Best Homes Poems
She says, you can tell America
from the rest of the world
by the color of the wallpaper,
or lack thereof.
That southern hospitality is refreshing
after so many years in London.
The stuffed animal in her grasp
is named ‘Dog’.
When asked why she says,
"are you blind, it is a dog after all."
When the aide handed her a night gown
she asked if it was for sale.
He told her it was a gift,
but she could not accept it.
However, if he wanted to lend it to her
that would be “lovely”.
The aide was actually a woman.
When we told her so she replied,
“Well, she was a man
when he gave me the gown.”
We laughed and she said, “Oh lovely then”
and laughed with us
while clapping her hands.
I can’t tell you how old she is;
anything beyond 80 will do.
I can’t tell you how crazy she is.
I imagine more than a little.
Needless to say,
I liked her immediately.
Vivaldi’s Violin
The sound begins vague as a thought from perhaps
a misted remembrance made more distant more soft
in the surrounding sunset not trusting eyes only ears.
I sit up and listen indeed stretch all hearing as music
surely music more than the wind’s whistling moves
ever closer alerting me to a whole physical smiling
through the opened backdoor I cast my sight past
the silhouetted trees of early December past
yellow-glowing windows of neighboring homes and on
past the twinkling white low-altitude warning lights set
like many a Venus on the horizon I notice I am
not frozen from weather but rather awaiting a sign as
a startling soloist continues Vivaldi’s allegro non motto
violin in a love affair with nature a secret in splendor
a flying to heights just beyond human
ears or prayers in this courting of my soul and its
further reaching in Winter III Allegro that could lift
the twilight ever more than experienced in dreams.
***********. ***********. ***********
(c) sally Young eslinger 12/3/2020
Thanks be to God
Relaxing on the porch as darkness fell,
I sipped iced tea, reflecting on my day.
There was breathtaking beauty all around,
the perfect lawn, a pleasure to survey.
I'd had a scrumptious meal with fine red wine
and watched a Lifetime romance on TV.
I'd waltzed around the den as CD's played
the tunes I love the best by Kenny G.
Then came my thirty-minute bubble bath,
so warm and soothing. While still damp, I lay,
just briefly, on the comfy bed. I dressed
and used a lightly-scented body spray.
That's when I got the tea and came outside
to relish what would be the best of nights.
Euphoria was at a height--AND THEN
IT STOPPED! I saw two brightly glaring lights.
The Johnsons, owners of the house, were back
two days before they were supposed to be!
I tossed the tea glass in a well-pruned shrub
and fled before they got a glimpse of me.
The Blakes' weeklong vacation will begin
tomorrow. Like the Johnsons, they will hide
their house key in a fake rock near the door.
Man, I can hardly wait to get inside!
John Lawless's And Then it Stopped Contest,
placed third of eight July 2017
August 3, 2017, entered in Brian Strand's August Standard Contest
January 18, 2021
entered in Brian Strand's Completely Your Choice (44) Contest
Placed 5th
'Twas the Perpetually-Missing Soup Poets case,
With Homes and Whatsup hot on the chase.
Poets leaving was not breaking news,
So they slowly perused the usual clues.
Dr. Whatsup said, "Why do they go?"
Homes replied, "You mean you don't you know?"
"Though they tend to blame some bully's voice,
Poets disappear because they make a choice!"
homes cascading
from the face of mountain
— waterfall of pleasantries
3/10/2018
ONE HEART, TWO HOMES; (was first written in December of 2011)
Belize of my birth; where my first love bloomed
You've showed me sweet freedom, to grace a second home.
But who'd forsake you? prodigals with intent to stay away?
I recalled years of help, silently floating in, from the US of A.
Where else would I dine with virgin air, suffusing flowered backyards?
I have no qualms, propagating positive economic rewards.
Two splendid homes; one of rivers, one of sun kissed sea
I think to myself, who runs where, to be warm and cozy?
Then again, who's all sufficient; people's lives intertwine
In spaces here and there, surely that's no crime.
One heart that loves... two homes... so close and unrestrained
There's diplomacy and grace, you're both well trained.
O Belize, I see bravado and zing; you're still happy and gay
Royalties still go and come, like tourist ships, from the US of A.
*
Southwold (Suffolk).
Dear Southwold
How I love to visit you,
To stand barefoot,
On your bright yellow sandy beaches,
To stand and admire your pretty streets,
Your glowing white Lighthouse,
and your quirky Pier.
Your cottage homes
Framed like calendar pictures,
Decorated with,
Striking lavender gardens,
Gardens that smell,
Like a small piece of heaven.
Your Front room windows,
That draw in,
Visiting Strangers eyes,
Eyes that long to glimpse into
someone else’s
World.
But Southwold,
There is something missing now.
Like a silent person,
Whom has lost their song,
Your homely cottages,
and Victorian shop fronts,
Now just a Theaters stage,
For the rich,
and their Summer homes.
For when Autumn leaves start to fall,
and the dark clouds of winter,
Descent upon your tidy streets,
The sound of laughing children,
Parents shouting,
Old people chatting,
They have all gone.
For now,
These Suffolk bricks,
The playthings
of a wealthy few,
To rent out or Second homes,
Changing rooms for the beach,
For dinner parties.
To Wipe clean sandy feet,
and to sleep off the summer sun.
But Southwold,
I still love you,
And I wish to return,
To stand and pick summer lavender,
From your cottage gardens,
To Roll it gently between my fingers,
Until its oils leak out,
and provide me,
With a small glimpse
Of Heaven.
