Age Home Poems | Age Poems About Home

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

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Details | Blank verse |

Far away

I dream of the old house, five thousand miles
away, across the sea, high on the hill,
the garden where the rhododendrons shade
the black and white tiled steps up to the door.

I enter, walk from room to room, and see
my mother on the balcony; she sits
beneath the tumbling vines and reads her book.
My dad is in his study playing chess.

The house smells like it always did. Each thing
still lives in its accustomed place. This is
 a journey back in time: I am a child, 
was gone a little while and now am home. 

The light falls through the windows differently.
The trees have grown, obscure the view, and hide
The house from outside glance. Mom’s hair is white,
And father walks the stairs with halting steps.

I hope there will still be a few more years
For me to make this journey. Far away
Are home and childhood, and the church bells toll
The hours relentlessly. 


Copyright © Agnes Krampe | Year Posted 2017

Details | Rhyme |

Memories on Branches

How did a cherry kiss? Bitter flower petals with sweet pistils.
So laden they act as halos while we breathe the love
in a pink hollow, silence sounding like taste, acting like epistle
to hold this moment in a silvery image, like moon, or  dove
low, low, a bowl formed while sunshine flickers above.

Chains of yellow petals hang over our deck, the leaves hands--
offer welcome resting branch, our sheltered home.
Seeds follow close, fragile like beans, hard case to feed the land
crawl before God, they say, be grateful as we weed and stir loam.
Together seeds and flowers and hands make a life a poem.

Awaiting the sumac, the flame at summer's ending is fruitless
we've passed the feathering, the pimping of red underneath bristle
the deer horn softness crawling out in oddest places in a mess
lining the sand pond, above the purpled iris, the pestle
of stone and sun, no rain to bring down sumac's fiery trestle.

Vulturous crows squawk and fight the ring-billed sea gulls
waiting, one in the bared hollow hands of the cottonwood
the other fat-bellied and waddling after rain finally dulls
we're under hoodies,  under shivers, our neighborhood
waits the pinking and mossing, will it unfurl new wood?

Copyright © Sheri Fresonke Harper | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sonnet |

Blossoms And Bubbles

Dancing butterflies and laughter
without a care. A day full of sweet
smelling blossoms fill the air.

Sister's golden hair glistened in the
Summer sun's glow, as Mother blew
colorful bubbles that bounced off
her little nose.

Mother's  heart was always full of
love to share and the day of blossoms,
and bubbles will forever in my memories
be kept with  loving care.

Precious and few are moments shared
together. This wonderful day of blossoms
and bubbles, in my heart will last forever.

April 6, 2015

Copyright © Sharon Gulley | Year Posted 2015

Details | Quatrain |

Average Age 19

Once again, the powers that must
In rise again in what we trust
An overseas conflict, another war
Just what in the hell are we fighting for

Families are asking, Korea has just passed
Generations again reft, how long will it last
A country in need, to rebuild again
Flags at half mast, in wind and rain strain

Once again into war, sent by the Washington Post
To send back reports to hit home the most
Military observers were the first to be sent in
Another chapter of man entering existing sin

I'm witnessing our ariel power, Lam Son 719
US planners determine their incursion, saying all will be fine
Along the Mekong River, we'll carpet bomb their supply trail
Tons of munitions and napalm, this spread surely cannot fail

Many sorties are being flown, for the wounded and the dead
Whilst Nixon and his cronies, aren't thinking with their heads
The news of losses has reached me, nineteen have been killed
Eleven missing, fifty nine wounded, more American blood spilled

Seven fixed wing aircraft, more sons in action loss
Whilst back at home more protests, fading the dyeing's gloss
To to this job that I do, I was never prepared for this
To witness such bloody scenes, and ignore that life is bliss

How can I write about a soldier, whose name I'll never know
Killed at nineteen years old, his family he'll never see grow
Or even explain to his parents, when carried from the AH-1
His body bullet riddled and limp, when lifted it bloodily run

I never went back to the theatre, called the Vietnam War
Having witnessed the wanton killing, what were we fighting for
This colonial conflict that started, us on the side of France
So many came back as strangers, many to live in trance

James Fraser's entry into the contest " WORLD OF WAR: VIETNAM "

Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2011

Details | Rhyme |

I Was Young When I Left Home

   t'was a splendid night and I'm feeling hopelessly unknown 
 had a good old time, just a reeling with stories to be told
          now the paint is running out if the frame
        with my pockets emptied of loose change 
     I was young when I left home 
   I was young when I left home

when the heart is great and the world proves itself too small
     n' when a stark ambition arises if only to fall
         the battlefield was left bloody and cold
      they all had knives but I came through alone 
    I was young when I left home 
   I was young when I left home 

                    may you find yourself
            a good someone to talk to
        and say to hell with these 
            errant waves of misfortune 

   then I hear your name from the darkness as I'm walking through the snow
  and a pleasant warmth embraces me, seeps deep into my bones
         there is no pretense in your sweet smile 
       and I find the strength to go the extra mile  
     I was young when I left home 
    I was young when I left home

                      y'must find yourself 
             a good someone to talk to
     and say to hell with these
             errant waves of misfortune
                      'young when I left home 
                I was young when I left home 

Copyright © Rightly Jennings | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sonnet |

Care Home Confusion

As I opened the door, he smiled
Eyes wide and as bright as a child
So unsure under his new roof
Imagining people aloof

Ageing races through life so fast
Good health not guaranteed to last
Not knowing to trust anyone
Mindful of where to rest upon

Care homes, the clue is in the name
Life living there is not the same
Surroundings are much more controlled
Each day watch the same thing unfold

Shared by many of the same age
Some poor souls annoyed in a rage
From adult to child over night
Enough to give an old man fright

Grow old gracefully there or what
Few people give it any thought
Four walls and a bed and some food
Be grateful or looked on as rude

Tough times, all that's left are the dreams
So many don't know what care means.

Copyright © Barbara Campbell | Year Posted 2017

Details | Rhyme |


To Shakespeare I give all due respect,
But the world must be a huge theater I suspect.
Woman’s the major player if not the star,
For she influences all with love from afar.
The main acts of her drama as one envisions,
Occur for my audience in seven divisions. 

First the helpless infant in her nurse’s arm,
Fresh from God’s hands smiling and warm.
Yet guiltless and untouched by worldly strife,
She is but a stranger to sin in this dawn of life.
In her pink crib she looks cute and pure,
With a smile on her lips so modestly demure.

Next as a tender young girl of school age,
With pigtails and grace she enters the stage.
An innocent young girl loving dolls and toys,
She has no taste for bruises, math or boys.
Her voice is like music whenever she speaks,
Explaining with emotion the desire she seeks.

In the sweet summer age she becomes a blossom,
And weathers the waves in the role of stardom.
Now she’s a young lady with a pure, creative mind,
Nursing dreams of a life moral and refined.
When put into the orbit of heart-consuming men,
Overcoming dying hope, her world she has to win.

As a wife she makes her home a true nirvana,
 Winning from the man she loves her merited honor.
 She is in hard times his source of consolation,
And in times of pleasure his joy and elation.
As a lover and a mate she continues to perform,
Keeping house and home through every storm.

Now for the most blessed age of female life,
She assumes the role of mother as well as wife.
Like God's miracle, the first is released with a hurl,
Then with tears and a scream from womb to world.
Before long baby laughs aloud and pleads for caress,
And mother love with playful smile grants the request.

Next the vestiges of youth appear a distant dream,
And spring's lovely buds now attest to her final esteem,
As she enters her mournful stage of the widow's woe,
Her glance upon her children falls as her eyes overflow.
She has lost all her young heart once fondly enjoyed,
And in the business of change of life she's fully employed.     

 With the final division, youth is now a faded flower,
 And she can bask in the coolness of the evening hour.
 As she enjoys the reflection of her progeny having fun,
 She is reminded that maternal pleasures are not yet done.
 She continues to impart knowledge necessary to sustain,
 As she guides their hopes to reach for the heavenly domain.

Copyright © Albert Price | Year Posted 2010

Details | Bio |


I am a dreamer
A dreamer to own a bicycle but never got one 
I am still a dreamer
I am a dreamer
A dreamer who wanted to play a set of small pieces of plastic toy-soldier
But I can’t afford to buy one 
But I got the hand-amputated one
I picked it up in a canal of mud

I am still a dreamer
I am a dreamer who loves to play “sigung” 
Because this is the only piece to play
And a toy that is easy for me to avail
I am still a dreamer

I am still a dreamer
I am a dreamer who wanted to have a car
But I got tank in my ancestor’s homeland
I am still a dreamer
I am a dreamer to finish a degree 
This is which everyone wanted to get a job
But I need to go abroad to be professional slave

I am still a dreamer
I am dreamer to own a shop for a bicycle 
For me to give gift to the one needs it
But cannot afford like to buy like me before
I am still a dreamer even without owning a bicycle before 
Until today I am still a dreamer

I only owned myself who was created by the mercy of God
That until today I am still a dreamer
I am a dreamer, and still a dreamer until today 
I am still a dreamer, Tausug dreamer 
That one day, as a dreamer my dream would become true!

