You WILL be home for Christmas, this I know
Though far from me, you are in silent pledge
My love for you does linger, feign to grow
It reaches out to you beyond the hedge
A hedge you've built around your blessed heart
You've shut me out, and yet I linger still
For of your soul and life I must take part
For none but you these longings can fulfill
The tree and lights and all the Christmas cheer
Dim in these eyes that fill with tears unshed
And yet I smile, for to my heart you're near
You come to me when all your words are read
At Christmas time at home you're sure to be
My heart I've made your home, and you're with me
Seven thousand islands grace the shore
where bamboo trees alight , sun -dressed
tanned guitars humming a native lore,
dainty the womenfolk, caressed
by Asian tides’ pristine ridges
while garlands spill from their baskets
crowning fiestas with beaded wares.
And trawlers halt to relish town’s zest
the nightfall sailing on lit prayers,
when movement of joy whirls, contented
along dewed coastlines… ancestry bares
a charm rippling on balmy shed,
my dawn and night broth, this daily gland
where birth mark dwells… sweet homeland!
Home is not merely made of four walls
Home is not merely made of roof and room
Home is where the love and affection calls
And the home is where the heart can bloom.
What it needs is something to endear it
Where formally there's no one to welcome us
But where is only kind lips to cheer it
And where there is someone to love us.
Home can never be quiet, polished and neat
But where tiny smudges of fingers small on walls
Tell the stories of far more sweet
And strewn toys, tell of kids’ play and calls.
We may roam and roam places on the earth
But home, sweet home is the place of mirth.
January 29, 2015
Brainwaves, restless energy, lighting up the stadium. Munching
pistachio nuts, hedging my bets on the home team. Cold skin,
transmitting neural code back to ground zero, to be filed under
January. The smallest planet in my galaxy, cold, dark and lifeless.
The quiet circle of eyes, dried out eyes. Pushed and pulled,
a circumference of asteroids, charged by the kinetic
energy of their own protons, neutrons, electrons. Randomly
pairing off and splitting up in slow, January winter night cold motion.
The music plays again, a familiar battle hymn. Like a stoked fire,
the asteroids perk up under orders from ground zero. Dancing,
shouting into space, an aching proxy for the human race. Degrading
sound waves and a return to the numbing stasis of cold faces.
The spectacle finally grinds to an end, the stadium lights power down,
the frozen galaxy deflates in another unpaid tribute to the home team.
There on the deck, I took a practice swing
tormented in the possiblity--
then hope was dashed--I found no hope to bring
up to the plate, when Ump cried out, "Strike 3!"
I was the last to bat--in this last game--
just oh for three, my record said it all!
And in the dugout, faces all the same,
the looks of gloom! Just waiting for my fall!
I took my place, right up there to the plate.
Out on the mound, the picher grinned at me--
as if he hoped to make my swinging late,
or throw me one--I couldn't even see!
He'd walked a batter, waiting on first base,
to tie the score, if we'd get in the race!
"No girl can hit!" I heard the catcher call,
and echoed from the bleachers was the same,
we made our stands, the umpire cried "Play ball!"
and then I vowed to get us in the game!
I gripped the bat, the windup came too fast!
As did the ball, but where it should have been!
"Strike one!" the umpire yelled at last--
The fastest ball that I have ever seen!
"She'll never swing!" the catchers words for me--
then threw the ball out to the pichers hand!
While out on first, my runner waits to see
if I can swing, or only make a stand!
Right in my face--the picher scouled a bit--
while I choked up--and readied for a hit!
All set to hit--I made it then my dream!
and came the ball--I could not swing at that!
"Strike twoooo!" the umpire made it scream,
then said to me, "You've got to swing the bat!"
The bat it weighed a hundred pounds or so;
"She'll never swing," the pichers eyes did say,
With that he gave his very best, I know!
I glued my eyes--as it screamed straight my way!
I never saw the hitting of the ball!
but won't forget the cracking sound of it!
