back to my family...


For Constance La France's contest "Your Saddest Christmas Ever"
Carrie Richards


Details | Narrative | |

Good Bones

Winding around the curve of the road
the brilliant blue of the morning sky had faded
and seemed it had been left out too long in the sun......
Something,...... some new kind of threshold, waited in the November chill
We didn't know yet, just what it was, but the memory 
would be imprisoned by our young, and eager eyes
for decades, to come

We had arrived........
with an alive sense of enthusiasm and a vivid anticipation

We left our children in the car, for a few minutes
until we saw the perfect yard.....that seemed to go for miles
the hills surrounded.....and a battered, eye-sore house, somehow had found us

I remember the house half timbered
with white paint peeling on the southern side
We had been expecting nothing much,
nothing more than a weekend's new adventure
not realizing we were entering the future
while the grey haired woman, who met us there, 
produced a key, and unlocked  the door.
 
We looked out behind us, 
where our children were already running up and down the grassy slope
"Twin Pine Real Estate" ,  scrolled across the door of the woman's car parked next to ours

If hesitation and....common-sense had overruled
The story would end here...


I do recall.....we said it all......
"Ramshackle dump" ! ? "Good bone structure"
"Good inspiration"  "They'll think we're crazy"
"With sweat and guts......."IF ....AND....or  BUT!"
"Elbow grease"........"Dedication"     "Celebrations"

We fell head over heels........we'll... beg, borrow, steal!

We hollered out to call the children
and then brought them in.   They shared the wish, 
to own a place to call our own, a home, some land, a mountain view
our grand ideas of property....of priority, of possibility, of probability, ..of family.....
Everyone would work, everyone would reap,  
A house we loved.........a dream to keep
and years have come, and years have gone......
         .........in the place that we still call home


_____________________________________________
9/16/14  A Special Memory Contest: sponsored by Regina Riddle


Details | Narrative | |

Battling Addiction

No one knew his background, he did not speak of family 
Not even the one left, whom he felt was a burden
His younger sister with whom he’d been out of touch

Financially, he was doing alright, handsome and perfectly fit
Friends wondered why he wasn’t dating
When asked, he’d merely laugh it off

If they only knew the burden he bore, haunted by his crippling addiction
A demon that had seized his body now hungered for his soul
Making its lustful demands at will by day or night

At first he seemed to keep his secret well, appearing as, just one of the guys
While apart, he rode the subway daily
With eyes of a hunter he surveyed

A different girl he took each time, In his home or some dark street corner 
When he had no access to girls, alone, he’d easily play “solitaire”
Or browse the magazines and internet

Secrets like acorns take a while to grow, his were no different; just biding 
time
Til the day of discovery arrived unannounced
Hidden files on the office hard drive

Confronted, he walked away in shame, and some ray of light seared his mind
At home he bagged and trashed his toys
Especially his favorite, the laptop

Temptation came fiercer and with maddening force, took him on a binge
That night he sank to the lowest belly of the beast
Ignoring his sister’s desperate call for help 

When he'd had his fill of a sordid, assortment of lust, a flicker of conscience 
emerged from within
Off he ran in the cold, pouring rain to find his sister alone 
Alone, in the bath with her wrists cut; her precious life slowly ebbing away

It was mercy which kept her alive, barely, and by her hospital bed he sat for 
three days!
Later, outside her room in the parking lot as he left, beyond broken he fell 
upon his knees 
And through his tears and the rain, he cried out loud , “God have mercy!”

That’s how a man, bankrupt; without love or self worth gained a second 
chance...
At a most pivotal time in his life; in need of redemption
The shackles of addiction laid broken in torrent rain...free once more to be 
himself.
~*~
02/25/13
Inspired by the HBO movie, "Shame"


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Glen Campbell -- A Special Person

