Poetry Home Poems

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

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Details | Light Poetry |
The Devils Riddle


Dark is the night
Dark is the soul
Dark is the heart that used to glow

Empty are the rainbows falling from the skies
Empty of the spirits when the darkness flies by
Empty is the treasure chest of dreams long gone

Tombs hold secrets of mysteries past
Tombs hold the dark to ensure it will endure
Tombs full of treasures are barren at last

Stones are grey in silence they sit
Stones are markers of the dark run amiss
Stones look up to overcast skies



   death looks down, the final curtain call
   smirks and winks, I will soon have you all
   dark and empty you shall soon be enslaved
   to the mysteries of dark empty ways
   there is no final place that you shall rest



emoH the angel of death has declared
“oN graves the trumpets play as I shall sing”

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014




Details | Light Poetry |
       This women in my home argues why I leave her so-much along.
        Together she say, the two of us should make the weakest link in
        the chain strong (relationship).  "but she's all along".  The bird's
        chirping as the sun awaken and stretch forth its arm as another day
        creeps through the curtains and not one word is spoken. "This stran-
        ger in my home".  Whoe, I guest - I-guest silent is the proper thing
        to do, don't say nothing to me, and I want say nothing to you.  
        But I break's the ice and reach for her  hand, she stubborni-
         ily pull-away and storms out of the room, I'm confuse and now I'm
        angry, "You men's just don't understand", is the response she say's
        to me, cann't talk to this stranger in my home, "but she's all along".
        I head-out the door for work, not to be such a jerk. I leave her a
        note to meet me after work. at a nice cozy lil restaurant secluded so
        we can talk. I arrive there first, then she walk's in looking so sexxy,
        my whole head spins, (she's) looking this good can not be a sin.
        We rap and we talk, this stranger (my wife) were once there were 
        danger of never seeing her again-now after a few drinks and the pro-
        blem becomes vaguily clear, we toast to communicating, and sometimes
        two people will not alway's agree on the same thing.  Touching each
        other's hands-looking into her eye's, she's wearing a very provocative
        dress that clearily has awaken this man. Talking is refreshing and I tell
        her, your perfume smells aahhh soooo--sweet, now at home we stop and
        began Kissing, and together we floats-on to heaven.  "With Wing's be-
        neath my feet's".

Copyright © John Streeter | Year Posted 2010

Details | Light Poetry |
I’m looking at an old house
Called home    by someone

I will look at any old house    new    or    old    but
Home is ALWAYS an old house

Old people open doors
Walk the floors

Old people light the candles
Decorate the mantles

And    the roof ever slants
So young thoughts may go

Sliding down    to settle on ground
In front of home

Seasons come
Seasons go
 
Cloudy    bright
Rain    or    snow

Inside    though
Home is    ever    warmed

By timeless ghosts
Of hearth    reborn

I’m climbing the stairs of an old house
Called home by someone

To open a door
Find stairs     and    climb some more


To follow the footsteps of some vague someone
In an old house called home
...............................................................
For Trudy





Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2009




Details | Prose |
My great, great Aunt had a lovely old home, with many a wonderful story, hidden within its walls. A Victorian, architectural designers dream; vaulted ceilings, full of ghosts; where spirit voices sang of its splendor. What I remember most, were the sparkly door knobs; prisms reflecting the sunlight; beautiful rainbow colors, adorning her sitting room walls. The animated colors of her crystalline chandelier wove dancing shadows into the fabric. As a small child, I reveled in that light-play; how I loved her magical home.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse |
A solitary piece the diamond
precious rare gem most treasured
by those lucky enough to hold
Once in possession it is rarely out of grasp
Like the gemstone the mother 
requires very specific conditions
in holding fast her (family/) childrens love
Treasured forever in her heart
she will go out of her way
to preen and protect them
holding them dear to her
deep within her maternal safe – the heart
closely guarded by the mind
Her infatuation of all treasures to her 
are totally understandable
especially when you think to the complexity
of structure and process taken in creation
Just as from the ‘unbreakable’ in ancient greek
this allotrope of carbon
with strength of bonding between atoms
is representative of that strong love
between mum and child
The maternal being could be compared
to the superlative physical qualities of the stone
Even the characteristic luster
of this gem so prevalent from its ability
to disperse light and colour
compared to the many strengths 
roles and qualities of the mother
seen by the many she deals with daily
A most high pressured job 
versus the high pressured temperature
within the Earths mantle
that forms the delightful rock it gives birth to
Infants delight and ignite the forbearer
just as the jewel would dazzle the room
a mother’s love encaptures the magical luster
of those she’s birthed and nothing
stands inbetween this richest of cargo’s

Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty | Year Posted 2013

Details | Crown of Sonnets |
She was always there 
Afraid to speak
She hid in corner of my mind
In the dark
She knew
She could feel 
She could see
But yet 
She was different some how 

Poetry Soup has made her feel at home
With a warm embrace 
An their guiding grace
She knows now that this is her place 
Home Sweet Home..... 

Copyright © Ninette Carey | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
THE HOME OF GOD'S CREATION


The is my heaven, it
is so far away,
But soon I will go there - 
and call an end to my
dismay.
This is my heaven, I
go there, it is true,
Just to find happiness,
but there is always 
a queue!

I walk up to the pearly
gates - in a magic land
of peace,
Just to meet the lord
himself - my sorrow he
will cease.
The prayers are said - 
and the angels smile,
I am so amazed, am I
on trial?

There are no wars just
peace and love,
All this and more - in
heaven, above.
The light of God he 
holds in his hand,
It guides me to the
perfect land.

This is heaven - the
home of God, and
he welcomes all of
us.
No matter what, or 
who we are - he 
doesn't make a fuss.
For peace and love - 
to heaven I go - as
this is my destination,
The home of God does
welcome me - to the
home of God's creation.


BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |
They're getting old now.
They congregate only a few blocks south of where I live.
40 to 50 years ago they were in Vietnam.
Among the homeless they usually move slower,
The weariness of age and of other things,
of drug use and alcohol,
lost loves and families,
bent and broken paths.

You hear about the "thousand yard stare,"
where blank verse and silence show they're not actively seeing,
though now most of the immediate trauma is gone,
they are just lives forever changed,
eyes both hardened and softened,
former aspects compromised,
the hand of war still upon them.

My family had a big house in Youngstown, Ohio,
with a room rented to a nice young guy named Dale.
It was cool because he would throw the football
with me and my brothers, and talk to us.
He had short hair and a little bit of acne.
In 1967 he went to Vietnam, killed within a week.

They tell stories of night patrols, moving through water,
streams rivers rain, mud and sodden clothes,
100 degrees in the shade, bugs, infection, panic,
running through the jungle firing their M-16 behind them,
of the Vietnamese people suffering, the dead lying along the road.

Arriving in-country, the heat blasting you
when you get off the plane, you are told
look left, look right, and then that one of the two men
you just saw will not return.

Our country was then conflicted, and it was harder coming home,
even though the orange fires and the smoke were far away,
you lost a limb and they didn't appreciate it.

There were a lot of booby-traps set,
by the enemy, by the bureaucracy, by the times.

I wasn't old enough to go and I'm not sorry.

Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Homeless...   Useless...   Shameless...   Nameless...
These are few names by which I'm known, 
Though I would rather like to be called as Lazarus...
Regardless, let me tell you the truth --
I care less and fear less,
Far less than you, who make those nasty faces at me,
As if I would eat you...
Yet, I ain't heartless,
Sure homeless, but harmless.
Life has been harsh to me, but I ain't hopeless,
I fear God, who has not left me comfortless.
This faithful dog is by my side, all the time,
As are my fellow brothers, who share with me my roof, the sky,
And my bed that keeps changing, 
Nonetheless, I'm satisfied with what I have --
Nothing to lose and nothing to gain.
When I see you all walking about so worried, I can't but smile,
And my fearless smile is sure to render you... speechless...


--------------------
27.10.16


Copyright © Jo Daniel | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
I know of a lass by the name of Kelly McGower 
Who would sing like an angel when she took a shower. 
But when she finished and came out of the rain, 
It seems that her talents would wash down the drain. 
And if she attempted to sing one more note, 
Her voice would sound like a rude Billy Goat. 
Poor Kelly, to her singing was close to pure joy, 
But she’d never share it with Shamus McCoy. 
Shamus it seems was the man of her dreams, 
But to sing for him would be far too extreme. 
To invite him to hear her would set off alarms, 
And how could she do it without revealing her charms? 
So the poor girl wondered what else she could do, 
To gain his attention and to be loved by him too? 
  
