Marie discovered the geography of our contributing poet/gardeners revealing some interesting locales. So for this prompt, we are going home. We’d like to play up the international flavor we’ve developed here. Write a poem about or inspired by your home. It could be where you were born, your hometown, the country from which you originate. Teach us a bit about your origins, or customs and plant yourself firmly into the fertile poetic soil of our garden and ultimately root deeper into our hearts.
MARIE ELENA’S HOME:
Northwest Ohio
My Buckeye roots extended northeast
to the “Center of Steel Production,”
now known as the “Rust Belt.”
Following a short southern plunge into the Gulf
of Mexico, they rummaged northward again,
and have deeply rooted themselves
into Northwest Ohio’s flat terrain.
Not a hill to be found,
it clambers to give the eye something
on which to feast.
Myself, I relish the curve of the Maumee,
Eerie temperament of a storied great lake,
the stately Buckeye,
flowering Dogwood and Poplar,
scarlet Sumac, Redbud, and Sycamore.
A Spring palette of fair pastels
and equally fair temperatures
transforms to Summer’s
Petri-dish, and
brightly flamboyant panorama,
followed by a plunge in temperature, and
Autumn’s rich jeweled hues.
Soon, bare branches are laden
with dazzling white snow, that
glitters on moonlit evenings,
flaunting the crimson Cardinal.
Yet, the best is this:
Each time we pull into the drive
of our humble brick one-story,
I hear my voice say,
“I just love my home.”
WALT RETURNS TO WOOD:
LACKAWANNA
Oh, steel town why did you steal my heart?
Our family had flourished as you imparted
your gritty resolve upon us all. Generations
of ancestors learned the lessons burned
into their minds and souls. The home made of
and built upon Wood was a good place to grow.
Aunts and uncles and cousins, scores of
neighbors watching and looking out; caring
for the common ground we shared, no fences
commenced to spring. The unity of this close-knit
community was all the security we needed.
Greed and avarice did not exist where the
Dutch-Elm ravaged and desecrated, leaving us
wood-less. But, I guess for the time and age
it was the perfect stage upon which to perform.
Courtesy and respect was the norm, aid and comfort
flowed as a fountain of goodwill and love.
But Wolfe’s treatise rings true. The place has changed.
It is starkly deranged from my memories,
and it’s a sin. You can’t go home again.
Gladly, I carry as much of it with me;
I leave the rest to fester and decay.
Walt, The homesickness in your poem brought me to tears – thank God for the comfort of memories. And Marie’s poem is the comfort of ‘now,’ lovely.
Please can I make a suggestion? With the (deserved) popularity of the Garden, the strings of comments are getting longer and longer, making it difficult to pick out the poems from the multiplicity of replies. Some days my old eyes go on strike and I don’t read as many as I should. Do you think the time has come to start using Mister Linky for prompt responses?
While I agree , Viv, I also think it would subtract from the close sense of community gained by all of the poems and responses to poems being planted here. At the same time it would increase our time spent hosting visitors at our own sites which can be nice too.
Lots to weigh in that decision. I know this was not really a suggestion for me to respond to necessarily, so I hope you don’t mind mt chiming in!
Happy Mother’s Day to you, Viv and ALL the poetic mamas out here today!
thanks Hannah. Of course I don’t mind you chiming in. That was my idea behind posing my suggestion.
You’re welcome, Viv!! I figured that was your intention but I didn’t want to sound know-it-all-ish or whatever. It’s nice to have all thoughts on the table! Smiles!
Viv, I don’t hope that you mind that I do, too. I feel the comments make me feel part of a community and I would really miss if they were not there.
Viv, I totally hear what you are saying…I find myself double-checking to make sure that my comment is beneath the right poem, but on the other hand, this is what makes this garden special, in so many ways. The comments are beautiful blooms as well, although if we switch to Mr’ Linky I would link…and visit each blog/garden:) Thank-you for your idea.
Viv, you’ll find that the entries at the far left will almost always designate a new poem as most comment/replies are nested to the right.. So if you scroll and watch the left border, those would more likely be poems. W.
Oh, yeah!! I didn’t notice that…good tip, Walt! 🙂
Lovely coming home poems from you both Walt and Marie E
ahh – hate when that happens – ie. posts before I’m finished or ready … was only going to add that I found meg’s beautifully descriptive and Walt’s yearning palpable …
As for the discussion about comments … I’m of two minds; I’d really prefer to keep them here, but it is hard to keep them near the poem you’re commenting on … still, one could always preface their comment with re:so and so’s or, re:name of the poem and that would clear up any confusion …
Walt and Marie, two impacting poems!
Marie, I read this a few times…Not a hill to be found,
it clambers to give the eye something
on which to feast.’ Intense! I love your ending!
Walt, yours simply tugged at my heartstrings and I hear a lonesome wind moan…this is an excellent prompt and the poems tonight are rich with experience!
~EXALTED~
…a poem of my home.
~~~
The state I reside in is a sipping tip,
an extended goose neck
that greets the Canadian border.
The land I live on is a jutted lip
of hard New England attitude,
a place and people with worn skin,
tired bones and hardened knuckles
firmly planted in generations of work ethic.
It’s written firmly in the their flesh,
traces of dirt and iron ground down,
a harsh pumice of shipbuilding cities.
It’s a jaunting jubilee of stony land
whose shorelines taste the Atlantic richly,
and alternately whose mountain peaks reach,
Appalachian trails tripping
to the salmon pink clouds of heaven.
It’s a territory raging of tributaries,
water races to find itself again
in the arms of its passionate ocean,
an estate deepened by its estuaries.
Sand dunes plume with long waving grasses
retreating from the edges of dense, deep forest.
My heart is held long by the lilting song of birds here,
I’m captured with awe by the velvet nosed doe.
This pine-padded, soft-silken sunlit clearing
calls to me silently, gathering me in greedily,
with twig and limb to tell me of its woodland secrets.
I measure my mornings in the melodic length
of Mourning dove cooing,
I test fathoms of night in the symphonic sound
of frogs finding Spring-time mates,
I gather in my soul the epitome of this place;
grain by slipping grain of sand
that sifts with grace through uplifted hands.
© Hannah Gosselin 5/13/12/ @ P.B.
Gorgeous!!! Especially loved: “… water races to find itself again in the arms of its passionate ocean…”, and, “…Sand dunes plume with long waving grasses…” — I would just love to spread a blanket there and daydream… Thank you, Hannah! :)!
Yes, please do!! Bring the blue-checkered gingham one worn with much washing and faded by much sun! I’ll bring the wooden-lidded picnic basket. Deviled eggs are on the way…boiling on the stove now!! 😉
Oh, and I meant to say thank you, Hen!!