Glen Campbell – A Special Person
      It was September 4th, 1968 and I threw an empty suitcase into the trunk of my car, telling Joan, my daughter, that I might not be home to celebrate her birthday. She would turn 13 the following day and Wanda, my wife, had planned something special. As I dropped her off at school she had no clue as to what was in store.
      Joan had become an ardent fan of a young Glen Campbell and he was due to be in town that very night for a concert.  We led Joan to believe we had given up all hopes of taking her to see him since my travel plans would probably keep me out of town that night. Joan reconciled herself to the distinct possibility she would not be in attendance at his concert. She was a very understanding young lady.
      When I returned home that evening, Joan was advised we would celebrate her upcoming birthday with a simple dinner out and maybe a movie. As we drove, Joan was very animated and proceeded to tell us of all the activity of the day. She didn’t pay much attention to where we were headed. Her chatter told us she wasn’t on to our plan.
      Well, when we approached the Music Hall in Houston, TX Joan realized where we were and became so excited I thought she was going to faint. She shrieked with joy and showed the textbook signs of one about to see their idol.  I don’t believe we had ever seen her so excited.
      Wanda had managed to reserve some wonderful seats, center stage 3 rows back. We took our seats and soon were enjoying watching our daughter watch this young performer transform the audience, mostly young people, into an almost hypnotic state.  We had joined Joan as fans of this young man from Arkansas. He was really putting on a great show. But something special was about to happen. 
      He finished the first half of his show and we sat there and listened to Joan excitedly chatter about what was taking place. 
      About halfway through the 2nd half Glenn pulled up a stool, sat down and asked, “Is there a Miss Joan Posey in the audience?” Joan was literally dumbfounded. We acknowledged to Glen that indeed she was here. Glen looked at here and said, “Well, tomorrow you’ll become a teenybopper. This one is for you.” He proceeded to sing “Hey, Little One” and there were probably as many tears in Dad’s eyes as in Joan’s. Her insistent question was, “How did he know?” repeated time after time.
      Wanda, in her fantastic way of pulling off the impossible, had written to Glen Campbell, in care of the Music Hall, and told him of Joan’s upcoming birthday. It would mean a lot to her if he could only wish her a happy birthday.  It was a long shot and he only received the letter some 2 hours before show time. Someone on his staff picked up on it and took it from there. He finished and instantly became a very special person to two proud parents. Joan became an instant VIP since almost half her class had been in attendance. It was a most memorable time and Glen Campbell will always have a special spot in our hearts…. Jake


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Granny And Your last glass of water

He starts singing songs of Ireland and we are home in a jiffy
"What's a jiffy," my mother wonders
"Guess  where we went Granny?"
"I don't know but I have a feeling you are gonna tell me," answers my grandmother
"And Don't call me Granny!"
"We went to church so Poppy could ask secret questions."
"The priest gave Poppy a shot and a beer and Poppy sent me next store and he gave me money for  taffy."
"He told me not to tell anyone especially you about the priest cause it's only for the priests ears."
"He said God would take away taffy and I'd never get another goodie and God would strike me dead if I told."
"So I can't tell anyone."
"He did," and she starts yelling and grabs a weapon,"what kind of idiot would be scaring a little child?"
Granny is standing on  Poppy's toes and and asking him questions of where he'd been and getting a sniff of his breath
"So what did you tell  the priest and him giving you consolation and a shot and beer."
"That little rat ," and thinks about the money for candy
Later, Granny is chasing Poppy with that big iron frying pan and poppy running and singing
"In Heaven they have no beer, that's why we drink it here."
"You damn fool I'm gonna bust you in the head, "and throws the pan at his head
And later
Cousin Francis has bill collectors come to the house looking for him
Granny was four foot seven  inches and she starts kicking him in the shin
My Mother grabs his Dick Tracy hat and she jumps on it and flattens it
I ask my mom where I was when this happened and she pauses
" You were in Heaven Patrick waiting with your brother!"
The truancy officers bang on the door and want to know where Uncle Charles is
Granny shrugs and says, "He is upstairs and the sound of the window going up sounds
They all run upstairs and see Uncle sliding down the tree and running as fast as his
seven year legs can move
He comes home later that evening holding a goose under his arm
And Poppy has a soft-boiled goose egg for breakfast every morning
I ask Uncle what happened to that goose and He said,"one day he came home  and
they had chicken for dinner."
And Poppy was gone to heaven to get me and my brother ready Mom says
And Granny sits my brother and me on her lap and says,"you two knuckleheads listen up."
"This is very important so don't forget it."
"Treat people the way you want to be treated, because you never know who is going to hand you your last glass of water"