Nor know again the feeling of it all
of this my very most important hit!
The sound it made--that ev'ryone could hear--
a batters dream--but pichers' greatest fear!
The ball soared hard and high past second base!
then seemed to drop so slowly from above,
as quick as I could get us in the race,
I watched it bounce right off the fielders glove!
The tying run was just ahead of me!
Ole "Never-Steal" now ran like not before!
And right behind, fast as my feet could be
I gave my best! And then I gave some more!
The crowd gave out the seasons wildest plea!
As I yelled to the runner just ahead,
with all the grit that I could find in me,
"I'm going in! And if you stop--you're dead!"
Ole "Never Steal" was giving all he could
and on his heels--I made my promise good!
We saw the ball come by as rounding third!
Not once a hesitation in it all--
and as the umpire watched without a word--
he swept his arms, to make the tying call!
The score was tied--third baseman set to throw--
now ready at home plate, the catcher stood--
and through it all--my only thought was GO!
but if I did--I'd have to make it good!
I knew the ball was thrown down to home plate!
The catcher poised, and glued where he should be!
I had to slide, and heard the ball hit late!
"She's SAFE! She's SAFE!" my Daddy yelled to me!
Now layed to rest--our coaches greatest fear--
the only game we won--throughout the year!
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
I leave my heart secreted far away,
In my home, my sanctum, my hidey-hole.
Each day I leave, but every night I stay.
My heart in it's home, always safe and whole.
Where ever I wander, my heart always
Calls me home, to my family and friends.
To a nice warm bed. To a fire ablaze:
We huddle close to chat and warm our hands.
My heart, my hope, my soul, all dwell right here.
The roots of my life, trapped in a building.
Within my reach is all that I hold dear.
Memories here, carved into the molding
Yet are not people more important than
The place? I will enjoy it while I can.
Dear Jake, I know you have never met me
I life in your homeland across the sea
Our priest gave us a list of men at war
He asked us to write; I couldn’t ignore
I can but dream of the horrors you see
Applauding the way you fight so bravely
You put your life on the line every day
And my gratitude I want to convey
Your days are filled with incredible strife
Do you have children at home and a wife?
You know that your family prays for you
I want you to know that I’m praying too
If you write back, I’ll return each letter
But when you’re home safely, I’ll feel better
Written July 28, 2012
*Entry for Gail’s “Write a Heartfelt Poem to a Soldier” contest
I remember the days of emptiness
no one seemed to be anywhere around
Love and warmth became lesser than less
the killing silence the only ear deafening sound
I'm Cathryn(*) and you're Elly I presume
"feel and be your own you and it's totally okay with me"
my dearest second mom entered the room
she sat simply and silently right in front of me
I felt no longer like a worthless black swan
her tender love and care made me feel fine
suddenly there was that shoulder to cry on
and my mother who recognized me and what was mine
she shared her inner beauty now mirrored in me
she gave birth to the little girl I always wanted to be
Written for "Sonnet on a Intimate Relationship - Poetry Contest"
(c) Elly Wouterse
(*) in Dutch spelled "Cathrien'..
selling a half double never easy
guess they want a whole house and nothing else
and selling our house is a bit crazy
at this house I’ve had my share of some belts
my wife is sick and tired of the people
she is from Jamaica and misses home
we have worked many jobs as a couple
and my life with her is always awesome
I’ve been here for a large part of my life
I have no clue what the future will bring
maybe soon we’ll be gone me and the wife
maybe we’ll be somewhere else by next spring
I always hated moving but I will
for this life of mine is always a thrill
After attending a "Welcome home Viet Nam Vets" parade, seven years after the war ended.
The welcome home parade.
Old soldiers wearing pieces of their past,
ill fitting memories brought home from a war,
the pride was absent when they wore them last;
a thing they never had, they can't restore.
Expressions from the sidewalk are solemn
as marchers on the street recall a year
of fighting men; rank file and column;
of sacrifice and ridicule, and fear.