Copyright © Neldy Jolo | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |

Untitled in 1-27-90

I sat in a kind of wasted skin stupor and 
try to make sense of my reality idiom in pisces 
blue A minor sequence aqueoushumor blind sigh-ted
by a dubious passion to be a teacher of pious on
metaphors to go to the holy innocents of a yestertommorrow
I talk ramble by day of the slammer sociomenace 
while they glassed eyed park their sick l cells in  
unneutral and (in double park synapse in tow---let me catch an old
glimmer of naked frenzy-taut as a stretched, cracked
brittle rubber band praying for one last turnstretch to 
flipfly a higher band than the last cloud pattern, given 
to the raised eyebrows of montoya clammerings of hocus
pocus Jekyll/Hyde explosive endeavor trick or treats
without the brownwhite wrapper or the righteous look
pinch pout pocket of a boy dowell. Keep the false faith friends,

Copyright © Dave Collins | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |

Bitter Journey Home

Chewing garlic in the evening
	helps a sore throat.
Garlic will not kill a rat.
The sun kills,
	shining against the eye;
it is both friend and enemy.

There is enmity between
	the sun and man.
Beams dance by the window sill
	and sparkle like rain
	against old wood.
The old man leaves the house
	and returns to his grave,
	sick with scorn.

His grizzled hair and foul breath
	blows like a trumpet.
He prays to the sun god,
	but receives no answer,
	only a bitter taste
	of resignation.

A rat crosses his path like some demon.
He throws a front kick,
	then totters,
	tripping on a vine
	as he moves along.
The vine is a snake of green and brown,
	twisted, gnarled 
	like a calloused palm.

Soon he must head home.
It is evening and the day is dimming
	like a short wick.
The old man is dim of mind and feeble.
His limbs carry many wounds
	like thorns.
Surely sleep will restore his memory.
Surely he will find his way home.

Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |

The Heart Of The Edifice

                                           The Heart Of The Edifice   

                                           In the midst of the forest 
              Of skeletal trees, green cedar, pine, and brush is the thickest
                                        Standing so tall and  blissful 
                    Enduring weathering and erosion that slowly chisels,
                            Earth's rock into ever evolving work of art
                              A rock structure that use to be the heart 
                             Of the edifice where long time recurrence
                                    Of lives that lived with endurance 
                                    The, hiss, crackling fire persuades 
                                                    Warm comfort 
                                        From a chilly cold winter day, 
                                Or soaked from the hard pounding rain
                                             That chills to the bone
                            The scents of smoke, mixed with spice food,
                       Coffee, and bread cooking in a cast iron Dutch oven

                               Now habitat of natures small creatures 
                     A rock structure that use to be the heart of the edifice
                                       Standing so tall and  blissful 
                                          In the midst of the forest 
               Of skeletal trees, green cedar, pine, and brush is the thickest
                      Enduring weathering and erosion that slowly chisels,
                               Earth's rock into ever evolving work of art




Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |

When We Were Eight

When you were eight years old
waking to another perfect day's dawn
what potential did you
with your autonomic empathy,
integrity of left-deductive
with elder-right-tempered languages,

Who were you
as you stepped into morning's warm spring sun,
how were you one of "us"
and how many species were included
before you were even born,
first reminder of school year's end
and summer's leisurely recreation
of imagination,
former lives of love's future past,
role play expansion,
languishing loved laughter
replacing more challenging team sports
requiring a win-lose assumption,
and visual distinctions between
left space in right time.
invisible to your perception?

What were you doing
lying flat on your stomach
in dutch clovered lawn's grasses
looking down into a miniature jungle
without water in dry river beds,
forest for ants 
and other insect tribes,
their neighbors
our nations
and health/dysfunction ecosystems and cultures 
as sustainably contented climates of regeneration,
interrupted by great transitional revolutions,
critical economic and political issues 
with vast cooperative-global opportunities
lying between and within these enthymematic communications
from Earth's vast RNA-(0)-soul, refractive creation stories,
some with advantages and risks and beauty
of flight,
landing lightly in grass-blade tree tops
as ants pursued more industrial economies
of richly nutritional value below,
sweet crystalline treasures,
jewels for their QueenMother Gaia's healthy shabbat investment
in embryonic divine vocation
developing human naturally regenerative time as health optimization,
endosymbiosis of a new generation
of flying occupyers,
Bodhisattva Warriors
for co-empathic peace
with interminable cooperative faith
in this integrity of nature's ecological jungle?

