Long Leaving home Poems
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Strict parents taught her how to survive,
To navigate life with lies she loathed to tell.
She crafted a list, excuses for every misstep,
Because the truth felt like a risk she couldn’t take.
Sometimes, she wielded honesty—
A rare, deliberate shield against blame.
But since leaving home, she’s forgotten that art.
Her list, once a lifeline, now defends others’ absences.
“They must’ve had no choice,” she tells herself,
When someone she cherishes disappears without a word.
“They wanted to be there,” she assures,
When her first party in years
Ends with empty chairs where her friends should have been.
Excuses grow, stacking like pages in a book,
A fragile armor against the sting of abandonment.
Now, after daring to trust her heart,
She flips through her library of “what-ifs” and “maybes,”
Desperate to find an answer that fits her narrative.
A reason that soothes without truth,
That comforts without cutting deep.
The dusty pages offer no solace,
Only reflections of things that could have been.
Still, she clings to the search,
Afraid of what she might uncover
If she dares to stop looking.
A path appeared where I had set my gaze.
It reached from distant times beneath the sun.
To travel it took all one’s earthly days,
and soon, I knew, my trek would be begun.
The Tidings Wind was echoing through trees -
those stalwart prophets fixed along the path.
Humanity was sounding in the breeze
their mingled cries of grief and joy and wrath.
Though barely could I grasp the nature of
the journey I would take, I felt the thrill
of leaving home, for Father told me love
would greet me there below with my free will.
I’d stumble, but I trusted Him to place
His signs to guide me back by light of Grace.
Millennials
The Entitled Generation
Written: by Miracle Man
8/1/2017
Sometimes a few choose a leaving home delay,
If career doesn’t start near the ladder’s top rung.
Anything less and with Mom and Pop they’ll stay,
They’ve a degree and picky not at all high strung.
Now, free room and board isn’t all that bad,
And they’ve free health insurance until twenty six.
Rising at ten after partying all night is so rad,
But for some, work and play, just won’t intermix.
Only the now generation deals with this quandary,
And it's only temporary until they find their groove.
They do minuscule tasks, perhaps their own laundry,
Until finding themselves - or are asked to move.
Never think you’re overqualified for any job offer,
Or that the hours are too long or pay too meager.
This thinking adds nothing to your family’s coffer,
Have a positive tone showing others you’re eager.
I’m 78 years old and unemployed for the last 22 years
Hard work and sound planning allowed me to retire upon turning 56
I’m blessed,
Tom
He and She by Carolyn Devonshire
He swings his arms and strides ahead
She walks three steps behind
The center of the universe
Cares not what’s on her mind
The bacon? Oh, he brings it home
Though she works longer hours
He smiles and sees his savings grow
But what she earns is “ours”
One day he’ll leave; she’s sure of that
Because he tells her so
She, too, oft’ thinks of leaving home
But has no cash to go
A prisoner within his world
The dreams she once had died
The man she loved will never know
How many times she’s cried
This was Carolyn’s Poem submitted August 26, 2019
For Silent One's "If You Only Knew" Contest
This brilliant write spoke to my heart because I'd felt like this so often during my first marriage when I was married to someone who was jealous and selfish with his love. He always provided financially but was out of reach emotionally. I was so sensitive that I often felt like I was unloved and, on second thought, I probably was. This poem, I'm sure, could reach the hearts of many women who've felt this way in relationships. I believe Carolyn had a heart for the enormous struggles that tender hearts suffer. She was a writer who could reach the heart with her words and I'll miss her talent here at Poetry Soup. She was assuredly a blessing who shined her light across many souls. I hope to meet her in person one day when I reach my heavenly home and finally, face to face, I'll be able to tell her I appreciated her beautiful words and loving spirit.
Celebrating Carolyn's Poetry: An Uncontest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Andrea Dietrich
August 16, 2021
on the painting:
IMPROVISATION OF NATURE - Oil Painting On Canvas By Leonid Afremov
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Story of Hope
Walking, in the flow
Of dyes, hues of melancholy
Changing summer’s light
To the music of a holy night
Fall’s essence, bleeding
Soft colors so alive, so bright
Journey, through the still breath
Of a muse, when laughter
Beckons – a caress
Autumn’s blessings, a song
Flowing beyond the ache of a past
Where summer melted
Into this season of sweet grace
Traveling, a road both rocky and calm,
Steady whispers, whimsical edges
Of the joy that echoes truth
Beyond the maples, the oaks, the birch
Heavy shades of glory, broken hues
Listening to the harvest notes
In the mist, the silence
Only pierced by the crunch of a leaf
Fallen down from its limb,
Where life was spent in shadows
Hopeful, and strong…
Enduring, the wonder of softest golds,
The trembling mysteries
Hesitant wine and gentling orange
Rusty and brave, the leaves
They keep falling across the dawn
As hearts find a blessing
In the sensations of a quiet yawn
Flavors of autumn, intense
Brighter than the passing stars
Flow of joy, comforting
Each crisp leaf, a thought
Between yesterday, summer’s soft
Writing words of blessedness
Through the morrow where life
Continues on…
And the blessings, autumn reveals
Come through notes of courage
As each thought is taken captive
By the fresh and stunning notes
Of the healing breath,
Beyond the seas, the sun
Where trees remember, and flowers
Echo their prayers in a song
Meant for lovers – but also for the lone
Heart, the one who needs to see
Blessings…
Poured out through the artist’s brush
Spoken by a river’s tenderness,
The stars, the moon, the trees
Imagining the beauty…
In autumn’s tender grace,
A story, written by hands of faith
A history, broken apart by a season
And telling each heart
Each weary heart… the story
Of life, through a leaf, falling
Leaving home, only to begin once more
In recent days on a holiday
that we spent in the English Lakes
a day spent at Grange-over-Sands
this lovely little town is so great
It has an attraction all of its own
especially down at the duck pond
which is surrounded by many a bench
memories of a bench made me respond
In 1989 after being ill with chickenpox
I spend time there recovering for a week
before leaving home got a get-well card
from a young lady, I admired so to speak
I sat on that bench many a day
reading a get-well card to me
it was so nice that a lady did care
then I was in a quandary under the tree
The bench did indeed change my life
for I did ask that young lady to go out
amazingly she said yes, in time is my wife
sweet memories indeed there is no doubt
(That lady that I did ask out on that first date was Christine now my wife of 33 years.)