Echo's of the bugle are a memory;
the blood of fallen warriors gone to dust;
final chapters in this plotless story,
lost with precious life and a soldier's trust
The polititions listened to the street,
unbending warriors tasted the defeat.
Forming up to once more beside a brother,
step out in time and hear the cadence call
behind a flag that lay upon a soldier,
and flies behind a long black marble wall.
Conflicted thoughts masked by nervous laughter
or drowned with bottled courage by a few,
Men with matching patches on their shoulder
are asking after someone they once knew.
Up ahead the rain has soaked the bunting,
and legless men in wheelchairs side by side;
loved ones holding pictures of the missing,
and clinging still to hope that has not died.
For Vets of Viet Nam one thing is sure,
the rains that fell on this parade endure.
"Home grown tomatoes, home grown tomatoes"
Whenever see them, my thoughts turn to you
Home grown potatoes, home grown potatoes
Whenever peel them, my thoughts turn so blue
"That I should have been home yesterday, yesterday"
Where freedom from mundane chores fade, fade
Like washing human made clothes come wash day
No more will life be feelings masquerade
"Where sunshine on my shoulder makes me happy"
Sunny day that I could just spend with you
Both free from pain we're no longer snappy
In the warm sunshine we our love renew
"In rocky catheral that reach to the sky"
"Let me kiss you,""Then close your eyes".
Stanza 1:"Home Grown Tomatoes"
Stanza 2: "Take Me Home, Country Roads"
Stanza 3: "Sunshine On My Shoulders"
Stanza 4: Line 1, "The Eagle And The Hawk"
Line 2, Two lines from:"Leaving, On A Jet Plane"
Inspired by Tracie's contest
"Sing A Song For Me"
When I pick up Sweet Williams
And inhale their spiced perfume,
I see them on the windowsill
Of our tiny old back room.
Their sweet indented petals,
Coloured every shade of pink,
Glowed so bright in that urban gloom
They almost made me blink.
They’d grown on Dad’s allotment –
An expanse of air and sun –
Along with fruits and vegetables
He brought home for my Mum.
Sweet Williams bring it home to me
I’m still the child I used to be.
The lips that kissed these tiled floors
now split to cough out damp clay dust.
Gathered in excited lungs, to build and mold forever more
under thatched roof of ripped canvas. Must
the strings that hold your heart in tune
be plucked free to dance upon the unknown noise.
That rings from peach sky mornings to hushed afternoon
in the sparrows song. Like the toys
that teach creation, Paintbrush’s whispering tongue
kisses white with every stroke. Scream
forth in colorful kindling that rung
your secrets in the wind, leaving dry lungs to dream
for knowledge as it seeps from tree rings,
the life sap frozen in amber wings.
I will be with you tonight,
Fondly sharing the love of your beholding sight,
Embraced meanwhile by the warmth of your absence,
Blazing passion causes me to be happy,
Distance displays disputes readily promoting a fight.
Thus conflict arouses beeping conscience,
Challenges cautiously undergone spark up our zeal,
Scattered arrangement declares the shyness of my heart,
Always adjudged is I as evidently scrappy,
True to it is our love as the mild touch of a moonlight folk tale,
My Angel; certainly our love is measurable on no earthly scale,
Fortunately I gained the love others resolved to steal,
You remain the key to unlock my passion in the illuminating darkness of a night,
Softly my heart craves for your deserved presence.
In flooding storm canals across the way
Street racing popsicle sticks end to end...
And later crawl under the house to play
Till a spider or Jack Spania did descend.
What folly with Gabriel, Rochfords, and Clark,
In the backyard or swinging up a tree
Till Monica called us in from the dark -
And in the morrow more tomfoolery!
A boy was I - a lost age it does seem,
On the Oval steps standing ten feet tall
Cheering my heroes in white - my dream team -
Watching Carew, Hunte, Sobers, Lloyd, and Hall.