Aww.. I know… you speak to me with or without words, friend!!
So glad, an unspoken understood sentiment!
!!!:D!
!! 😀 !
Oh, Hannah, we do so Love the same things!!! 😀 😀 !!
:)!!
Deviled egg? Now I’m really feeling left out!
Hey…what’s an angel like you doing making deviled eggs, anyway?
Lol!! There’re plenty to go around, Walt!! Plenty! Sundaysmiles!!
LOL!!!
I bet there is a bit of Angel and devil in each of us. 0:-)
I can’t wait to meet you on the Camino and I hope that you can sing this because you managed to create something like a national song. Great!
Whoo-hoo!!!! I can sing alright, Andrea!!! I can’t wait! Hearts to you!
Oh, and again…thank you, Andrea!!
Accurate, and yet, also so very beautiful — flowing & melodic — from the description of the geography and people to the pull it holds on your heart. Perfect, Hannah! 🙂 … Put the same comment on your blog, but I feel it bears repeating here,… and “cut & paste” makes it so easy to do! 😉
Yay!!! I’m so grateful and pleased you like it, Pamela!! Thank you! Ha, I just did the same…glad you said something though, I was confused for a half of a second!! lol!
“a territory raging of tributaries,
water races to find itself again
in the arms of its passionate ocean”
I liked these lines, also. I’ve never
lived near an ocean and probably
never will but do enjoy this image.
I’m so glad you liked these parts, jlynn!! Thank you!
Hannah, I read this slowly, relishing every line but when I come to this my heart smiled, then clapped then laughed out loud and cheered!….’I measure my mornings in the melodic length
of Mourning dove cooing,
I test fathoms of night in the symphonic sound
of frogs finding Spring-time mates,
I gather in my soul the epitome of this place;
grain by slipping grain of sand
that sifts with grace through uplifted hands.
…and I will not dull its beauty but to say thank-you and blessings, my friend!
You fill my hear to over-flowing Janet!!! I missed this from my blog updates…I apologize for the two date lapse in response, Janet.
I’m so incredibly blessed by your encouragement!!
Thank You, Hannah, for such a beautiful discription of what is obviously a peaseful and wonderful place to live. I can ‘see’ so much in what you write.
I missed this one, too!! Marjory!!! Thank you so very much for this kind comment!! Warm smiles to you!
Oh, “salmon pink clouds” love it.
So soft and alluring to the eye,…I appreciate your thoughts, Sara, thank you!!
Beautifully written
Thank you, Marjory!
Always wanted to come there…must visit! Beautiful painting, Hannah. Thanks for luring us there…
You really should!! It’s a special place…as each place is in its own way. Thank you for this thoughtful comment!
This is so good! I love these lines:
“It’s written firmly in the their flesh,”
“salmon pink clouds”
“grain by slipping grain of sand
that sifts with grace through uplifted hands.”
*sigh*
Thank you, Catherine!! I’m so pleased you liked!! 🙂
“Not a hill to be found,
it clambers to give the eye something
on which to feast.”
I love this description, Marie and your poem gives so many beautiful details to devour. Your closing lines bring me such joy to think of you so content! Happy Mother’s day to you my dear friend! Hearts!
“The home made of
and built upon Wood was a good place to grow.”
Love your poem, Walt! Your internal rhyming makes this a great one to read and I sense, too, as Viv stated, the homesickness. My heart meets you there and rejoices in the overcoming attitude of holding it dear in your memories.
Wonderful poems and prompt! A great day to each of our poetical peeps!! Warmsweetsmiles!!!
Sooo sweet…!
🙂
Walt and Marie, I agree fully with Hannah’s comments – she just says it so much bettert thanb I can. 🙂
I’m going to jump in here as well. Walt and Marie, two wonderful poems.
This one is from PAD 2010 but fits the prompt nicely. I’ll see if I’m inspired to write a new one after lunch/siesta…
The Last Flight Out (Part II):
At the end of line, that’s my home.
I was born on the coast,
a wild and bleak place,
not quite the end of the
line. There was a coast road,
the train carried on but
even so – it still has a finality
about it that haunts the soul
I went to college on the coast,
a quiet and desperate place,
a resort out of season. Perhaps
not quite the end of the world
but the say you can see it from
there, on a clear day, from the end
of the pier.
I’ve lived for forteen years on the coast,
it’s beautiful, tranquil, relaxing
and yes, it’s the end of the line.
One road in, one road out.
People always stay longer than they
mean too. I never lived anywhere
for more than six years, until now.
From the wild, windswept coast
of northern Britain to the windy
but beautiful coast of Andalucía,
my journey has wound and found
me so often at the end of the line.
Is it in my blood? My soul?
Is this stop the end of the road?
Come and go, I return to the coast,
my last flight out may be sometime
off, I hope, maybe I’ll find another
port, another line to sit at the end of.
Maybe this is my last port and
my last flight out will be in a box
then finally I will go home to stay.
Iain
Oh, Iain, I love this…!
Thank you 🙂
This is a perfect fit for this prompt, Iain, I’m glad you shared it!
This is my favorite stanza…in case you were wondering. 😉
“From the wild, windswept coast
of northern Britain to the windy
but beautiful coast of Andalucía,
my journey has wound and found
me so often at the end of the line.
Is it in my blood? My soul?
Is this stop the end of the road?”
I really like the questions involved here takes it to another level. Great poem!
Thank you so much, dear Hannah 🙂
You’re so welcome, Iain!!
Hauntingly lovely & descriptive Iain! Captures the sea’s tranquility, but also touches on her lonely & desolate aspects — just as beautiful in their own way.
Thank you Pamela
I love the feel of this–the questioning, a wondering if home is really home. Beautiful.
Thanks!
I love every single word in this poem!…but this ‘People always stay longer than they
mean too. ..’ says it all:) Thank-you for sharing this poem here.
Thanks Janet 🙂
I love your poem, lain, but being a newcomer to the garden – I am not too sure in what country or region your “end of the line’ lies. 😦
Thanks – I’m in Almería Southern Spain
Thank You – I checked out the map and have better idea where you write from. Near the water too – must be beautiful.
This is wonderful, Iain: full of not quite settled happiness, not quite yearning. I could picture your “end of the line”.
Thanks Viv…it’s a lovely place…one day I want to leave but I can see me never quite getting round to it 🙂
Iain,
yes, lovely…sounds like a dream and like dreams, as Viv pointed out, full of that ‘satisfying longing.’
Happy Mother’s Day all!