Next door to Kelly there lived one Shamus McCoy, 
Nothing special about him, just an average boy. 
He’d stroll through his garden each night at the same hour, 
And wait for dear Kelly to start taking her shower. 
When her singing would start on the fence post he’d lean, 
Until sweet Kelly and his soul were both clean. 
For the sound of her voice would make him content, 
But for listening to her shower he felt the need to repent. 
So he got on the phone to speak with the Vicar, 
In hopes that absolution could come that much quicker. 
The Vicar grabbed his Bible to help save the boy, 
Then he went to visit the home of young Shamus McCoy. 
And while Shamus made confession to his lyrical love, 
The Vicar heard the sweet sounds from the window above. 
So transfixed was he by the sound of her voice, 
That he called out to Shamus to be glad and rejoice. 
He provoked Shamus into action to ask for her hand, 
So young Shamus made a purchase of a perfect gold band. 
  
Now Shamus is granted a concert each night, 
And the songs that she sings bring him delight. 
His love for his wife has made him complete, 
And she now permits him a front row seat. 
Still her modesty requires that he turn his face, 
Because the shower curtain is made of fine Irish lace. 
And there is not enough of it there to obstruct his view, 
So to honor her wishes it's the least he can do. 
He’ll protect her modesty when he comes to hear her, 
By turning from the shower and looking into the mirror. 
But the steam from the shower clouded up the glass, 
And obscured his view of this beautiful lass. 
So Shamus took action there was nothing more to it, 
And that’s how Kelly’s solo got changed into a duet. 
Let this poem stand as an explanation to the city as to why, 
The water bill at the home of the McCoy’s is so high.

Copyright © Tony Lane | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |
      My Bros.' & Sister's the [Book] tell us that we are made in the image of God, made
in the likeness of him.  So why is the World suffering much to much idiosyncricie's whe-
ther you're fat or slim ?  Do you know!! Do Ya!!...  long and many year's ago, Noah
is assign an important task, that being! to build a ship (the Ark) for the purpose that
(GOD) seen the supplication of his creation.  He is sadden that sin enter into evil thought's
of mankind, and the collaboration of their choices brings no satisfaction to the reasonable
reason for Noah being choosen to finished the Ark {no satisfaction}....  My guess is
that Noah prayer's was like, "Show Me the Way Home", Lord, thou reason that the rain 
shall come, makes a consorted effort to save a generation, I am so along.  "Show me the 
way Home".  This-thiss generation ignore's the preaching for a 120-years, now water is
around their necks and the door is (slam!!) shut.  "Slam-Shut".  My Brothers ' Sister's
do you wonder why the likeness is impossible to live up too.  We choose to live to do
our own thing - our own way.  That's O'K from a selfish standpoint.  But for a spiritual
analyzationable lovepoint, sometimes the seperation is somewhat confrontationable.
     So-so my brother, the long way home is a fight that the "Anti-Christ commit to the 
principalitie's warfare against the conscience of your mind and you become blind and
you heed to the warning and now he see's (The Anti-Christ) that you are not strong:
(I'm so all along) Now my sisters that implie's to you also, your fight is a battle the ene-
my approaches from your blindside, and if you're not carefull, "you will believe in all the 
lie's.  (Be Strong)  
"Show Me the Way Home", LORD-show me.  Me and the tall and short one's and the cre-
ated of all children's whether large or small.  When we have fought against the file's of
the enemy, and we all are along.  Before the gap get wider (and ?)  "Show Me the
Way Home".

P.S....This Poem is the first of a two-part initative in God's awsume plan to regenerate a
society of any culture, that we as his children must ask him to "Show me the way Home".