Where was your family-owned business
incorporating love
with truth and hope for more inclusive faith
flexible enough to include boys
vulnerably drawn to love other boys' eyes and skin
and hearts and mindbodies,
more than girls' laughter and light heartedness?

How did you invest your perfect humid August days,
breathing Lake Michigan's thick air,
reading sultry Gone With The Wind
in wonder of such rich sensual diversity
of spirit and unnatural ownership,
of WinLose integrity disguising entitled stupidity,
of nobility both within and despite poverty
of mendacity both within and despite superfluously competitive wealth
commodifying even beauty
and power
and nobility
and darkly rich fertile race?

Why did you love this embracing place
of multigenerational space,
your private familial sangha farm
balancing your bicameral heart and lungs
mind and limbs in love's familial
yet often over meat-headed,
and touchy about fruit-filled embrace
so that no other place
could ever bring this transubstantiating home again,
so that each other space
might ever bring this momentary polycultural home regained?

When we were eight
still remembering embryonic Outside/Inside
Mother Earth 
feeding perfect love to DNA eco-mentees
through RNA-Zero fractal-memory-syntax 
of Earth's mentor streams of dreams,
Time's CoPresent econsciousness.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme |

The nursing home

 As he sits in the chair, towards the floor is his gaze,
fleeting memories wash over him but his mind is a haze.
The nurse flashes by and gives him a smile,
He longs for someone to sit and talk for a while.

The children will visit, he hopes they come soon.
when they walk through the door his face lights up the room.
Are they coming today or is it next week?
Struggles to recall all their names and he begins to weep.

Cannot remember her name by she was his wife.
A wonderful woman, the love of his life.
In a moment of lucidness, remembers the day that she died.
Emotions well up and tears brim in his eyes.

A drink of some tea he would like to have now.
The nurse is too busy and he doesn't know how.
Breakfast at eight, lunch right on noon.
Dinner at five, No! that's not too soon.

The room down the hall, inhabited by Bill.
The noises he makes would make you feel ill.
He hacks through the day, screams out in the night.
Waking all within reach with a terrible fright.

His daughter comes to visit, the kids are causing her grief.
Life is so hectic, Dad we will have to be brief.
Grand kids gather around and he gives them a cuddle,
she gathers them up and off they go as a huddle.

This man gave his life for the family he made,
just a little while longer, he wished that they stayed.
An hour is not too much to ask of your time,
to tell happy stories and tell him everything's fine.

Copyright © old man emu | Year Posted 2015

Details | Villanelle |

Old Age at Home

You are one issue, born  out of my  tissue
be blessed with all the Glories and beauties of life
peace, happiness and  success I wish you

Remember still I was thirty and just born you
Parted  love and left  our only love sign, my wife  
You are one issue, born  out of my  tissue 

To render my duties, you sacrifice young  beauties too
As I ignored my youth for you childhood should not strife
peace happiness and  success I wish you

Old  old man’s burden on shoulders of old man new
Medicines , health drinks, bills and dippers  in rife
You are one issue, born  out of my  tissue

an overdose of medicine can be  fatal I knew
my nerves tender and lying there a knife
peace happiness and  success I wish you

Thought , experience, joys and tasks just like a dew
Just being and breathing feeling the bliss is true life
You are one issue, born  out of my  tissue
peace happiness and  success I wish you

Copyright © Neelam Sangwai | Year Posted 2014

Details | Elegy |


History is repeating itself now
The cutleries at home weeping 
Your clothes in midst of confusion
All in desperation, trying to regain composure 
The tables, chairs curtains, all missed you
When are you coming home, father?
The birds had stopped singing on the trees
In the family compound because you're gone
The children of my mother beheld your smiles but it faded
Fiercely on them and moved away drastically.
Tears welled up in our aging eyes
Where are you father?
Where have you gone to, heaven or Jerusalem? 
When shall we see and embrace?
Stitching my tears together won't safe me
Because my heart is clapping in remembrance of your words
I picked up your footprint yesterday but
The broken home damaged it totally .
Your image stares at me each time i entered into
The room where you once laid to re create the history of the commoners
When are you coming home father to sew our minds together?
when are you coming home from the battle field?
Our souls are in debt of your face
Teasing the walls of our hearts
Return home father, come home Odenigbo the great
The forest that killed dreams in nkporoland
We wait your return father in the Agbala 
Our sack cloths darker than the coal
We took in all the Hawk-like eyes that stole 
Suspicious stares at death,
Come home father, we wait thee