Marie, intricate loveliness; Walt, bittersweet beauty…
Home, Hearth, Haven
I carry my home
within me, memories of
places I have loved.
Yes, Hen. That’s what we do. Thanks.
Thank you, Andrea.
Oh, so elegant in its brevity, Hen! Beautiful!
Thank you, so much, Hannah!
You’re welcome!
: ) …..
Oh yes! Such a simple, succinct piece that really says it all — doesn’t it?! Lovely, Hen! 🙂 (And now, my comment is longer than your poem! LOL)
Hee,hee, yest it is, Pamela…. but no matter; I loved that you “got it”! Thank you, so much! :)!
…yes… (forget that t).
Oooo ….I want to add an ‘a’ and say your poem’s feelings grow with yeast. Getting better.
Hee,hee, thank you MMT! :)!
You’ve said perfectly in 11 words what it took me 140 odd to make a mess of! Just right, just write!
Aww, Viv, I’m honored! And, I loved your poem, despite the trouble it caused you, you brought it back well!
Solid and true. Loved it, Hen.
Thank you, so much, 7!
WHO TALKS OF ROSES?
The brilliance of forgotten worlds is still remembered
in our souls
when we see each other
and see
this mirror
of love and kindness in
a stranger’s eyes.
We say
that we come from Europe, the Australia, Canada and the U.S.A.
and we say ah,
though in fact we come from everywhere
and at the end of the day
we might say
that no man is an island
and that the beach you cherish
is my beach, too.
YES!!! Perfect!!!
Thank you. Were are you sitting? The U.S.A. – somewhere over there?
Yes, Andrea, inland, Dayton, Ohio, longing for a coastal sand dune!
SO amazing, Andrea!!! Your closing point was one that I wanted to address somehow in the body of my work today and you have just stated it here!!! I love this and yes, the beach I cherish is your beach, too. Thank you for sharing your thoughts today!!
Hannah, thank you so much. Please keep your melody to your poem slow paced. I’m an old woman now or otherwise we’ll sing your song in the afternoon – right?
Our song of united beaches will be sung at just the tempo to please, Andrea!! Thank you, and Happy Mother’s Day to you!
Happy Mother’s Day to you, too.
Thank you, Andrea!
Lovely…. both of you!
:)!
Love:
“this mirror
of love and kindness in
a stranger’s eyes.”
and of course:
“… no man is an island
and that the beach you cherish
is my beach, too.”
Both beautiful! 🙂
Thank you very much for the words.
Love this! So happy to be sharing a beach with you 🙂
I’m so glad, too.
Bravo! Hear! hear!!!
Janet, I also thought of you when I wrote Canada.
🙂 Thank-you!
Wonderfully said Andrea,
“….of love and kindness in
a stranger’s eyes.” so important.
Water seeks its own in a given container – and moves within itself.
The ocean(s) container in the earth and so as the ocean(s) move they flow from each one of us to another – to cover all our beaches, while it also surrounds the inlanders who have their own breath of beauty about them.
Wonderful to read what each of you have to share.
Thanks for your comment and yes.
Love this poem, Andrea.
Sara, thank you so much. I love that we share our poems here and your comments mean so much to me.
Yes, it is a wonderful community of people.
Andrea, I tried to post on your website to let you know that I nominated you for the Liebster award. I hope you see this. Check out my blog.
Sara, I did. I’m so grateful. I also wrote to you on your blog. Now I hope this comes through. It’s quite windy today and the waves look tall. Soon I will be out there but whatever waves hit us – I’ll be thinking of your award. I’m so honored. I’m on my way for a couple of holidays. Hope tyou have some great ones, too, over in Portland.
I’m glad you got it. Have fun!
So connected are we…one place really, one world. That’s why our hearts jump, or pause, at each place described in these lovely places of words.
Amen, SevenAcreSky.
meg
So wonderful and inspiring, Andrea. I love the construction and simple truth of this poem!
“When Suburbs were born”
Sweet home Chicago, I singeth not
of you but your sprawled tentacles
far-reaching along the Northwestern
rail line, the conductor bellowing for
tickets, his clickers chewing like mad
magpies, snatching prey before the
next stop.
We time our walk to school by these
oil-stench trains. If we pass Baby Park
by 7:54, cross the street to avoid the DOM
(dirty old man,) by 7:56, don’t stop to
gape into the knot holes in the abandoned
barn searching for dead cows by 8:01.
If we bypass the sweet temptations of
the Cake Box, the cigar store with the
swinging saloon doors where we buy
baseball cards with the pink Bazooka
Joe gum inside,
then hurry by Hillenbrans where I bought
my first bra, then eyes to the pavement,
our worn shoes scurrying passed
Bar one,
Bar two,
Bar three
where early commuters catch one more
before their chase for their train, slowing
us up as they decide which door to go in.
If we get passed all that by 8:07, we can
reach the station and avoid the three-minute
wait for stops at the crossing gate, and we
can safely trip over the four-rail gravelly
train highway just in time for the red light
at Northwest Highway.This rush of road
leads the clan of commuter trains into
the big city,
toward Sear’s Tower, and the lions in front of
the Field Museum, Wrigley Field, Comiskey
Park,
Mayor Daly,
de dems,
de do’s,
de El,
de Loop,
Navy Pier, Lake Michigan where the fancy
ladies shop along The Magnificent Mile
but we don’t because we live on the south
side of the tracks, the tracks we have to cross
to get to school every day, where we have to
meet up with the fancy north-siders who do.
Great pictures in my mind here 🙂
thank you.
Fantastic detail here, had me smiling :)!
thanks, Hen!
Wow, jlynn! A history, geography and sociology lesson — all wrapped up in a poem! Nicely done! 🙂
Thanks for reading, Pam. I’m adding a Mmm to myself–a writing teacher once told me never to make a poem into a history lesson. I guess I didn’t heed his advice.
You can’t always listen to teachers — they don’t know everything. :-)) I loved the lesson! 🙂
In college we had to ‘analyse’ poem and so determine the EXACT message the writer was trying to convey based on certain words use. NOT so. I wrote a poem about a tidal wave (Kodiak, AK, in 1960’s) Analysed by a number of people produced many natural events – but no one came up with ‘tidal wave’ – I then began enjoying poety for what it offered and not be tied to a teacher’s interpretation.
As a Chicago-born girl, this really speaks to me, makes me want to grab a slice of deep-dish or a nice messy Italian beef. Wonderfully described indeed! 😀
Mmm. Chicago deep dish.
(and thanks for the comment!)
So vivid! A brilliant presentation of memories! Thank-you for this delightful back-track! I love your opening lines!