Details | Narrative | |

Coming Home

For a few days each year they call this house home
as once it had been before they started to roam.
The walls will be ringing with so much love and good cheer
they'll be storing it up to last through the year.
Every chick of my own will be under my wing.
I've prepared all their favorites, planned everything.
Twenty-one loved ones at once in my home.
The house is too small, should have rented the dome.
I call out each name as they enter the door
and think of the ones who aren't here any more.
My heart is so full of thanks to the Lord,
that the love my heart holds is returned many fold.
They greet each other with laughter and jokes.
This home and I have raised some good folks.
The turkey and gravy, did I make enough?
We've all eased our hunger but continue to stuff.
The pie will come later when the dishes are done.
Even the clean-up is happy and fun.
I gaze at them all and know in my heart.
they'll be as sorry as I when it's time to depart.


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In Pleasure

In Pleasure          
By Nate Spears
Published 2013 in “Death OF A Rose” By Nate Spears


White suit, top hat, pride feeling higher than spectacular 
The ugly duckling has opened a new chapter
Revealing transformation that’s becoming a true sensation
Buried in his inaugural feelings of gold treatment
There’s always a silver lining after the disaster
Every battle, each day 
Sanity is mastered
Life tries to defeat us, expiration tries to meets us
But tonight he’s on top of the world
He’s on top of Thee
He’s on top of a feathered fame beak 
This is one hell of a duckling I must proclaim.
Our love floats in current 
Through the City of Jacks
You’re the only Queen of my deck 
As we coast along these sparkling waters splashing our tails
The momentum of the St. Johns River flows to a love hotel
Vapors of our spirits arises above
Elevating beyond the skies
There’s no limit tonight 
As my mind is blown on cloud nine 
With love and happiness is in the atmosphere
Scrolling the screams of these peaceful waters 
With mean swagger
This night is unbelievable 
Unbelievable is this; unbelievable I won’t miss
 
I was once viewed as a total tragedy, with no immunity from havoc
Or grievance
Frowned upon by my community as a under achiever
As if I was an oil spill disaster 
With no relief at hand, 
But to tonight I clean up well with Dawn
 
The river flows peacefully after the storm deforms
Accompanied by grace, I’m accompanied by love
Accompanying my side 
Is a woman of grace.
As we keep our heads above these judgmental waters in Florida
The rivers will flow to Fingers Point
At the end of this place called home sweet home tonight
I’m just a kiss away 
From the Full Moonlight.
 


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Home

There is no place as better as home
not even heaven is as better as home

He strolled aimlessly in the streets of Amsterdam,
deep in reverie and gnashing his teeth.
Here, he had come for greener pastures
and gold,he had hoarded.
He lives in affluence, in destitude of nothing.
But lurking somewhere in his heart is a longing,
a longing that cannot be satisfied there,
A longing for home.

To yaounde because of an obligation
that is important for my education,
I embarked.
Everything cruises well for me but for one thing;
A longing for home.

A home is a haven more that heaven
She is the mother to all orphans
a place to relieve you of your solitude
it is an antidote to loneliness and homesickness

On several occasions, from Amsterdam he had called,
calling to tell me of his one unhappiness.
‘MICHAEL, I MISS HOME’

So really, there is no place as better as home,
NOT EVEN HEAVEN


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Eight-Year-Old Logic

(Learning prudence at a young age.)

Granddaughter is back 
for another weekend visit. 
She's a voracious talker.

"Mom and Kenny,"
she says. "argue about
who gets to do the dishes.
Mom says, I will do them.
Then Kenny says, No,
 It's my turn."

"That will soon be resolved,”
I say. “Your mom will decide 
Kenny gets the job." 

"I said that in my mind,”
she quips. 
“But not out loud.” 


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Teaching an Old Dog

All I remember is going into the garage to get the snow shovel.
 
I am not even sure how much of the driveway I managed to shovel.  Apparently, I was lying in the snow for several hours before one of the neighbors noticed me.

The next thing I remember is waking up from a deep sleep to the sounds of beeping machines with tubes and wires stuck into and on my body.