Copyright © john chizoba vincent | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |

The Mystery Box

                The Mystery Box

The metallic box housed four puzzled people
Imprisoned two boys and two girls of undetermined age or origin
Uniformed in gray attire with no insignia's or other clues
They stayed as choice was not an option
To reason out a plan or what to do  
No idea of what was going on
Trapped in limbo for the moment near hysteria
A black and white world of secret
They looked at one another as total strangers
Perhaps a military exercise of sorts was afoot
Or experiment gone wrong without a warning
Odd surroundings now measure out their lives
No memories remained of how this happened  
Their accommodations consisted of an empty floor
Dimensions undetermined
Four walls with an opening up above
Defined the absolute detention
Overlooking existence beyond the room
Just past the squared off rim 
There could be nothing out there
And exposing nothing more for exploration
Except an empty sky void of color 
The box too high to climb from
No doors, no props, to reach the exit at the top
Outside a mystery prevailed
That caused them deeper fears
Nothing stirred or moved in sky or ground
Not a single thing perceived
Speculations filled in their days
No one remembered anything
Not even names and numbers
In this existential game
This must be some sort of joke or prank
Was this an alien world?
Were they abducted?
And with a lack of facts
No rhyme or reason
All their thinking for escape is simply reaching
No one hears a thing within
Not even screaming
Mysteries in a box without a name, remain

Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |


A small 6 year old waddles to the dressing room.
Her hair pulled back into a neat ballet bun.
Tugging violently on the black laces of her tap shoes as an attempt to tie them.
She got a hold of a tube of vibrant ruby red lipstick,
smearing it all over her small,chubby, face.
She puts on her white dress with red polka-dots slowly trying not to rip it.
Also her floppy bow larger than her head.
Lead to the stage hand in hand with her classmates,
she is astonished, the stage is illuminated with lights of all different colors.
She smiled widely at the thought that she wouldn’t be leaving for a while,
 this felt like home to her.

Copyright © Heather Nickels | Year Posted 2016

Details | Verse |


I had a friend, from long ago 
We were only young you know
She was my best friend
At least that's what I thought
We did everything together
I liked her a lot!

But then one day
I had to leave for school 
Though I wish I did not
Cause I missed her a lot
Then one day I came home 
When  I  called out to for her 
She did not answer  me
I looked for her high & low!  

But then I heard one day
From the TV news man
That she had met 3 bad men
And they took her away 
She is with the angels  now
For it could not  be any other way
And I know she waits for me 
Cause she was always that way !!!

I moved away from home, age 16, up to Oregon to get my degree in child psychology & teaching, come home at 18. had a dream that Sandy and I went to a house party "both of us age 18" then she went into another room with 3 men. So I stood there & knocked forever on the door. Sandy never came out.   This is a TRUE dream! And yes this ( her missing) was on the news. Two brothers and a cousin killed her.  

Copyright © Debbie Duncan | Year Posted 2011

Details | Free verse |


Cosmopolitan suburbs take shape
Form, not far from the metropolis
Streets bustle, enlist design, become cities 
Drawn down the street, concrete solid
Buildings line up one by one
In the calm one structure at a time evolves
There on the outskirts of timid town
Rising from the dirt, from nothing
A flirt with creation on the street
Laid down on asphalt beds, no secrets
Familiar as a name not said, aligned
Not far from metropolitan streets
Enlisted are construction workers to create
Drawn down the road to concrete city
Blueprints sit pretty
There on the outskirts of town, worthy to build on
A home, a structure to call your own
Usual forms materialize with nature in layers
Seem to build themselves communities
Cropping up as large as life
Sometimes it is hard to find your way home
With so much going on
The road to success is always under construction
My house has a number above a wooden door
Such a detail can be useful to have to get inside
Steps lead the way on silent stones 
When I go home, get in, my world slows down
Universe stops or shrinks in size, to be defined
There are many wooden skeletal chairs there
Fixated around a dining table when I arrive
Waiting for a holiday or family to come together
No prayers are said these days 
It’s just a dining area, nothing else
A bed is hidden in another room
It keeps secrets but mostly it keeps sleep
Buried under pillows and quilts and sheets
Furniture remembers everything
The kitchen is the center of it all
It comes in reds and yellows with a sink and range
Fires from the stove ravage meats and vegetables
Such alterations make them manageable to eat
Ice cubes in the freezer trays stay there complacently
Waiting for someone’s drink, a friendly hand to warm them
Home has a shower down the hall
Cabinets full of towels and soap lie beneath the sink
Clean thoughts from wall to wall
TV turned up loud in the living room
To keep life serene and meek
An old phone in plastic black rings and rings out emptiness
Lies lazy on the antique table, stationary, waiting 
Sits by the ancient sofa hugging floor
Listens for someone to answer the call
There is an echo running through the halls invisible
But no one picks up the receiver
No one is home
Only the ghost of a ringer


Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |


Winter morning light filters through lace curtains,
Reaches down, spills onto the corner kitchen sink,
Through east and south facing windows.
The glass jar, the scrub brush and pad in plastic butter dish,
A down-turned, empty yogurt container,
The pink plastic rinse pan
Keep company around the sink's edges.
The dried-out, yellow dishrag
Straddles the stained white porcelain wall between
Its twin chambers.  Home.

The three-track cribbage board,
Deck of blue and white checkered "Boardwalk Casino" cards,
Awaiting friendly competitors,
The gilded "Fiftieth" anniversary photo frame.
Adorned with golden bow, glass-winged butterfly,
Displayed proudly on the fireplace mantel.
The couple with their Papal Blessing, 
Sharing in the holding. Home.

Morning light streams through
Aged lace curtains, into the living room,
Over the fireplace, bricks set years ago,
Solid as the blessed couple.
Solid as the Home.

She struggles with the details of conversation,
And asks, as she does each time, "Arrr you mare-eed?"
Trilling the r's, after greeting me
With her Mother's heart, "My Myzeleh Surptizeleh"
In her heavily accented German voice.
"Howv many cheel-drrren you havf?"  Home.

The dated, yet functional, lime-colored shag carpet,
Symbolic of their stoic, conservative, old European ways;
The lace doily on the end table, photos of a grandchild,
A son, a daughter; and one of them, too.  Home.

The pink plastic Rosary ever present
On the coffee table in front of the well-worn sofa.
Her days spent there, 
Sometimes sitting, sometimes lying.
The beads close at hand, atop a book of Prayers.
Crocheted adornments on the walls,
A wooden decorator spoon,
A picture framed pair of swans,
With them all those years.  Home.

Copyright © Victor Faesser | Year Posted 2017

Details | I do not know? |

My Childhood Home

I grew up on Shiloh Road
Now for all who don't know my childhood home was indeed safe to me
I was number 6 of 8 children and space was not a commodity 
6 were girls and we shared one bedroom with 3 twin beds 
Now three were older and three were younger so we each slept with an 
older sister
Nobody wanted to sleep with the bed wetter not even me
I would rather sleep in the closet which was small,dark and scary (but dry)
Mom took Dad to meet his ride everyday so we all had to go at 4:30 in the morning
one day it was to crowded so I got out and went back in the house
Mom didn't miss me until she was dropping off Dad and did a head count of sleeping kids. She freaked out and woke up all the kids and ask where I was 
She was told by my brother I got out and went back in the house. They rushed home to find me a six year old a sleep in the closet.
She was so mad with me for getting out of the car but she stopped shouting at me and said why were you not in the bed.
My answer was I had nobody to sleep with and I was scared so I got in the closet
so nobody would find me and went back to sleep

Copyright © Patricia Bernard | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sonnet |


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.

Copyright © Morgan Sully | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |

Home By Dawn

My battery fully charged the week is brand new all the lost loved ones are telling me thank you for bringing them to life in my memory yesterday now I am ready to win in any way and nothing can hold me back from my dreams people are staring in utter disbelief they think the devil has contracted my life little do they know I took the path to the right and now I am reaping the rewards in my struggle so much so that now I've reduced my enemies to rubble and now I am standing on the power of my own alive in the jungle of my mind, my kingdom, I'm home to see the new dawn and for all those now gone I will always remember you and your spirit will live on.