Thank you, Janet!
I agree so well written, jlynne!!
jlynn – I’ve never been to Chicago, but you just gave me a delightful tour in your shared memories. Thank you.
Thank you, Marjory.
What a descriptive tour – you took this never-been-there Limey right there, and I felt your affection for the place, loud and clear.
That’s so nice of you! Thank you for reading.
Oh, I loved taking this journey with you!
Thank you so much, Kelly.
Particularly love that first stanza.
Thanks, Purple!
You took us there, JLynn. Could hear the hurried heartbeat as you walked us to school with you.
thank you so much!
Not about a home, but a place to live.
Wash Away
Where does it hurt
when cardboard walls collapse
in a sodden pile around you,
snuffing the Sterno,
soaking a scrounged meal
and your only change of rags?
Where does it hurt
when city rain is the cleanest thing
that’s happened to you
in seventeen months on the street
and lovers on the sidewalk laugh,
swinging arms together,
catching droplets on their tongues
while you cart your chosen scraps
through blind alleyways
seeking semi-permanent shelter?
Why is someone’s pleasure
always another’s pain
and some things so easily washed away
while other diseases remain
which the clearest of mountain waters
will never penetrate?
Such sad truths…
Wonderfully touching!
Well done and heart rending, Richard, and I’m really hoping it’s not even remotely biographical.
‘Why is someone’s pleasure
always another’s pain
and some things so easily washed away . . .”
Oh, how this rings with the sad truth of life.
….oh Richard! lest we forget. Thank-you~
Too many, too many – and we live in a ‘rich country’ I second Janet’s comment.
A lesson for us all…
Heartbreaking, sad, and well said. There’s a question mark in every poet’s heart that drives our words. Thanks Richard.
Great write, I’m in agreement with the others Richard.
Where I Grew Up
Huddled in hills
in western Pennsylvania
sat a little pink house
(sometimes yellow, red or white)
by Charlie the Oak Tree
in a neighborhood where a creek
and a small road ran through,
by the name of Shannon, our name.
Mostly relatives
were scatted about
some longtime friends, too,
My four sisters and I
rarely stayed indoors
climbing trees, sled riding,
exploring the woods,
playing pretend games
after all the old shows,
eating fruits from trees, bushes
and even out of the gardens.
We were mad when
a new neighbor moved in
and wiped out the best blackberry patch.
Pappap sold the land bit by bit
and house grew up all over
hidden in the summer by the foliage
but in the winter we saw them encroaching.
The little road became busier
until kids no longer played on it like we did
when we needed a smooth, flat place.
We grew up and left and the pine trees
covered the yard, hiding the little house
until it was abused by renters and torn down.
But still, standing tall, is the Oak Tree, Charlie.
Love this Connie 🙂
Me too Connie – love this … the images are strong and beautifully drawn … I can see the town encroaching on your place as the poem goes on – glad Charlie’s still standing tall.
Great job, Connie!!! Can almost taste the fruit from those trees!
Strong roots here…
We named one of our trees, too. How funny!
Gorgeous!!! This is a painting called Home, forever sweet home!
Wonderfully put. Fun identifying the days that once were. We were so lucky to have such beautiful memories of a life the kids today can not know.
Our idyllic memories best are best left as just that, and never re-visited. But I’m glad that you showed them to us here.
Connie, this sounds like a perfect children’s book.
Connie,
so vivid a remembrance, and those remnants like Charlie the Oak are so precious to us all.
http://eekwrite.wordpress.com/2012/05/13/north-bergen-nj-hometown/
Lovely words…
Hope it made you want a cup of coffee LOL!
You guessed it! :)!
Hi, wonderful community. Your poems, Marie and Walt really made me think of things… And I remembered I’d never poemed of my daddy. Here’s the result of this thinking:
***
Coming Home
To daddy
And see him leaning on the kitchen sink
Focused
Washing dishes
To see him arrange them neatly
On the drier rack
To see him
Look at me with that amazing love
I can’t help weeping for
Just coming there
In my every dream
And wonder, upon waking,
How can I be seeing him
Still there
And nowhere else?
© 2012 Mariya Koleva
Oh, such a lovely memory!
A beautiful remembrance of you father.
I meant “your father”…that’ll teach me to try to type with two cats crawling around in my lap!
Sweet image!
Beautiful, tender and touching!
Thanks, girls!
It made me think of my Dad, who always sang while doing the dishes.
Ohh, how sweet!
Such a lovely sweet write … nicely done; a beautiful tribute to your father …
Sweet memory.
Such wonderful memories of your daddy.
I think every little girl would love to have had a father like yours.
Oh, Mariya,
So deeply relating to this. My Dad has been gone three years, and my memories are wrapped up in places too. Thanks for ‘explaining’ that. Love it when another poet ‘explains’ me to me.
Wooosh…so emotively written, so captivating. Thank you for sharing this with us, Mariya!
Cliffs of Clay That Call To Me
The sky screamed the message as clouds clotted the atmosphere, blotting out sunlight
And the lake turned to pewter, the colour of old tin cans
and horseshoes
While the wind whistled down the edges of the ravines
carrying promises
Of winter and icy, watery sleet, ready to fill the air with sideways
needle-like rain
That would cut my skin and rip apart leaves on the ground or
on the branch
Were any fool enough to still hang about; there were always the resplendent few:
Sumac, sugar-maple, oak, even stately elm, this far east, that clung
to autumn
Stubborn hardwoods, except for the maples —reds are known for soft lumber, but obstinate too—
All of them tenacious buggers that grow along the cliffs, the Scarborough Bluffs
And inhabit the same ragged, craggy out-croppings,
at impossible angles
As scrub brush and evergreens, bunched together, fighting for every scrap of soil
They seem to thrive on the battle —every perspective proves it’s so —rich, bejewelled foliage
It has been years since I’ve been here to see this splendour for myself although I’ve revisited
The area many times in photographs, on the internet and Google-earth, wonderful tools for that
But there is nothing to compare with being on the cliffs themselves, drinking in the sight first hand
Inhaling the smell of the wet sand, and all variety of trees and wild-flowers, seemingly loathe
To give up summer, never mind autumn, to winter’s fierce and chilling grip; I am amazed
At the cornflowers, Queen Ann’s lace, some lacy, feathery heather too — just plain refusing to die —
And teeny, tiny daisies, how sweetly they cling to their stems — he loves me, he loves me not —
It doesn’t matter they say; we’ll just stay here until the snow frays our petals and leaves us
Naught but fuzzy yellow centres
It strikes me somewhat strange that I find myself even looking down at posies, after all, it’s cliffs
I’ve come to page homage to, and true, it’s the bluffs I’m mostly drawn to, as I stroll along the beach
Incredulous to recall that I grew up not even one block from these two hundred foot high wonders
Grateful to whatever gods there might be who have created this paradise, this wonderland, as if
Just for me —and even as the sky splits and I grow chilled to the bone — still I stare in disbelief at
The cliffs of clay; they sing to me, a choir of towering, eternal clay angels — sirens calling me home
Telling me to stay where I am, not to drive out of there, not to leave, not to go away, and I don’t
No — not yet, I don’t— I stay where I am, letting darkness wash over me until I can no longer see.