As I slowly regained consciousness and my eyes were able to focus, I was aware of a young, bald child looking down on me.

“Hi,” said the smiling, angelic face.  Given the child’s age and complete baldness, I could not tell whether they were a boy or a girl.  And, with the tube inserted in my throat and taped to my mouth, I was in no position to return their salutation.

I tried to remember who this child might be and why they were here with me.  I guess my eyes displayed my confusion as the child said, “I'm Elizabeth.  They let me walk around the hospital a little.  Sometimes I sneak out of the oncology wing and look for people who have no visitors.  I like to make sure someone is there when they wake up.  I know I always like to see someone when I wake up from my operations.”

She just stood above me smiling.  I then noticed she was holding my hand.

“Sometimes it is hard for family members or friends to come visit.  Some people just really don’t like hospitals.  And, I guess”, she said, “not everybody has someone that close to them.  So, I like to become their visitor for them.  I hope you don’t mind.”

I didn’t mind.  Although it did make me embarrassed to realize that I fit in the latter category; I didn’t have anybody that close to me.

She just smiled at me and petted my hand as the medications worked their magic on me and I started to drift back off to sleep.  I heard a nurse come into the room and say, “There you are, Honey.  You need to get back to your room now and leave this nice man be.”

The next time I regained consciousness, I noticed a hand drawn picture of a house with a Christmas tree out front with a note that said, “I hope you get home before Christmas” and was signed by Elizabeth.

Each new day, I was welcomed by another drawing of Christmas scenes; smiling faces; reindeer; and, starry skies.  All containing a happy note and all signed, ”Love, Elizabeth”.

After ten days of recovery and following the insertion of two stents into my heart, I was well enough to return to my empty home.  On my way out of the hospital, I stopped by the Oncology Wing to say good-bye and thank you to Elizabeth.  When I asked the nurse at the floor station where I could find Elizabeth, she replied, “Oh I'm sorry, Elizabeth is no longer with us.”

I then said, “Well can you tell me her home address or phone number, I would really like to thank her for visiting me in my hospital room this past week.”

The look on the nurse’s face indicated that I misunderstood what she had meant.  Elizabeth was no longer with us.

Sadly, I started walking towards the exit.

Just before I got to the elevator, I noticed an open door with a man lying on his bed, with tubes in his nose and throat and nobody else in the room with him.  I went into his room and sat in the empty chair.

When he opened his eyes two hours later, I said, “Hi, I'm Joe.  I noticed there was nobody here when you were brought back from your operation and I know how nice it is to see a smiling face when you wake up, so I thought I would sit here with you for a while.  I hope you don’t mind.”

He squeezed my hand; gave a slight smile; and, slowly drifted off back to sleep.


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The Forest

A woodland path stippled with sun, hushed and quiet -
but the path I found myself on was a dark and dangerous one.
I'd been blackberrying - bramble-scratched, branch-slapped -
snapping from barbs berries fat as leeches
seeping blood-juices on my fingers.
Wood anemones opened pale hands to reach for me,
their fragrant star faces enticed me.
They beckoned, pulling me further and further away
from the world I knew and deeper into the wood.

The forest closed around me, trapping me
in a tangle of twining paths and trembling trees,
the ground layered with brown and golden leaves. 
Treetops cackled with the black caws of crows,
bushes bled red berries, grasses lashed my legs.
And every time the footpath forked
I went deeper, I went darker.
Tick-tock time slowed to a crawl,
watch hands wound backwards.

The whispering wood grew dimmer;
what little light there was struck trees and disappeared.
Fly agaric mushroomed into blood-raw open sores,
ivy ropes dangled nooses from branches.
Crying was useless, my panic-forced tears were hopeless.
Moles mouldered, luminous with maggots,
rabbits rotted, their throats ripped out.
Sky turned ink-dark, lonely wood-wild nights engulfed me.