Copyright © Bj Fard | Year Posted 2013

Details | ABC |

Treasures of your soul

Life is Harsh, Life is good
Only the few of the proud 
Those men that stand for a great nation
Their life at the stake
So rough and sharp
Every day is another challenge 
For them and for all
Freedom we all hope
But sometimes feel lost
Never give up that spark 
Hope don’t give it up for a price 
And when I see these great men and woman
Risk their life for a single child lost
With guns all around and wars of hate
I feel blessed as my country truly stands brave
A child is a gift of new life and hope
As I see the children in their arms saved at last
Only then will I ever know true courage
This is a path we should always cherish and follow
When the flame burns out nothing is left but stay strong
So please don’t shed a tear I am right here
By your side always and forever  
Our country stands not alone, but as one
Heart filled with love


Poem for Treasures of Your soul contest
for Gail 

Copyright © Brian Otoole | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |

Letter From Home

I am writing to ask you about yourself
And your family in Nigeria and other black countries.
I have seen the bitter difference here;
The difference between Nigeria and other countries,
Then tears stream down from my eyes as I watch
My people in sorrow and suffering--
I cried as I watched the development here and
Looking back home I remembered our dark streets
And, the roads in tears of potholes and refuse.
Here I am, there is constant power supply,
Good road Network; free from potholes and dirties.
The street lights are working and the drainage
Channels are well strutured like those at Onitsha.
We have an enjoyable atmosphere; free from
Polluted air and polluted water unlike  our country.
The government are more interested in Revenue generation rather than revenue sharing and aloitment of public funds.
Everyone is involve in the building of the nation,
They promote fiscal discipline, job creation and economic growth, sport development, restoring confidence in their health sector;
Championing peace, ensuring gender equality and woman empowerment, stabilizing the strength of their sub-region, empowering the youth to be productive home and abroad and,
The educational sectors are not abandoned to strike.
Here I am with tears for our beloved country;
The country whose leaders concentrated more on oil
And abandoning the other sphere of the economy.
Then, we were the highest cocoa producing country but another wiser has taken the glory from us.
Years back, we were the highest oil producing country in Africa but Angola has taken over.
We are no longer producing yam and other Agricultural products.
What happens next if the oil wells dry up tomorrow?
Friend, I have seen the different in my quest for greener pasture.
Tomorrow only can tell where we are going-
Say me well to your family, hope to hear from you
Tales of my country, my craving ears await you.


(C) John Chizoba Vincent
#Nigeria# Africa#Tale of poetry#

Copyright © john chizoba vincent | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |

Gypsy Homebound

Heart is where my home finds graceful relationship,
where my soul simply IS,
my memories of becoming,
of being at my best,
sometimes my worst,
but always my most full, complete,
most abundantly contentious and content.

Home unveils life's liturgy.
This home where I was conceived
and born
has rebirthed me each dawn
and decomposed through all my dream time,
where I grew up and out,
where brother moved away
from where I was married,
from where I buried my grandparents,
and then my parents.

As my body houses identity
my home houses body.
While home and self-identity can be distinguished
one from the other,
this is never a benign or wisely severing discrimination;
better as a distinction without prospects for contented difference, 
dishearted separation.

My soul and mind and body fade and wilt
withdrawn by force and circumstance
from embryonic being.
To awaken or sleep away
in any profanely alien place,
without power or even hope to return
to more sacred memoried space,
fades my eyes and ears and nose,
my skin down to my spinal bones,
despair this senseless loss of sense
of life and breath and bread that once was mine
and could be mine to share again.

My home is where I live
my view of neighbors and town and Earth and life
flowing sedately toward, then past too quickly 
on my backyard river of memory,
greeting ducks and swans
herons and eagles soaring by
to hunt this fertile rippling home with me
now fading into memory
as memory shades to sympathy and apathy,
and apathy to this sad self-isolation
from my heart's dismembering womb.

Lavish price for a new bodied home
invites sublimating new with best familiar practices and intents,
artifacts of golden memories from past days
and life
and home,
reframed by unfamiliar
but gracefully welcoming
and birds 
and weeds.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |


My parents had both passed and I felt orphaned, alone --
Although I was married and lived hours away with a family of my own.
And today was a day I had dreaded for months
Silently traveling the green miles leading to my childhood home.

Time to clear out the house, and put "some lipstick on the pig."
As we pulled up my husband just groaned
"Lawn's shaggy, paint's peeling, one shutter is gone . . ."
His voice faded out as my thirsty heart drank this portrait of home.

Suddenly, I was five again. The grass was being cut by my dad using a mechanical push mower. It was high from all the rain that week -- bad for him but good for me as my bare feet enthusiastically stomped through every lukewarm puddle left on the driveway.

He'd cheer up from one of the mud pies I fashioned
And baked on the scalding blacktop in the afternoon heat
While I played "statue" on the front lawn
Trying to stay perfectly still in a pose that would convince passing traffic I was lawn art.