S.E.Ingraham©
I felt like I was there….so vivid and stunning! These lines
…’The area many times in photographs, on the internet and Google-earth, wonderful tools for that
But there is nothing to compare with being on the cliffs themselves, drinking in the sight first hand…’
struck me. So true! Thank-you for the tour:)
YES!
I loved walking with you, remembering though you such a memerial place and stand with you until the darkness covers the cliffs, but locks them in your heart.
I love it that you remember nature’s panoply about your home place rather than bricks and mortar.
Thank you all – I have a few places I can go to in my mind for comfort and peace but these cliffs of my childhood are really the foundation of it all … where my first best memories reside.
got the chills on this one, Sharon. I love the sound of clay cliffs.
It’s interesting how you wound together the wind (whistling) with the wildflowers and trees (of safety) but its the cliffs where your sense of adventure and awe are drawn.
Could feel it, see it, smell it, Sharon. Loved it.
Amazing, Sharon!! “Just for me —and even as the sky splits and I grow chilled to the bone — still I stare in disbelief at
The cliffs of clay; they sing to me, a choir of towering, eternal clay angels — sirens calling me home” LOVE THIS!!
Thank you Sara, jlynn, seven and Hannah – for coming on the journey to my beloved bluffs and enjoying them almost as much as I do …
Such a joy! 🙂
I took a rather broad interpretation of this particular prompt but I think it still fits 🙂
Reading Myself Home
Home for me has always been
Walled in dusty book jackets,
Captured on musty yellowing pages.
I leapt through the looking glass
With Alice, finding a kindred spirit
In search of escape to a happier land.
I spent hours in the garret
Sitting next to Jo as we both
Dreamed our literary dreams.
I stood beside Dorothy
On her tentative first steps
Down the yellow brick road.
I chased penguins through the basement
And jumped through sidewalk drawings.
I juggled a fish, a dish, a cake, and a rake
With Sally and Conrad on a rainy afternoon.
I searched the back of the wardrobe
Looking for a magical passage,
Seeking an audience with Aslan.
Even as an adult I still check
Each dewy morning spider web
For a friendly message from yesterday,
Knowing that whenever I feel
The urge to travel back home,
I only need turn the page.
Mary…I LOVE this and I have spent hours in the places you mention…esp. with Jo in the garret.
You created a great atmosphere. Whenever I’ll turn a page in a book I’ll be thinking of your poem.
Oh, me too!
You have described the major part of my childhood to a T. Thank yhou.
I’m with the others Mary – much of my childhood was spent at Green Gables with Anne and still much of the rest with the four Little Women, before I began riding Flicka … books are truly the best refuge of all and you’ve described that beautifully here
Loved Flicka and Black Beauty!
Oh, the life of a reader…thank you for the walk back through so many journeys I too have taken!
I tried to comment on this, but it wouldn’t show up so I’m trying again. Just wanted you to know that I really loved this! So many wonderful books and places to visit.
Love this!
Thank you all so much! Books have always been a great refuge for me, and thinking about home brought back more memories of the great stories I read than any physical place. 🙂
It was The Secret Garden for me.
Mary….it IS lovely to live in so many worlds, to have home and roots there, and thanks for making this great statement that as writers we craft places for all of us to live in.
Oh, yes, Mary!! SO nice to revisit this one! I left a comment on your blog…love getting lost in books like this! Wonderful!
I am in love with this poem! I think we must all be kindred spirits!
Beneath the Green Sod
Da was a feeble shell of his former self,
once vibrant and proud, and with a
loud and booming voice. “Douglas Mac”
was a jack-of-trades, handy and strong,
a long time builder, a Scotsman of great skill.
We thought it would be the drink what killed him,
but age and a demented mind tore down
the solid foundation of the family.
To his last breath he fought the need
to place him under the earth of his home.
The green sod of Scotland accepted
her son and patriot when life surrendered.
Strong image of a man!
A man you can be proud to call Da.
and the best way to remember his is…
….vibrant and proud, and with a
loud and booming voice. “Douglas Mac”
was a jack-of-trades, handy and strong,
a long time builder, a Scotsman of great skill.
Wonderfully written!!
For me, the key to this poem is the line “a demented mind tore down
the solid foundation of the family.” I see the collapsing of the family, the last straw, so to speak. As he fought, the family gave up the fight.
Very descriptive.
So well described, so well known by so many. It’s grand how our homeland loves us back to it.
HOME
Home is…..
Lived in eleven places
before the age of twenty,
six more as an adult.
New schools every few
years, shallow friends,
never fitting in,
but good at adapting,
meeting new people,
making do,
sense of direction…..
Home has never been
a place for me,
more a fleeting feeling
of belonging and
family.
Home is not a place,
a building, a map dot,
it is you and our children
that make this house
Home.
‘Home has never been
a place for me,
more a fleeting feeling
of belonging and
family.’
So touching and SO the opposite of my life thus far, geographically! 🙂 See explanation below my poem:)
Another peripatetic life! We are the wanderers, Mark.
Yes, these lines got me too, Mark! Great poem!
…..yes…..Home and Heart as one!
I love this, Mark. I feel as you…places we live are just houses….the people make it home!
Mark, this is outstanding.
Yes, A home is so much more than a ‘house’.
I like your outlook.
In my married life I’ve come to feel as you do Mark – altho’ we are certainly more settled since we had our girls but even they got moved a bit … still it’s they and their Dad that mean home to me now, especially their Dad now that they’ve flown the coop … your poem has described this feeling beautifully. Nice work, as always.
Mark,
so well said. I’ve only lived two or three places, and only moved once during childhood…so the truth you write about came later in life for me. Love your view of it and indeed, home is more than a dot.
Pingback: Coming Home | Awakened Words
Brooklyn, New York (for PB)
Brooklyn, New York, old home
of the Dodgers, playing ball
in Ebbett’s Field, bats cracking,
hecklers shouting. I was a kid.