John Roberts August 2017
Happy homes are filled with the noise of
children;
Unhappy homes the noise of their parents--
Parents who want to have children
But don't want their children to have parents.
In vain their children search them for the
image of a parent,
Longing to see in their beloved frame
Someone patient,
Someone caring,
Someone tolerant,
And ready for sacrifice.
But such a one they scorn to be lest they
lose their chance for fun
Which they both have each day parenting
their secret inner child--
That little child in some parents embedded
To whom the outward child is a great rival.
What patience they show this inward child!
And what care, tolerance, & sacrifice too!
At them no angry voice is raised nor a stern
finger wagged
And not once--never--are they urged to
adulthood.
So upwards now I cast my words
To firmly perch on the winds that come
So when far and wide they blow this night
This tip they'll bear to every little child:
"Of such parents are unhappy homes made:
Parents obsessed with their inward child,
The secret child that so fills their hands
Leaving no space for the outward one."
Dreadful dawn dug doggedly deep, dazed dues
Prickle-prone paths pierce peer-less purpose
Buried bricks burn beneath brine and blood
Homes and holes hitch-hike heated Hours
Sync'd steps stoop, saddling steely shores
Shadows of sagging shoulders shed shrewd strokes
Sanctioned sympathy sealed and soiled in stoic stories
Homes and Holes hauling hymen of horror hormones
Nagging newts nutured nadir of nervous noisome nuns
Jilted jones jaded in jiltery journey of jerky joules
Measled mare much-malligned by myriad of magnetic manacles
Homes and holes held hostage in hidden hydrogen hades
retirement homes
the doe and her yearling fawn
nibble the hedgerow
Broken homes,
Broken places.
Can’t escape,
No empty spaces.
Standing on the edge.
Contemplating goodbye.
In a home in the city,
I see her cry.
If home is where the heart is,
Then why do so many say goodbye?
Cause broken homes and broken places,
Disintegrate to empty spaces.
Hymns above the leaves,
Only my sadness renounced.
Muffled miracles abroad.
Everything goes without saying.
Sliding into happiness,
Whooshing into wonder.
Eviscerate all logic.
Enumerate all grace.
The stars can't sing your song enough times.
However many times you may doubt,
Others ignite from your flicker.
Mountains carve homes for you
Everytime your praise is sung.
TRAIL OF HOMES
1983
July 24
Leaving
her child-
hood memory
- home behind.
Crossing Pacific
Ocean. 7200 miles
relocation. Called…
America her new
- foreign Home.
June 26, 2017
Sailing to her
Highest-Self home.
A purest residence no
address. A journey raising
consciousness. March 3, 2019
welcoming her true beloved. She
safely nests at a Home Port in his heart.
Present moment: Ode to Contentment.
Bow to detachment. Gratitude whispers: smile!
Be here and now................Home is inward.
Riding the bus to school past an ugly reminder
the tattered trailers next to a construction site
I imagine the way it used to be
a house
across from a dozen shattered trailers with little heat
no water usually but electricity
visiting mom was a treat
Dad would not refuse to drop me off
at her trailer with my pet rat
rad dee louise, ratty louise mom called him
she loved him so I let her have him
mom had friends over all the time
this tattered trailer held them while
I watched and smelled the perfume
watched her glow red and crystallize with 2 grown men
then dad picked me up for the night
next time a man drove up to the lot
he rolled down the window and I ran up
we talked and I must have been smart
because he remembered me and drove off
she wanted to talk about the spies
the eyes in the trees that were watching her
I ate the crystals she gave me saying
these are cow grass, they put the cows to sleep
I did not sleep
she lectured me
about all the terrible things that others
could do to me or had done to others
so I went outside and built a fire
that fire lasted through the night
the coals were most amazing things
I'd ever seen
I stared into their eyes
keep them alive and nothing else mattered
She came storming out of the tattered trailer
after midnight or just before dawn I dont know
screaming
I'm being electrocuted! she said
tired, I wondered why she felt that way
she jumped into a tree and sat their shaking
I tried to comfort her but she was on fire
I saw that, tried to leave in vain
she kept me close and dragged me
to the battered trailer again
she pulled me from place to place
around the compound in the dawn
the fire coals were cold and so was I
wanted to sleep but she kept saying
she was being electrocuted
waking up I wandered to find the sheriff
shaking her awake and taking her away
they took me too
to the dock where the van was
where my dad was gone
I told them he was teaching which was true
so I woke up alone next to the payphone
and crawled into bed in the van
I didn't tell my dad
There are certain colours in the world that dogs can't see.
There's a dog in my neighbourhood,
Always alone,
Always sitting patiently,
As if he's waiting for something, or someone.
They say he ran away from his home on his own.
He couldn't sit and he couldn't sleep.
So he ran as far away as he could.
Now he waits to see if they were ever looking.
If one day, around the corner will come a face he recognises.
But he is the one who chose this solitary wait,
And he completes it dutifully.
All the people that live nearby call him to their houses,
All of them want to give him a home.
Give him what he lost, what he has long forgotten.
But how do you expect a street dog to love?
How is he meant to move on,
From all he knew?
They can bathe him and feed him and cherish and love him.
But under his fur,
His heart still beats,
For a soul his mind has left behind.
You fight long enough, you forget what to do with clean hands.
You run long enough, you forget how to rest.
Some things, cannot be.
Some colours, a dog will never see.