Copyright © John Streeter | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |
A HOME I never knew a home; Christmas, any holiday were words, merely words. Looking from the outside in. A child, seeing lights, balls, trees, presents, but most of all: family life. Warm feelings coursing me, A longing so unknown, A wish so deep, a wish to be. Only, I still don't. Winter used to be cold, inside and out. The house an unfriendly place. Feeling like a visitor, A child, craving warmth of family life. Wanting to belong somewhere. Silent words on paper form A longing deeply seated. Inside all my feelings storm, Melting hearts, heated This year I have a home; my sister embraces me to her house and her family. No more outside, but in. For once a child, and I can stay and I can celebrate and enjoy family life Small tokens in my happy hands. Wrapping paper, tape, smiles, Christmas tree, love lands. Peace, after years of trials. *** 8th place in contest: THE HEART OF CHRISTMAS Sponsor: Mystic Rose

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
       To some a light house was simply that,a house with a light
    Though to the brave souls sailing the oceans it was a reminder
                        of many things upon the night
 The light would remind them that someone was always watching and waiting  
                        for the return of every soul.    
  A beacon of truth,trust,love and every memory of which it has no control
                    
        The keeper of the light,most will never get the privilege to meet
      So much they have done for people that they will never get to greet
        The keeper was a man of solitude because he was married to the sea
      His mistress,the ocean,so what tangible love could ever be.
   
                      Such a symbol for so many things
                 To the Keeper of what the tide shall bring
  
     Even the House shares a relationship between the fog and sea
                      Like a marriage problems will be
                 
                    If you misread the light problems will ensue 
                         Stay the the course,tighten the sails
                                Do what ever you must do

                       Just remember when you see the light
                         She has you safely headed home
                       That light should always remind us
                         Of that place where we all belong

                                                             ''Find your Light''                                
                                                                                                Doc

                
                
                   
      
   


     
               



              

Copyright © Jai Bankson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
The bright Christmas lights on my city house are so colorful and traditional,
hopefully when I get my high utility bill I won't become too irrational,
and watching everyone open up their gifts makes me want to sigh,
also hoping that when I get the credit card bills I won't start to cry,

And the Christmas room has edible fumes of the eating variety kind,
with the holiday weight I gain ending up in my butt and thighs,
while getting a white Christmas is something I always wished for,
but not slipping on the slippery steps when walking out the front door,

A different group of Christmas carolers singing out front in my yard,
all of them sounding very off key like a cat getting strangled,
and not having money to give them gave them some pie I baked,
most of them getting sick from it Betty Crocker I aint,

Going Christmas shopping and getting stuck in the holiday traffic,
and trying to find a parking spot at the mall was really quite baffling,
having to sit there and wait till I saw a shopper getting ready to leave,
another car beat me to the spot while I sat there and sneezed,

So I decided to move far away from the hustle and the bustle,
wheres all I have to worry about is what is that woodland noisy rustle,
could be a black bear, coyote, wolf or a moose,
and when I get my mail every day have to run so they don't bite my big caboose,

But thats ok I'm starting to feel at home for the holidays in the hills,
getting used to the 8 foot snow drifts and the night time animal shrills,
while getting into my vehicle can be quite an ordeal,
running like a fugitive till I get inside of it in my camouflage gear,

But I have a plan B just in case living in the hills doesn't all work out,
I'll just move to Florida where the humidity and big bugs will bother me no doubt,
where I'll buy my own little house hopefully sinkhole free and keep it fumigated,
and pretend to have a white Christmas even though its 85 degrees out while getting chased by an alligator.


Happy Holidays Everyone!
12-24-16

Copyright © cheryl hoffman | Year Posted 2016

Details | Verse |
I walked into the brewery and ordered up a beer Sat down at the bar, said I was waiting for you here When I finished drinking I walked across the floor I saw a couple of old buddies from back before the war I called over the waitress and bought them another round They patted me on the shoulder, been a while since I hit town It’s sure a lot of fun, I’m glad that I’d stopped in But I’m looking across the room wondering if you’d come again I settled with the waitress with her hand set on her hip I reached deep into my pockets and found her a little tip Then I walked out the door pulled my collar against then chill Saw a couple street musicians playing in front of Macey’s grill I handed them some money and they played a cheerful tune I hung out on the street hoping that you’d show up soon I listened to the trumpet and I moved with the beat I watched the drummer keeping time tapping with his feet The November air had started to get a little cool So I walked down the street thought I’d shoot a little pool I walked into the pool hall everybody started to cheer They slapped me on the back and they bought me a little beer I saw an old girlfriend from way back in the day She put her arm around me and I knew I couldn’t stay So I walked up Second Avenue and found a used book store I stared into the window and thought I saw you sitting on the floor I opened up the door and heard the bell ring I got a cup of coffee and listened to Sinatra sing I read a little Kipling and some Pablo Neruda too I walked across the room and sat down next to you I reached over and gently brushed my hand against your hand You didn’t pull away even though you knew you can I read to you from Byron and paused for a little while You looked into my eyes and then I saw you smile.