Leaving Church Avenue
and Forty-Ninth Street at six
years of age, new baby sister
in tow, I grew up in a Canarsie
housing project, avid participant
of Skelly, Red Light, Green Light,
Statues, and Iron tag.
In the fish market, Mom always
asked, `is it fresh?’ They never
said no. The butcher shop smelled
of raw meat and the faint scent
of blood, spattered on the white
apron around the butcher’s waist
as he ground meat, cut chops,
and sliced steaks, on a thick wooden
table. The local bakery only hired
short, grey-haired women, adept
at tying up boxes of pastries
with string hanging from a roll.
I sucked the jelly out
of powdered donuts.
Bells dinged and music played
on ice cream trucks. Trains ran
along the el, screeching,
and rattling apartment windows.
Balls bounced and games rang
out with shouts, cheers,
and mothers yelling for kids
to come in for dinner.
I sit in my backyard in Portland,
Oregon, happy, and still able
to conjure up the sights, sounds,
and smells of childhood.
Sara, this is fantastic…I was right there with you! The images you painted are so vivid. Really enjoyed visiting your childhood!
Thanks, Janet. I have seen such exquisite poetry on your site, but cannot comment there. Let me know if there is another way.
I’m not sure…h-m-m! I am also unsure of why you cannot comment, should I try a different type of comment-form?
Usually I comment by using the choice of Name/ID. That might not be an option on your site.
I have also tried; no luck either.
I so agree with them, Sara!! You made it SO real!!
Sara, I love that your Mom asked: “Is it fresh?” This made my day! What a great atmosphere.
All true, Andrea.
Loved: “…I sit in my backyard in Portland, Oregon, happy, and still able to conjure up the sights, sounds, and smells of childhood.” Thank you, Sara, I love eclectic Portland, OR!
Thanks, Hen, I do too!
I really enjoyed your memories.
Thanks, Viv!
New York to Portland,OR – Quite the leap.
What fun, vivid memories you have so nicely shared.
[I don’t know N.Y., but I know Portland, family there.]
Thanks, Marjory. It was a big leap, but we are happy here.
Being as fond of NYC as I am Sara, I absolutely loved this … was transported there … also love Portland as it happens (probably ’cause I was carded there when I was 32! LOL) – seriously, another beautiful city, so lush …
Vivid, full of the busy-ness that I can only imagine. Loved the fresh feeling and memory you share here, Sara.
Thanks so much, 7!
The True North, Strong and Free
God’s country; is what my daddy called it
As rolling hills in a country-drive slideshow
Moved across the screen
Of the station-wagon window
…this panorama of meadow-rich green
Creased by woodlands and marshes
The meandering stream
Rolling to the big blue sea
This is surely what God’s country must be
And the farmer’s eyes roved the blazing west
Imbuing his soul with renewed hope and zest
For surely the one who painted our rural plot of sky
In a whispered masterpiece
Would provide the needs for he and I
His mercy would not cease
Ah, in this we found peace
So, the farmer whistled with a spring in his step
And the corn fields rustled beneath twilight’s fingertips
…and the little girl stood proud beneath red and white
And sang ‘Oh Canada’ with all her might because Daddy was right
‘Oh Canada’ included the little thumbprint of Southern Ontario
Where apple orchards bend and bronze wheat fields glow
And where the Great Lakes, in turquoise gems
Gleam, a grand and glorious diadem
Crowning God’s country;
This ‘true north strong and free, of timber and loam
Will forever be my home sweet home
( I live on the out-skirts of a rural village…I can see all four corners from the hill on the west side. The village is a dip in the road. I spent my first 22 years on the north hill, rented a neighbors house for the first year of my married life on the south hill, I have now lived for 23 years on the west hill…h-m-m-m I guess it looks like I’ll be retiring on the east hill???)
I posted a few photos of our weekend in ‘God’s Country’ on my blog…anotherporch.blogspot.com)
Just Lovely, Janet… Thank you!
…and the little girl stood proud beneath red and white
And sang ‘Oh Canada’ with all her might…
You provide me with a very vivid picture of a small girl with blond pig-tails, standing tall and straight, dressed up cute and with maybe a smug of dirt on her knees. 🙂
very accurate description…blonde piggy-tails and glasses;) Thank-you for the smiles:)
This is wonderful Janet, as are the photos on your blog … I don’t know how I missed this in your interview (or maybe I didn’t and have just forgotten – not at all unusual; am known for having a doily-brain unfortunately)but for some reason, I thought you were an American living somewhere in the midwest … !?! Where is Drayton?(am I spelling this correctly now?) I’m from Scarborough, Ontario originally but my birth-mother used to live in Proton Station (I know, how bizarre) but if you’re anywhere around there – I’ll know the area … otherwise, I’ll figure it out … sorry to go on and on but now my curiosity’s up … good poem btw.
I googled the Scarborough Bluffs to see if they were ‘ours’:) Drayton is 30 min. north of Kitchener-Waterloo! My 500 yd. plot of home is a village called Goldstone.Yikes! Did I fail to mention that I am from Canada in my interview? My brain takes way too many ‘side-trips’ when I start talking!
Am I right in remembering that you now live in the west or am I wrong?
You are quite right in remembering I live out west now – Edmonton, Alberta to be exact … before we moved here we almost moved to Stratford, Ontario (after living in St.John’s, Nfld. for a year) but that deal fell through – that would have been sorta down in your neck of the woods. I’ve been to Kitchener many times as a kid and used to go to Elora for sugaring off most years … small world as they say but as comedian Steven Wright says, “but I wouldn’t want to paint it…”
This is so cool…you know all our ‘nostalgic,little towns’! The west sounds…big:)I’ve been there once on my honey-moon. Hubby, truck-driver husband is there often.
Thanks for the smiles…neighbor.
Oh, Janet!
This is the moment I loved most…
“So, the farmer whistled with a spring in his step
And the corn fields rustled beneath twilight’s fingertips.”
SevenAcreSky,
I’m glad you liked those lines…they ring very deeply in my soul:)
This just resonates with the song of your voice and place, Janet!! Such a gift.
“And the farmer’s eyes roved the blazing west
Imbuing his soul with renewed hope and zest
For surely the one who painted our rural plot of sky
In a whispered masterpiece
Would provide the needs for he and I
His mercy would not cease
Ah, in this we found peace”
Loved this SO much!! Thank you, Janet!!
Thanks for the ride. It was great visiting you.
Thanks gals!
Pingback: A Peripatetic Life | Vivinfrance's Blog
Late again – and for the explanation, my computer went crazy and swallowed my first draft.