But my greatest heroes who I champion
Gave me dear Life and Love, and called me Son.
Growing up in Trinidad in the 1960s.
The "Oval" is Queens Park Oval - a cricket ground.
Jack Spania is a wasp.
Prime land now fits our home right here;
Indulge our quest for plot that stays;
News in sure wit that hurl fond cheer;
Now hurls fine fest through night and day.
A touch of joy with city sights;
Charm wears a glow that clusters more;
Love plays with ploy to fund delight;
Enchantment shows an ample core.
Hope wears a face when faith flings tact;
Opt mind and heart with body feel;
Meet time and space with solid act;
Enjoin sure start with pact that heals.
Live lovely daze as truth aligns;
Yield happy maze in grand design.
08 May 2014
(This poem is an Acrostic Sonnet.)
You come to divide property after the death of my dad.
you 'd a fight with my mum your attitude was really bad.
you blamed me after he died I 'm only parent's loving boy,
you discriminated my birth never bought your choice of toy.
I donate happily if you come to share moments of my sad.
you 're my blood relation what was need to come with force?
why did you think, I don't support you that needs an endorse?
Noone can take property away you see dad why 're you so mad?
we were born together in a family and played in childhood,
you come to fight when others threatened me as Robin hood.
you listen your wife that's good, no need to insult mum,
if your son will treat you in the same way as it's in scum.
revise your mind and find something is wrong in your attitude,
we 'll die one day, come to live with honour no need to be rude.
Once a landmark, beautiful country home
Stately hundred year old oaks surrounded
Years ago productive farm was awesome
In the community family grounded
House sold for family built new dwelling
A different family then resided
But an orange red glow took home quelling
All the families joy gone with farmstead
A sadness engulfed me, for fifty years
Of memories and constantly seeing
Home in passing, now new home will premier.
Crumbled burned tin remains for time being
Life's assurance_change will happen sooner
Or later, adaptation roughly hewn
Click on "About This Poem"
Come sit and watch, the morning's coming on,
make this your beach, your life, for just a spell,
there's nothing like an ocean breaze at dawn
to bring the peace mere words can never tell.
Out by the helm, shipmasters watch the shore,
and dream of home as home is meant to be,
we only guess where they've been charted for,
another world beyond the morning sea.
The shrilling of the seagulls lonliness,
makes one to wonder, home is what they see.
But you and I must miss it all, I guess,
forgetting home is where one wants to be.
Come sit a while, and watch it disappear,
and we can only guess at what was here.
Behold the shout of "SEA!" Where ends the land
Down Manzanilla way on windward shore:
On coconut road, on ribbons of sand,
Where soon enough we'd be at Cocal's door.
On wet beachcomber footprint I've stood,
The Coco Lilly and beach flowers I've smelled:
And miles of castaway island driftwood
That my Mother's full and cradled arms held!
At harvest catch depth in wonder glancing
Village longnets reel mackerel, kingfish, shark...
Till yonder watch of fireflies dancing
And bright glowing pitch-oil lamps after dark.
Long into the night the oil rig flames burn,
And, like the chip-chip, I too will return.
Trinidad and Tobago
Macabee Hill (Italian sonnet)
I passed by a brook and felt its chill,
walked through a field whose hay was now shorn,
bounded by maples and harvest corn
I left my home on Macabee Hill.
The song of a crow was beastly shrill
the cushy path was now sticks and thorn
I thought of our joy and felt forlorn
I missed my home on Macabee Hill.
Ahead through the mist was Franklin Mill
where my allegiance was warmly sworn
and you followed suit and it did thrill
an aching heart that was soon reborn.
I love my home on Macabee Hill
whose pageantry your face does adorn.
In my quietude not all is silent,
Sheep's in the meadow - the dairy herds graze:
And in the remains of day's last remnant
Cries old ruru in a black smoky haze.
Season's turn have shed evanescent bloom
Beyond the wired penitentiary wall:
The great forest timberlands distant loom,
Possums in the Pohutukawa crawl.