Copyright © James Andersen | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse |
Poetry
comes from within the deepest
depths of our souls
a feeling yearning to be free
forever living in books and internet
as its new homes
living in eternal happiness
being seen for the hearts they have

Copyright © Vermillion Scythe | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
"I Do Believe" 

The purpose of LIFE is to {Living In Faith Ever} 
to enrich God within us 
to an optimum level 
so that We as Humans 
can be guided by God 
to fuel out brothers and sisters 
with the same driving force 
to connect with the living God, 
to His existence and 
to See the Invisible, 
Believe the Incredible, and 
to Receive the Impossible 
to our everlasting journey 
to Heaven.

Rev. Samuel Mack
Copyright 2013

http:paladinnews1.blogspot.com

Copyright © Rev. Dr. Samuel Mack OMS DD | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
I was just trying to remember the past
 trying to remember the good people
 and the bad people,
 that i came across on my way,

i want you to know
that you are among the good people
 that left a good trace in my life,

once again i just want to say thank you
for passing through my life,
is so short but is wonderful
i want you here forever.

Copyright © VICTOR BUN | Year Posted 2012

Details | Light Poetry |
ROLL UP! ROLL UP! IT'S THE HOME OF
AMERICAN SOCCER.


Roll up! Roll up! The
soccer is now here,
When the teams 
come out to play - 
all the fans will cheer.
The grim look on
the faces - of all the
team players - 
Wishing they were
all back home - 
instead of showing
their kickers!!

They stand there 
all in a line - feeling
very macho - 
Thinking of a nice
chilled beer - they
think they're Al 
Pacino!!!!
The pitch is green
and slippy - they
may fall on their 
backsides - 
Each facing their
enemy - the rival 
of the sides.

The referee is in
charge - as he is
ready to blow his
whistle - 
When, all of a 
sudden - someone
throws a missile?
A cloud of smoke
fills the air - and
the fans are all
now cheering - 
It doesn't take 
too long - for the
smoke starts 
clearing.

"The managers
are not happy - 
as they are now
running late,  
 "What is going on
here - asks a fan
who's shouting at
a gate?"
"Let me in? I've
paid my money - 
the match I want
to see?"
"Running up the
stairs so fast - he
spills his cup of tea!"

Now everything is
ready - for a football
match,
The football is shown
on live TV - for the 
American's all to 
catch?
They love the English
game - and they call
it playing soccer - 
All the US players - 
are certainly more
stronger!!

There's one good
thing about soccer - 
the Americans play
so bliss.
And when they 
score a marvel goal - 
they don't start to
kiss!!!!!
The world of soccer
is so global - just
like the English 
football - 
When they run out
on to the pitch - they
simply have a ball!!

The land of 
Christopher Columbus - 
is shining like the stars,
All the soccer players - 
are all celebrating in 
the bars.
They play a fabulous
game - as the heroes,  
they are so valor.
Welcome to the game
my friends - the home
of American Soccer.

BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
The elephant was walking through the jungle one day
Swinging his trunk, this and that way.
He dragged it along not caring where still
And then he dragged it through, a very large Ant hill.

His trunk started to itch and annoy him a bit
He wandered around to look for somewhere to scratch it.
He found a tree and wrapped his trunk around 
The leaves and the fruits all dropped down to the ground
 
The itch it then moved, it was now up at his nose
He needed to rub it on anything that goes.
He found a rock and rubbed with all his might
It was covered in insects and they all took flight.

Apart from a butterfly that dropped on his tusk
She lay there broken smelling faintly of musk
The itch it had moved up onto his head right close to his eyes
Then he heard a voice which was quite a surprise.

Hey you be more careful you great big beast
You’ve ruined my home and knocked off the giraffes feast.
You’ve forced insects to flee from the rock where they lay
And you have a broken butterfly on you tusk, now what do you say?

The elephant stopped in his tracks and looked around
He couldn’t see, from where came the sound.
Elephant shook his head as the itch went to his ear
Then the voice said it’s me stupid, I am in your ear.

The elephant stopped and begged, please keep still
You are making me itch and it’s making me ill
Please show yourself and let me apologise
I meant no harm especially to you or the butterflies.