The poem is here: http://vivinfrance.wordpress.com/2012/05/14/a-peripatetic-life/
Loved: “… to a resting place in France spiritual, cultural, comfort space….. we had arrived home.” Thank you, Viv!
I checked your poem – I think it is wonderful.
I hate it when the computers get over-hungry and act like the former dog who… ‘ate my homework.’
A blessed Cockney delivery
Any child in London born within the sound of
Bow bells is considered henceforth a
Cockney – that colourful breed known from Eliza
Doolittle, with her piercing screech and
Exaggerated dipthongs, who like all the lasses sells
Flowers in Covent Garden while the rough men-folk
Gather in the pub or warm their calloused
Hands by some jolly brazier, laughing and rhyming
In the pre-dawn haze. Of course, this is
Just a fiction today, a once-true stereotype mostly
Kept alive for tourists. But when my parents hit
London in the mid-sixties, it was real. They were newly
Married and filled with wonder, wide-eyed, knowing
Nothing of this great city, its traditions, its secrets,
Or its perils. There was no time, for he was studying and she was
Pregnant. A difficult child, strong-willed, interrupting the
Quietest passage in the St. Matthew Passion one night at the
Royal Festival Hall, with a rush of blood that sent her anxiously
Spotting to Accident and Emergency. Then followed
Three months of daily anxiety, carrying the weight of
Uncertainty if this miracle of life was even to be
Viable. Finally December came, with its dark embrace to
Whitechapel, a night without the lights of close attention, of
Xray or ultrasound, when the doctors had gone home. A
Young resident was there alone to slip my father into the room to hear the
Zeal of his cockney son’s new song, greeting him with a mighty “eeeeeeeeee”.
What wonderful music drew you into the world!
Beautifully told memories that will survive the telling for another fifty years. [How is your singing voice doing today?] 🙂
Well done, Andrew.
Ah, Andrew! Beautifully told birthday! Loved it, thanks for sharing.
I read this on the edge of my seat. I love this, Andrew. It is a beautiful story, filled with senses and emotions. It put me there and it put a smile on my face. Thanks!
For a Moment Lost
I lost you
somewhere along the way
so sure you were
my solid ground
the north star
that wouldn’t move
you took more than
a suitcase
stole my home
left me in
the shambles of a house
did I hold you too tight
not enough
or did I just mistake
affection for love
scrambling
in the dark
on shifting sand
looking for a place to stand
looking for something
left to believe in
guess forever doesn’t mean
what it used to
oh, well
it’ll ease soon enough
the dizziness will stop
so I can find my feet
somewhere else I’ll call home
and though I ache with your loss
all aches ease
and all storms pass
Ohhh, so very painful…..!
I think you have made a great step(s) toward finding your feet.
🙂
Thanks. The last two lines are my personal mantra right now.
And after the storms come rairbows. Watch for its’ tail as it slops across the sky.
Then again – maybe it will slip not slop! 🙂
Tracy, Sad poem, but your inner strength is marching along.
All I can say is WOW. Incedible, Tracy.
Tracy,
sad honesty, love the courage you share. Thanks, wonderfully shown emotion.
This made my heart hurt as I’m sure it hurt yours to write it … I applaud your courage in the face of what seems like a pretty large betrayal. Thanks for sharing such a personal piece of your life with us … brava.
Before my husband and I were married, his oldest brother (at the time, a lifelong Ohioan) made fun of my Pennsylvania roots. I will never forget laughing hysterically when we talked about our state birds. I still contend, I’d rather be from the Keystone state than be called a “nut” (Buckeye) from Ohio…I should have expected it though, he is now a Northern Mockingbird!
Strange Bird
Born along the coast of North Carolina.
a few years in Memphis, Tennessee.
For the next twenty years, western Pennsylvania
was the location of home for me.
Transplanted at age twenty seven
just across the PA line
It was hard to transfer my allegiance
to an Ohio state of mind.
I have no desire to move back
across the state border.
My children are Ohioans,
they are proud of that for sure.
The farmland of the Buckeye state
is no comparison
to the beauty of the hills and trees
in the state of William Penn.
So, although now, I’ve lived my life
in Ohio more than anyplace else.
I still place my allegiance where
the state bird is the roughed grouse!
©KED 2012
Fun title!
I am an Ohioan and my husband is from Penn. I have spent considerable time in both and I love the way you contrast them!
Well done Kelly,
Smart tussle back and forth! Loved it.
I agree with, Seven, great write Kelly!
I have lived in several West coast states and even 4 yrs in So, Australia (Balaklava)…but ‘back home’ is still the island where I was born and where I belive they infused me with sea-water…..
Small Island hundred miles by fifty
Set in Alaska’s watery gulf
Warmed by southern ocean currents.
Five thousand feet mountain, trees and grassland
and a hundred small coves and harbors for boats.
Surrounded with neighboring small islands.
Famed vacation spot for fishing and hunting,
Home of the towering Alaska, KODIAK brown bear.
1944
Homesteading in old log cabin on small dairy farm
With added chickens, ducks, pigs and dogs.
Behind cabin, tall forest with berries and wild roses.
Small stream from woods, flowed through meadow down to salty bay which invited children to play. In wintertime wood stove and oil lamps keep family warms against the drifting snow.
1946
New home in old naval housing set overlooking City Dock where ocean liners and freighters tied. Children race among mounds of cargo, play hide-and-seek in warehouse and visit ships gallows for ice-cream and fresh fruit treats. Score beach treasures, build rafts to ride the tide, and ‘barrow’ rowboat to make journey to harbor buoy. Then scale mountain over bay
festooned with red fireweed, white daisies and blue bell hiding in tall grass. Play neighborhood baseball games.
1949
Community Center dwelling with ‘downtown’, hospital, school, Salmon cannery and town dock, boats, churches, beach and mountain all within walking distance and the freedom to explore it all. A children’s paradise filled with fun.
1951 Farwell to island life.
Today- Living in “The Fourth Corner” where Canada, Washington and Strait of Georgia meet… Birch Bay
The stanza beginning with: “Small Island hundred miles –” is great. You share many images here and thank you very much.
Your welcome – truely a wondeful time and place to have for childhood memories.
I like the way you set up this poem. I got a vivid picture of each place.
Thanks 🙂
A great tour! I would love to take it in real life.
The evolving images, places, changes highlighted by the years was an interesting approach…liked this, Marjory. Thanks!
Oh, this is delectable, Marjory!!! I love your “homesteading,” stanza!! Such a fulfilling read!