Winter leaf and hoary frost will soon lie
On needled pines in planted shady row,
Where Orion and Hercules in the sky
Cast giant shadows on Paremoremo.
And my dog, he listens and licks my face
In my corner of the world and shut space.
Pronounced... Pa-ray-mo-ray-mo: A prison and a small community in New Zealand.
Po-hoot-tu-ka-wa: A native tree that blooms around December with
Beautiful red flowers. The NZ Christmas Tree.
Ruru is a native owl.
Orion and Hercules are military aircraft
From the nearby Air Force base.
'All grown-ups were once children...but only few of them remember it.'
– Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in The Little Prince
When we were kids, we agreed that Guemes and Cypress
looked like a boa digesting an elephant on some days,
and on others when the fog would roll in, the Loch Ness.
On the worn crumbled steps of the amphitheater, we gazed
at the horizon dotted with islands, sails and orca fins
and breathed in the air of moss-cedar damp and sea spray,
as time disappeared into campfire smoke and whispering wind.
But as the years rolled by we forgot about Fidalgo Bay.
We traded fog horns and seagulls for honking cars and whining
motor bikes, the salty breeze for an asphalt mirage that reminds
us of the mirrored surface of calm seas, the shining
waves around the boa and the elephant we left behind.
Someday, when our backs are hunched and our legs need a cane,
we’ll go back to a time of gray mists and steady rain.
SARAJEVO - inhumanity of man
Have you a home to call your very own
where sounds of children busy at their play
are all around, and it is widely known
this is the place you live at every day?
What would you do if someone came around
and forced you from your home one dreadful night?
What if they took just everything that's found
and made it theirs, and told you it was right?
What if they took your men--you know not where
and raped your wives and daughters for their fun,
what if they left your children crying there
and all alone, what if they shot each one?
What if the world would look, but never see,
nor recognize the worst that man can be?
Don't worry little girl, you need not cry,
we know your tears, and feel them every one
and all too well, though many have to die,
you will go home again, it is not gone,
but merely re-arranged, or burned at most,
the place called home still thrives for you one day
to dream and build again, a fence, a post,
four walls to keep you safe where you can stay,
and never see again man's evil eye
nor feel again the hate that brought this on,
and though for now you sit alone and cry,
the bombers and the butchers will be gone.
Your home is safe, and waits for your return,
Though nothing's left, except what will not burn.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa
Is this the way you love me my love bird?
Leaving me alone in my nest of words.
Bathing in someone else’s birdbath, love,
Basking in the sun in another’s tree.
Eating in another’s birdfeeder, love,
And failing to fly home to flock with me.
Is this the way you love this meadow lark?
By flying away and crushing my heart.
The only thing left are remnants of plumes,
Did I ruffle your feathers once again?
Not hearing your chirps has set forth my doom,
It’s hard to fly on while my heart won’t mend.
The worms have no taste, for my heart’s depressed.
It’s hard flying home to a lonely nest.
Precious gem stones awaiting my throne
my real home away from home
the promised land
much better than a 40 acres and a mule
where the most high rules
walking on roads of pawn shop dreams
the after life
not in hell filled with destruction,evil ,and strife
Better than any mansion,car ,and any amount of money
a land filled with milk and honey
Angel wings, such lovely things
flying around not hearing the sound of immorality
but of harps ,great orchestras of great melody
never lit by moon light
by of His glory
that's the place I hope to be when my destiny is complete
I just want to go home
And start my life again
Not as a grown woman
But as a child with no pain
I want to be with my family
Who will care for me tenderly
Who’ll permit me to have a voice
And allow me to just be me
I don’t want to be a grown woman
Nor the responsibilities now in place
I want to be able live my life freely
I want to go home and try to retrace
I’m clearly begging for affection
Something I’m not receiving at this time
Please allow me to come home again
My disposition is purely sublime
© Stacy Lynn Stiles