The ant crawled out of the elephant’s ear
He said, I need you to go back to my anthill I fear
I need to check up and the wounded and dead
If you do this for me I’ll stop itching on your head.

Ok said the elephant I’ll do that for you 
But what about this butterfly, what can we do?
I’m not sure said the ant, to the elephants ear
We’ll sort it in a bit when we get near.

They set of and found the squashed ants and hill
The elephant cried it made him feel ill.
The ant said we need new home and quick
And for the butterfly she is quite sick.

The elephant was sad and offered what help he could .
You can move in my trunk and I promise I’ll be good
Thank you we will said the ant, just for a while
And we can help the butterfly said the ant with a smile.
So together they set of all content and happy
The elephant the  butterfly and the little Anty.


Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl | Year Posted 2011

Details | Free verse |
Like sick allergies, 
Boredom can be passed around
I call it: THE BOREDOM DISEASE

Like a horrid storm,
Boredom can catch you off guard
Hold on for DEAR LIFE!

Like the whooping cough,
Boredom can be serious
If I were you, I’d
Get a vaccination ! 

Copyright © JW Earnings | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |
God created hands for building things. Sometimes before you build something, you must first destroy something else.

Wildfires are never supposed to be put out. Their sole purpose is to burn the entire forest to the ground, transform living things to fertilizer, making room and preparing the soil for new growth.
It is almost paradoxical, 
that there must be death before birth

My hands have stared the grim reaper’s reflection inside the pool of my best friends blood. An old student I used to tutor told me that I am the best brother she could have asked for
She said she will always love me
This was after I burned every bridge that traversed the gaps between us
Stared at her from across her desk
Told her that she will never be my sister. That our bloodlines will never match.
Our gene pools are just strangers that made the same wrong turn.
I spent so much time trying to find my way back that I never realized I was home in being lost I found something comfortable, without expectations. I only corrected myself after she spoke,
because I heard something familiar in her voice.
She sounded like family.

I have the scarred and wrinkled hands of a senior citizen
I’m only 22 years old
I once got my palm read
This gypsy woman told me that my lifeline should have been cut short when I hit 17.
That was a year ago.
What do gypsies know anyway
I have defied the odds my entire life.
Been broke down and built back up too many times to count
My fingernails chewed raw to the cuticle out of anxiety
I enjoy the taste of my own pain
Sometimes I use my own hands to destroy myself just to see who my real friends are who will build me back up when I can’t do it alone

My hands have a desire to learn how to cook, but I’m not that great.
So when I am alone,
I tend to be hungry, not just for food though.
I starve for someone to talk to
It never satiates, because it’s not you.
I know what it tastes like to completely give myself to someone.
My biggest fear is being abandoned.
When I look into your eyes, I am not afraid.
I need to cook you up a feast of myself, then feed it to you every day for the rest of our lives
Please tell me what I really taste like,
Be honest.

Years after my grandfather passed away, my grandmother moved into my aunt’s house.
Since I was 5, every time I speak to her she asks me:
“Spenser, did you thank God for waking you up today?”
I think to myself, I never did tell my eyes to open themselves. It just happened.
So I don’t know how to respond to her correctly.
I tell her that I love her, that I am writing a lot.
She tells me that she puts her hands together for me every night
Prays that I will get the job I want
I guess some prayers do get answered.
Sometimes two hands in the right position, matched with a conversation with God,
Can change things.
I even accidentally call that place home sometimes.

My dream is that my hands evolve into wolves, become part of a pack and work together with other hands to make a difference
Some days they will be the alpha male.
Full of confidence, at the head of the pack
Other days I need someone to show me the right way to go
Because if I’ve learned anything
It’s that I am not always right
I can not always be in control of everything
The only thing I have ever really wanted is to know
That my hands were truly
A part of something.