With time, thoughts of home began to fade,
the seething forest seemed friendlier;
trees were a tease of teal and green,
rippling with strange and teeming life.
Amber algae scorched sunsets on umber bark,
wood sorrel crept, beetles burrowed, lichens came alive.
The forest floor was feathered with ferns
and plush with sponge-soft moss.
Now and again I caught the briefest glimpse of blue,
cool and welcome as water,
and once or twice, through distant trees, I spotted
what I took to be the twinkling lights of a town,
but it was only rainbow flickers glinting on leaves.

I've been gone too long, I'm too far gone.
Faint memories of home still siren-sing to me,
but just when I think I've found the right track
the forest tightens its grip, drawing me back.


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Golden Windows

A young shepherd living near the hill,
taking his flocks everyday to drumlin.
He wonders deeply while sitting upon the rocks,
looking at afar house while feeding his flocks.

The shepherd's desire is fantasy of afar home,
that has golden windows behind hedge of anemone.
He wonders if the windows of the house are gold
how other appurtenance of the house are mould?

He starts his journey to there, finally after some time, 
going along the way across the hill while biting a loaf of naan.
When arrives, he finds the house in fully collapsed condition. 
There are no golden windows but a poor crumbled house. 

He looks to his own house down the drumlin
surprised by the heavenliness of his own dwelling
The sun was casting back on his house's stained windows 
just like the sparkling on the gold as the sun downs


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One Day I'll go Home

One Day I’ll go Home.
Home is where I could do anything. I would listen to my music and clean as often as 
I liked. There was no right or wrong as time belonged to me. When I listened to my 
music nothing else mattered I was just happy. Happy was a simple thing with only 
music and cleaning for my home was a happy place for me!
Music brought an upbeat rhythm to lift my spirit at all times. I felt the beat as I 
moved about doing all things in time with the songs. I enjoyed cleaning my home 
with joy as things shined so for my pleasure. A combination of music and cleaning 
nothing could beat. I wanted and needed to feel so complete.
Now a new house and life with music I still have. Now the music is less and the 
cleaning so rare. The joy of the shine is far from my home and the call of pleasure 
and being complete I’ve left behind. The feeling’s once felt while my music played 
and I scrubbed things down has been handed over to another. 
My purpose has changed to be that of another. I fill this house with things from life 
with part time music and rarely clean as someone other does this. I have a purpose 
in this house and although kept secret my spirit knows things come to pass. The 
rhythm of my music and the spirit of the song will ensure happiness come along!
Now as I grow old my mind turns inward to find my home. I am there at last the 
place where my music plays and I find rhythm. I see myself start to clean and the 
shine appears. What welcomed relief to hear and see these things that made me so 
complete. Once again I am just that for joy fills my heart and I know I am home 
again.
                                                                                                    Debbie Knapp.


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Work is love made visible-w

I do not know what work there is as many feel
I have always worked with love and taste
In my teens my second home was Library
Reading Gulliver travels and one-act plays.

After getting my master’s degree in English
I got a job in the university campus as a lecturer
And never felt teaching as a work but joy there.
My house was where I could hear college bells.

My class-room lectures were for three hours
And reading at home for next day preparation.
I *dramatized great works for the college fine arts
Even I *directed those works in my spare times.

After retirement my sons look after my needs 
I enjoy looking after my needs for the fine arts.

                         *************  

*The title  of the poem is a famous
quote of Great Urdu Poet Khalil Zibran 

*P.S. I shall be posting some photographs of my activities in
France and England, 1989. in my blog shortly

====================================
Eighth place winner in
Contest: The work you do in Honor of Carolyn Devenshire


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Good Son

That summer your dad died 
and we brought your mom
to stay a few weeks 
‘til she moved to the nursing home 

we drove east to Saskatchewan
the huddles of family 
I’d never met 
softly recounting your father’s fading  
while Bessie washed dishes without a word 
and looked for something 
newly misplaced

Only you 
her fiftieth gift child
who’d strategically shirked 
corporate success 
could flick the switch of recognition  
her pleading eyes a conversation
translated in flesh

Back at home with a change of plan 
to live together 
as long as we could
with the front door swinging 
the kettle screaming 
dry on the stove 
and Bessie shuffling the winding road
in search of church or bingo

'Til leaning down to hug “goodnight” 
your eyes her open sky 
where every memory softly whispered 
Bessie back into the light


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Brother and Sister

Susan sits by an open window
Remembering her brother
It was during the sixties when it happened
The exact date was May 8, 1966
They called the Sixties liberating
A time when America accepted change
But it wasn’t like that for everyone
Her brother Stevie
Was two years younger than she was
The guys in school used to call him names
Like sissy boy and queer
Saying if he got into trouble his sister would have to stick up for him.

