Kai Michael Neumann Poet Free verse

Home Is Where

Home is where . . .

The heart and reason mould into one and the same mirror of harmony

. . . the Golden Mean and centre of gravity as long as life’s turns spin around 

. . . where dents in the mind do not mind but care kindly about gaping gaps

. . . when time juggles dis-synchronous consolation in the face of chaos


Memories and anticipation caress the wayward traveller into the harbour

. . . the ancient light house guides pirates of doom into tender submission

. . . where hidden treasures are felt beneath a dented compass’ rusty needle

. . . when jubilation overwhelms caved in darkness at the point of confusion


Vision and hindsight blend ambiguity and opposites of fragile consonance

. . . the myopic lenses lead the way from afar towards what can be touched

. . . where shattered glass causes new puzzles and chards for luminous mosaics 

. . . when an empty canvas is shredded but gives way to a collage of dreams


Deafness and laughter combine to a symphony of understandable voices

. . . the auricles are pierced and adorned with truths and rings of delight

. . . where an ear for an ear is not an empty promise but sharing the way

. . . when the few want to listen to an old man’s attempt of feeble wisdom


Bones creak on the spiral staircase and master the voyage downwards and up 

. . . the attic hold enough trinkets and memorabilia for a flea market or two

. . . where moths in the cellar feed happily in symbiosis with trodden dust

. . . when paradise is being in love and sharing glow worms and outlooks


Home is when the Self is good enough and life’s companion is gratitude

A Golden Mean happy to eat from enamel plates one spoon and a tin whistle

Light shines through cataracts of wild water and cascades of living surprise

Nostalgia is a way forward on the path one step at a future step in the making

Shades of eye sight observe perceive reflect condense highlighting the soul

A child’s whisper registers more deeply than cacophony of ubiquitous hatred

And the bones of one’s hands can still read a book and write the odd poem . . .


17th April 2019

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