"C'mon, let's get this over with." 
My husband's sweet invitation to enter the house brought me back quickly to the task at hand. 
The peeling paint let patches of long dated color show through,
all the way back to the fire-engine red I picked myself.

The door crashed to the floor as the last hinge gave way and my husband muttered an expletive, but I didn't hear it.
I was already turning around in front of the ornate gold- framed mirror in the hallway.
Each turn a different look --Homecoming, Prom, Wedding --
no occasion was complete without a once-over in the mirror.

I followed my husband down the hall to the den, he noticed the stench of old cigars and bourbon.
I, however, heard my dad screaming at the TV, reading the Sunday paper, and telling a giggly me, hiding behind the curtains in my best Nancy Drew impression, that he did it with a candlestick in the library.
Silly daddy! We don't have a library! 
Then he would laugh; deep, hearty laughter worthy of an ancient god.

Smiling, I stepped into the kitchen. Linoleum worn at the stove and at the sink, since momma spent most hours there.
Her huge apron collection hung limply on pegs along the wall. 
Funny how I always thought they were so bright and lively and fun, but without her, they were just rags. 
The table was set for four -- not because four were coming but because there was always room if they did.

I was in my head smelling momma's chicken and crust
And trying not to smell her creamed corn -- which I detested.
My brother would grab a spoonful from my plate when my parents weren't looking making us chuckle,
and his attempt not to sent creamy corn shooting out his nose.

I was quietly laughing with tears streaming down my face.
My husband walked up, wrapped his arms around me, and told me he knew it was hard.
He said the house was old and ugly, wallpaper everywhere
(The pink roses in my old room I picked out when I was 10.)

"Every floor, every wall, the roof, the foundation; all need to be replaced or repaired.
I suggest we just demolish it and get rid of this ugly eyesore before the city does it for us."
I looked at him with the last droplets of moisture still clinging to my eyes.
"Demolish it, honey. But know that this, right here, will always be the most beautiful palace on earth."

"But, having married a prince from another town, I was happy to move, and still am.
I pray that the prince and princess we have raised will always feel the same about their "home" castle.
Because it's not the condition of the lawn, the sagging doors or outdated wallpaper that make a house a home -- they are but a disguise.
It is the quality of the love that holds a home together that is the real beauty contained in any four walls, my love."


Copyright © Cindi Rockwell | Year Posted 2017

Details | I do not know? |

View from a Nursing Home

I gave my life, I gave you all I had to give
I cherished and I fed you and I made you live
I often went without my needs and saw to yours instead
So, why have you left me here?
I was always there for you as your best friend
You often said your love for me would never end
You promised me a thousand times, you'd never break my heart
So, why have you left me here?
What was my crime, when came the day when your love died?
What did I do to change the way you feel inside?
Why did you trade your promises for selfishness and lies?
And why have you left me here?
I'm so alone, I need to be somebody's friend
When will these days of everlasting torture end?
I'm living amongst strangers in a home that's not my own
Please ... why have you left me here?

Copyright © Bill Lindsay | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |

New Home

I found a place 
in the middle of the trees 
with a thin asphalt egress 
that made it easy 
to cycle to the village. 
I was surrounded by 
the aliens of the earth 
with their secret languages 
and concentrated lives. 
I truly lived among strangers, 
not those wanting to know me 
or able to know me. 
It was like the world 
before I opened my eyes. 
It was here and far away.

Copyright © Don Schaeffer | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |

When You're Young

When you're young you think it will last forever and a day.

The future is not in your plans, just today and getting your homework done.

waiting for the weekend and summer vacation.

After you're through school you go find yourself a job,

or college takes up your time, things have not changed, you

still wait for the weekend or your two week vacation.

Time is passing you by, but you're still not thinking of old age.

That is for other people, not for me.

Then for some marriage and a family comes along.

As you watch your kids grow up, you start to wonder,

man where have these years gone to.

As your children start getting ready to leave home

you wonder old age is not for me, I don't have time for it,

I'm still young yet.

Now that the kids have left home you tell your wife now we can

do want we want, now that the kids are not living at home anymore.

One day you look in the mirror and say who is that old guy?

Am I that old person that I have been saying I was not to become, but

am now.

The grandkids start coming along and you are so proud

it brings you so much joy every time they come over,

you finally retire so you can enjoy those beautiful grandchildren

even more, you have become that old person you didn't want to

become, but then you say to yourself,

it is not that bad of a deal,

having these little grand babies

here has made it all worth while

my life is not over, it is only

beginning, old age is not that bad.

Written 6-21-11

Copyright © James Foulk | Year Posted 2011