Copyright © Spenser Jones | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |
	Now that time is getting shorter for the arrival of my new home it has put quite a 
stress on Shirlee and Fred.  They have had to do rearranging out at their place in order to 
accommodate my permanent cabin, besides working their full time jobs.
	Friday Shirlee was off and there were some fittings on the skelgas tank that had 
to be replaced before it could be put to use. (Now my days on the Nebraska and South 
Dakota plains I seem to remember our source of heat was called skelgas even though it was 
actually propane. Well that was a day ago I think) We also had errands pertaining to the 
mobile home so I went out and picked her up and we went from there. Actually she has just 
started working 4 days a week, ten hours a hours a day with Friday's off so we usually have 
this day together anyway.
	I started the day with a light breakfast (so we could eat in town) and loaded the 
things I needed to take along and pulled out of the driveway.  As I reached the end of our 
street and was gazing into the sun waiting for the cross traffic to pass I was startled by a 
sight in the distance. Probably a quarter mile ahead of me was a lake and as a large truck 
passed by on the interstate I was shocked to see... The Loch Ness Monster slowly working his 
way horizontal with the lake shore. Totally stunned I was then confused as to which road I 
should take out to Shirlee's. Finally I decided I would take the interstate.  As I passed under 
the interstate to reach my turn off I breathed a sigh of relief as the monster turned out to be 
a tractor with double appendages raised in the air and a cab with a rounded top.  I started 
laughing so hard I almost missed the turn off and had barely gained control as I reached the 
house. After greeting the dogs I proceeded to do a little chore as Shirlee went outside to do 
some of her chores.  When she returned I was all but  rolling on the floor reliving the earlier 
scene. I had shared it with the dog while she was out. After urging I finally told her of the 
incident. Eye brows raised she said, " I wondered for a minute as I didn't realize they were 
land animals too."  With that we departed for town.

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry |
Dad looking at that weatherboard house, Old Tooters home,
A thrifty man.. us to him did his brother send,
Saying that the place could do with a mend;
The roof had red patches of pitted rust, the cost agreed, an aluminium spray, as if were new!
A bulge I saw like a big brown bag, ‘those eaves with bees were occupied’ my Dad said,
A bee man was arranged for tomorrow morn.
Off we set early that day to arrive at 8, for to watch the bees and the man perform,
He wore dungarees and a netted hat, and held a pot of smoke as well as that.
He pointed its puffs, ‘the bees were calm’, that’s what Dad said,
The man then moved this Italian swarm, they were productive he said; moreover than the norm,
Before he went saying no to pay, as these bees alone did make his day.
He pointed to the now vacant hive, saying there would 'bee' honey, most pure inside.
He told us cut it clean in two, the lightest colour  would be the new.'.
He then drove off us to leave, me, my Dad and Tooter made three.

We cut it through as we'd been told, there was honey like sunlight, then a ring of gold, the core was darker of long months ago, from each we ate squeezing the comb, it fairly gushed upon the tongue.
The first seemed sweetest, the lightest one, the gold was more subtle onto the palate,
The darker ring also was sweet yet with a herb like twist; it did us treat.
Old Tooter said there was a reason.
For ‘twas gathered in the springs plant life season.
We ate a lot till we felt queasy,
Then Dad said work would make our stomachs more easy.
We set to work upon the tin, scrubbing back rust, and knocking roof nails in;
Then dad spun the flywheel on our new Briggs & Stratton machine, 
Two hours later the roof was all silvered out, Old Tooter exclaimed it was better no doubt.
What Dad had promised was accomplished to the better; the old guy even wrote us his thanks in a letter,
‘Twas 40 years ago that day; on that I ponder as I write away..
Thinking on life, on seasons.. on reasons; just where is 'home?' where does it lie?
Under an immediate or distant sky?
Is it a street, a house, City, or shack?
Is it where you are safe from harm?
I'd say yes, with close good family, like that day on Tooters farm:
I look out a window its now dark night,
Tomorrow brings yet; the soft dawn light.
As I think, I recall a yeasty savoury smell,
Mom’s currant scones fresh baked from the oven; and risen well.
For me all these things are together tied
With what is home real deep inside!
And I know I'll never be parted, from that memory's treasure,
Where love was poured in generous measure..
So if I need to know of if, what, when and where?
I'll take a walk back up memory's stair...
Back to that day of sweetness fresh from the comb,
To say loud and clear; (honey I'm home).

©Joe Maverick 12-01-2014

Copyright © Joe Maverick | Year Posted 2014

Details | Limerick |

This househusband washing his pants
In pockets he must at least glance
If there’s money involved
It might get dissolved
And ruin his future finance

I thought working from home was a snap
And I’d even have time for a nap
But she makes me do chores
Like the laundry and floors
Now this working from home is all crap

Do we post this on Poetry Soup
Let your poetry pals in on the poop
That you street cred’s been stripped
That you’re now “kitty” whipped
And you’ve joined a househusband group

Mdailey	11/10/11

I wrote this for Joe Flach and he even gave me permission to post this saying he did not think his reputation could get any more damaged that it already is.