But Stevie was better
Way better than the bullies at school.

At home Susan and her brother 
Would move the living room coffee table 
Push the old couch back 
And then sing the old favorites 
In close harmony
Songs about teenage love
Like the sad love ballads by the Everly Brothers
Or the Righteous Brothers
The sadder the love song
The more they liked it
They would stand together
Moving ever so slowly
And sing those songs so loud 
And so close 
To each other’s face 
Over and over 
And then Stevie would whistle the ending
While their parents 
Clapped and clapped
And clapped. 

Then one late afternoon
When Stevie didn’t come home from school
The phone rang and rang
With a strange incessant kind of ringing
That jarred their mother  
It was someone from the school saying 
That horseplay got out of hand
Then the police came 
A man in a suit spoke to father in the kitchen
Whispering over the clouds of cigarette smoke 
Susan could barely hear his hoarse whisper 
Only things like “We‘re going to investigate this”
And  “I promise I’ll do what I can”
Her family never did find out what happened to the investigation.

Along the way
Away from home
Something peculiar happened to Susan 
She lost something of herself
And would sit   
Staring out of the window 
Not seeing anything
Just thinking of her brother.

She still does it today
Just staring
Out to nowhere
Every time she hears one of those old songs
She feels that Stevie is still with her.

Forgiveness is a long word
For what happened a long time ago
All Susan has are memories
If she could just absorb them  
And put them in a little bottle 
And carry them around
So whenever she started feeling down
She’d open the bottle 
And all those good memories 
Would remind her just how special life is 
 And Stevie would still be there
Their bodies entwined
Singing harmony
She holding the last note
He snapping his fingers
Whistling the last sad tune.



.
 


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The Ong Civilization

If unable to read, see translation at end of poem!


THE ONG CIVILIZATION

Wonghongilonge songailinonggong tonghonge Pongacongifongicong, I dongisongcongovonge rongedong a songunongkongenong rongeefong.

Itong wongasong tonghonge longononggong longosongtong Isonglonge ofong Ononggong.

Mongy dongisongcongovongerongy longedong monge tongo fonginongdong tonghongatong
tonghongisong tonginongyong isonglonge hongadong bongeenong tonghonge hongomonge ofong tonghonge Ononggong congivongilongizongatongionong.

Tonghongrongee mongilongesong anongdong tongwongomongilongesong wongidonge,  itongsonganongkong bongecongausonge tonghonge Ononggongesonge wongeronge songo hongeavongyong tonghongeirong wongeigonghongtong wongasong songogongrongeatong tonghongatong itong wongasong longosongtong fongorong congenongtongurongiesong 
unongtongilong mongy dongisongcongovongerongyong anongdong itongsong longanongonguagonge wongasong tongronganongronglongatongedong.

Translation:  While sailing the Pacific, I discovered a sunken reef.  It was the home of the long lost Isle of Ong.  My discovery led me to find that this tiny isle had been the home of the Ong covilization.  Three miles long and two miles wide, it sank because the Ongonese were so heavy and their weight was so great that it was lost for centuries until my discovery and its language was translated.


Curtis Moorman
28 January 2012

For contest:  New Language


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Dedication to Everyone

I feel that I have found a home in this cyberspace
with full of hearts and ideas in a special place
I wonder of all the people in the world to make me smile
with antics that help me grow in every mile
I do want to say to all of the people with respect
because of all of you my mind is not in a wreck
I would lie if I did not get ideas from all of you
without you my poems would not come true
I bless everyone with care 
with kindness and without dis-pare
I hold my hands high and put them together
with this I bless you with good weather
I do read some of the poems that people put out
sometimes I feel with out a doubt
I feel the pain in the poems that some has revealed
with hopes that they can read with their mind not sealed
I smile a bunch with every word
it is like a music in my head making a cord
I do want you all to know that you have made my day
to be a better day in every different array
I cherish my time with all the people in my heart
the words flow in my mind is just but a start
I'm happy with everyone in PoetrySoup.com 
with hardship that came this cyberspace makes me calm
I cannot choose five cause if I do I don't think it's right
just to tell you that is just my own insight
I thank all for helping me grow with all the poems that are shown
with faith and humor, with views of kindness this site has grown