Nobody ever forgets where he buried the hatchet. ~ Kin Hubbard
Riley was a control freak
barking orders at his wife
who'd scurry like a timid mouse
knowing if she didn't conform
a barrage of blows would rain down on her body
Of course, he made certain
not to mar her pretty face -
he needed her to look good
when she collected
his beer from the local store
leaving home at the same time every day
she was always back within the hour
But...unbeknownst to Riley
his wife Lou had caught the eye
of Sid the store keeper
they would steal passionate kisses
on his coffee break
which coincided with her visits
Sid knew her life was unbearable
and secretly he hired a hit man
to do the deed when Lou was out shopping
Riley was felled with one blow….
Nobody ever forgets where the hitman buried the hatchet!
Quotable Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Regina McIntosh
10/18/20
Each is a piece, a small part
of a composite that has come
together in a morning,
the frayed strands of dreams
knitted into a waking timed now
to a slow tread on a familiar street.
Then suddenly, careering through
the center of my thoughts a train
comes with bells at a crossing
clanging loudly and wheels grinding
on rails heading off towards
a distant point in the past. I stop
and see myself, late teens,
leaving home, riding the interstate
with dreams spilling out
of a duffle bag, head in a cloud
of hope. I was Rimbaud on rails,
high on poetry that I took straight.
Six months in a one room flat
I ran out of money and a literary career,
hitchhiked back home to sink
into a wintery despair.
A lifetime has passed
and I have left a poem tied
to the end of each year as if
marking my way. The words
of most have now weathered away
to a silence. I write as a form
of prayer to that greater silence
and on still mornings, hear
the sound of a train in the far
distance growing quieter.
Inspired by Timothy Lee
Since he first walked, he made the outdoors his
while at home, paternal love was shown with fists.
His Mother’s love wasn’t enough for him to resist
leaving home and his Father’s frequent body hits.
He fell to his knees, “God, I need to be a man
and I’m only fifteen, so please hold my hand.
Father, help me become a good, good man.”
He worked many farms, rooming in barns.
He learned about crops, he learned to build,
he developed farming and carpentry skills.
He paid his bills, never let his loneliness spill.
He bowed his head, “God, thanks that I am fed,
I have a roof, a bed and work skills in hand.
Please, help me, God, be a good, good man.”
He grew to love labor under nature’s sky.
He felt he and the country saw eye to eye,
but in society, he wasn’t sure how to get by.
So, at eighteen, he gave the Job Corp a try.
He locked his fingers, “God, bless my stand,
as I find my way in more industrious lands.
Help me grow to be a good, good man.”
A new widow stands by her husband’s fresh grave
feeling the love-grief flashes their sixty years made.
She looks at their grown children, searching for his strengths,
and sees his traces in these faces, love linked.
Later, at twilight, alone on their country porch,
she sees city skyline in yonder darkness approach.
She knows each night, she will sit here most –
with the lit outline of skyscrapers he designed,
spied from their home he crafted in his beloved sunshine.
In tears, her head bows, “Thank you, God. Glory to your plan
that blessed me with the love of a good, good man.”
Not too long ago, back about 1929
Was conceived a boy, name of Danny Fine
Born on a Thursday, 24th of October
A day the stock market turned stone-cold sober
When the crash was over, five days later
The Fine family fortune had totally cratered
They'd lost all their wealth; Mr. Fine lost his job
Mrs. Fine had a breakdown; she wept and sobbed
Little Danny grew up in so horribly destitute
His only clothing for weeks was his birthday suit
His mother's milk dried up all-too-quickly
Poor Danny became anemic and sickly...
He struggled at home; he struggled at school
He was undernourished; life was so cruel
At age 15, he ran away from home
Determined to turn things around, all alone
He joined the Armed Forces, lied about his age
Helped liberate Dachau and Auschwitz, turning a page
Came to believe in himself in those heady days
Danny had learned, "Where there's a will, there's a way."
You may well guess Danny's now rich and/or famous
And sure he's succeeded and is no ignoramus
He's a regular guy with a wife and four kids
Who just can't move past something he long ago did --
After leaving home, he did not return again
A decision that's haunted him ever since then
For no matter the good deeds he's done for others
Danny Fine did not honor his father or mother
So the lucky among you, whose parents are still living
Honor them every moment; keep on giving and giving
Because once they have both breathed their very last
It has all been recorded; you can't change the past