Copyright © mike dailey | Year Posted 2011

Details | Rhyme |
When are you coming home, son? I miss your smile, you've been gone for quite some time now we haven't talked for a while. When are you coming home, son? How are things, all right? I still have that picture you gave me I look at it every day and night. When are you coming home, son? I know this war's been hard on you, I still remember the day you left I said, I loved you. When are you coming home, son? I see the plane landing there, but it's a coffin draped with the flag 'tis something I can not bare. When are you coming home, son? I remember days gone past, I now stand, looking over your gravestone you were taken from me, your life went fast. Copyright © Cynthia Jones Nov.17/2005 Being a Canadian, writing this bothered me. Thinking about the American troops in Iraq and the Canadian troops in Afghanistan. When will our governments finally see what they are doing is wrong and send our troops home?

Copyright © Cynthia Jones | Year Posted 2015

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!
Bow…!

Copyright © Neldy Jolo | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |
No Tigers At Home In Africa 


Walking my tiger home alone I’m sure walking at last

home from home and beyond when I travel too fast

In Istanbul Hamburg St. Davids I gather my themes

full of life love creatures and poetry that redeems

Wild cats pussyfooting around mosques rivers’ cave

roaring of passion lightening loads that others enslave

Museums parks costal paths wild sun-blessed beaches

lagoons mountains orchards and metaphorical peaches

I make up the tiger in my mind as I go along persevere

sabre teeth drooling whiskers to magical eyes I adhere

With no leash and no collar no prescriptions restraints

I enter a world that matters swishes swirls and paints

Imagination mystical fantasy dreams aspirations and hope

all live in my tiger prism escape and have unlimited scope

I condense and reflect diverge ramble think and I feel

whether I walk the tiger or the lion is no real big deal

I contest the notion that reality exists has only one truth

form constraint rules regulation dogma I distract from to sooth 

There fore in my writing life verse and poetry ends unshackled

by resting my tiger lion meter and rhyme freed but not tackled

04th August 2016








Copyright © Kai Michael Neumann | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |
               Murphy wished for a Prince who rode a White horse...
               So she went back to college and took a new course...
               She met a man who drove a green pinto...
               Although he had no idea where his life would go...
               His wants and needs he wanted for free...           
               As he had no intentions of working you see...
               So they moved in together...and she paid the bills...
               He played online games and took many pills...
               While she worked two jobs, and going to school...
               Her friends told her often she was a fool...
               This wasn’t a relationship...this was just bizarre...
               And to make matters worse, he drove her sports car...
               But she explained, he needs me and I don’t want to be alone...
               Besides I have created a most beautiful home...
               The years flew by and no changes were made..
               She graduated with honors, and now had a trade..
               At the firm of Morgan White Esquire at Law...
               This was just the beginning and the last straw...
               She finally came to her senses you see...
               Of her dreams and wishes that were meant to be...
               She now had her “ Morgan “ and her “Prince” you see... 
              A Morgan is a breed of horse...and the rest is history
                 
                

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
GOOD HOME COOKING


I’ve never liked to cook
much,
(Always found it quite
a bore)
But now my problem’s
ended,
I don’t do it any more!

My partner is the 
reason,
And his brand-new 
love affair
With a large kitchen
utentsil,
(Not a girl with flaxen
hair!)

He’s getting quite an
expert
At chopping (dicing,
too!)
And with all the herbs
and spices,
Things are hot as a 
vindaloo!

The heat is on, the
air is filled
With aromatic spices,
And as he grasps his
wooden spoon
He could have much
worse vices.

I used to like my roast
beef,
But now it’s come to
pass
The food’s gone 
Oriental,
With a hint of lemon
grass.

With turmeric and 
Thai five spice,
The dishes that he
knocks off
And the heat they
generate can be
Enough to blow 
your socks off!

So, if your mate is 
restless,
Don’t let him run
amok,
Just send him 
down the town
to buy
A great big 
gleaming wok!

BY
DARRYL ASHTON  

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2014