If I had to say or dedicate my poems to who 
would be the first five who reads my poems with a point of view


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THE FORIEGNER'S STORY

THE FOREIGNER’S STORY

INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO THE POEM: It is a well known fact that we all shall die eventually, for it is inevitable. God, our creator and the owner of the world created us for a purpose. This purpose He wants us to achieve, so He sent us to the world to do so. The world is a difficult yet an easy place to stay. Back to Him we shall go. To Him we are responsible to. Heaven is our home, the earth isn’t.

On a journey I embarked
Through a dark tunnel
To an unknown world
A world of pains and
Afflictions
A world of joy and
Sorrow
Who am I to challenge him?
Into a foreign land He sent me
A nine month journey I embarked
To the great land.

Into the land I arrived
After a stead fast nine month journey
A weeping arrival I had
Down on my cheeks rolled tears
As I cried bitterly
Who knows?
It might be painful to 
Leave home
Home sweet home.

Into the land I arrived
After a steady fast nine month journey
A joyful arrival I had
Happiness I brought into 
My foreign home
So little I was
Every man joyfully welcomed me
A sweet sad moment.

The hard way I grew
On a rough road I walked
In a difficult world I walked
In a difficult world I lived
	Struggling……
		Working……
			Sweating……
To make ends meet
My master is with me though

A foreigner I am
Back to my home, I’ll return
One day
Having no say
My master is there to decide
My day of return He decides
Back to my home
In the bosom of my master
In the bosom of my father
That day I long for
For this life is a journey
A traveler must surely
Return home
Home sweet home.


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Kindred

~The Healer, I lay…Meditating, The Shaman’s path is inward and up, up, from the bed up, up, my astral body rises. Silence, surrounds … Looking down I see myself in a pit of covers my astral self slips from the window viewing home and hearth from outside and high above… No earth born sounds, awaken me from my flight. NO earthly forest, lush or deep entraps the Shaman she. NO bird calls fills the Predawn light… NO dewdrops distract~ Astral I recedes in time… a Dreaming Back, back, back without knowledge of time, or space like a fallen leaf~ twirling and swirling, letting the current take me, where it will through lifetimes to the womb and beyond . . . ~The Healer, I.. ghosts in space… my home but a speck lit with Chi. Silence, surrounds… Fair astral form of gossamer light, I…thread space on umbilical silk, the healer...reaches, reaches for the light, the He and She……God and Goddess. The Healer, I... reaches the World Tree, Yggdrasil, white crystal roots tendril into the primordial sea of space time, branching upward cradling Heaven. There below the tree in the soft grass an ancient one, a familiar soul, waits. ~Oh I am held by She, ancient Grandmother, and garner the wisdom of ages.~ But, the bodies time is now, and calls and as the clay rests, it calls down, down, down… I go ~Past the jumble-tumble between lifetimes, within the cycling universe of all, The Healer, I, reforms, snaps to the umbilicus of prone body, within the tumbled nest of sheets, in the now plane of existence. ~Arms reach out brushing cheeks, eyes gleam, and sparkle with the joy of sharing, kindred spirits having touched the ancient wisdon of the Light! Silence surrounds.
*revised


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Stone cold

He betake himself to his room
Does a clear blue sky betokening a bright day?
His motivating memory needs to retrace the day,
The reverberating revival and the doom.
In the boulevard, sloppy and slippery
Derelicts yet living on the streets
Where are the members of the expedition?
Buster! Prominent players on the pains.
In his fatherland, full of luxuries,
Where he is used and kicked
With nothing like honey moon or period
His readiness is there forever,
Like compatriots who look to their history.
For words he wails in himself is not of doubt:
What goes around, comes around
And what comes the world goes the world.
A deranged attacker, could he be?