Thank you each for your comments – last year my sisters and I put together a picture and written story of our 9 years in Kodiak, it was a wonderful place to grow up. We plan to revisit there in 2015 when the ‘church on the hill’ celebrates 75 years of service.
That is such a special thing to do, Marjory, and such great plans for the future! 🙂
Sounds lovely, Marjory! I’d love to visit it in person! Enjoy your 2015 trip — take pics & post ’em. That may be as close as I get! :-))
Home is Where the Heart Is
They say home is where the heart is.
If that’s the case, my heart was never in it.
In that small, West Texas town
the sidewalks rolled up at eight o’clock,
gossip spread and burned faster
than a wild fire; a rattlesnake spitting
venom. The whispers scratched the surface
like a tumbleweed blowing aimlessly across
the flat, dry land, and dug in
as a thorny cactus might.
Trouble found you whether you were
looking for it or not.
The first chance I got, I headed north to the
‘Big D’ where I could escape under the
bright lights, constant noise,
and feel like I finally belong.
Short visits back to the west
feel strangely like being in a Stephen King novel
or an episode of The Twilight Zone.
Eerie.
Suffocating.
Home, in the big city, is where my heart is.
It’s refreshing.
Free.
What impressive images! No doubt your heart is in the “Big D.” This was so interesting for me to read. Thank you.
Thanks for reading, Andrea. 🙂
Achingly real, Lynn, and very poignantly written. Not a town I want to visit!
Whoa! Loved this, a statement of independence from our ‘origins.’ Certainly ‘place’ isn’t the main factor, but instead ‘space.’
Home is where the heart has room to be.
I agree with Andrea, this one really caught me,
“The whispers scratched the surface
like a tumbleweed blowing aimlessly across
the flat, dry land, and dug in
as a thorny cactus might.”
Beautiful!!
My favorite line is: “the sidewalks rolled up at eight o’clock.” love it!
We can’t pick where we come from – when we tell it like it was – for some it was good -for others not so.- we can pick where we are today – sounds like you have found a wonderful Home. High-Five.
Home, —– is where my heart is.
It’s refreshing.
Free
Yes… loved those last three lines!
Marjory, it certainly is wonderful.
Henrietta, thank you.
The Strength of this Land
The strength of this land
lies not in the ancient cragged mountains,
nor is it found in the depth of her lochs,
or the remote majestic glens.
The strength of this land
will not be found in her guardian seas,
or the towering castles and battlements,
lining the rocky shores
The strength of this land
is not found in the bright hewn stone,
used to build the homes of the brave,
and humble crofter alike.
Monuments and castles, churches and towers,
speak of centuries of pride and nobility,
yet are empty of words, they are mere vessels,
echoing glories of the past.
The strength of this land is hidden deep;
the hearts of man, woman and child
conceal the truth known to all,
yet hardly spoken aloud
The strength of this land
is buried in its culture and art,
hidden in plain sight,
passed down to each new child.
The strength of this land
is evident only in the deeds of man,
the wise-words of kin-folk,
and the glory of the young.
Iain
Loved: “… The strength of this land is evident only in the deeds of man,…” !
Cheers Hen 🙂
!!! 😀 !!!
So true, And you have put it wonderfully well…
…..The strength of this land is hidden deep;
the hearts of man, woman and child
We each have so much to remember, share where-ever we call home
Thanks you kindly 🙂
Iain, Spectacular poem. The last two stanzas are so beautifully worded.
You are very kind!
You could be talking about a few countries but which one are you referring to?
The clues are in the first two stanzas; it’s my homeland: Scotland.
Iain,
loved this conclusion. Especially,
“hidden in plain sight,
passed down to each new child.”
Thanks so much to all for the lovely comments on my poem. So kind!
I knew Walt’s “coming home” prompt would bring about an even deeper connectedness in our little community, and it certainly has. I’m enjoying getting to know what “home” is for each of you. Andrea’s “Who Talks of Roses” beautifully states our unity, doesn’t it?
I’m so appreciative of each of you!
Marie Elena
I haven’t had time to write to the prompt yet this week, or read any, but Andrea told me she’d written one that was sort of inspired by my salty toes on my blog, so I came over to read it. Just perfect. And beautiful. And perfectly beautiful. What an amazing community you have “bloomed” here, my friends. It’s such a joy to be here.
This sentiment is so very sweet, Marie!! I feel the same way! Warm Smiles all around!!
Welcome (or welcome back) Marjory, Lynn Burton, Tracy, and Mariya!
Marie Elena
Thank You – for the welcome and the Garden. PAD was my first experence in Blogging and am delighted to Keep Going with Robert’s and Yours – and even venturing out to visit a couple other Blogs. Creating lots of new groves in my upper gray matter. I am even thinking of doing a blog – and you have no idea how surprising that is to me!!! ( -:) MMT
AND ….Thank you for the ‘Coming Home” prompt. I feel that I am becoming aquainted with many others who take part. Looking forward to tomorrow’s prompt.
Thanks for the welcome (back), Marie.
I fizzled out when your garden first started to bloom, but I think I’ve formed some good writing habits since this past Poem-A-Day challenge. I hope to participate more often.
“First Dirt”
I imagine
the first dirt
you play in as a child
enters your bloodstream
through your fingers
and toes,
creating a bond
that cannot be erased,
though it can be changed
as layers of sediment
build
through travels,
compacting
this first dirt
into a layer of bedrock
on which
you stand.
LOVE this!
Yes, I agree
I think you might be on to something! I love the thought and composition of this poem. Wonderful, Jerry.
Jerry,
that’s great! Love this, can feel the dirt settling itself beneath my fingernails and becoming part of me.
Wow! Jerry. wow…love this:
the first dirt
you play in as a child
enters your bloodstream
through your fingers
and toes,
creating a bond
that cannot be erased,”
and the ending…all of it really! 🙂
YES!! I loved this, start to finish. Beautiful!
AVON LAKE
Little town
With big dreams:
It seems the only way.
Small minds
With big ideas
Lure me far away.
But family
And great friends
Make me want to stay.
Whooooo…I like small towns. They have some much to offer that the big cities miss.
Linda,
loved this! What is this form? I’m so ignorant on forms, but this is so clean and clear.
Thanks. I don’t have any idea if it even is a form. It just kind of fell out of my head! 🙂
“fell out of your head!!” Great way to put it…excellent poem!
The Path to the Pond
We know it by heart
By night, in the deepest part of winter
We can recall the smell of clay
Sliding on our bare wet feet
Remember where to avoid the roots
That trip, the sharp stones as once again
We travel through that green tunnel
Stooping to avoid blackberry briars and
Loops of poison ivy, hurrying to dive
Into that incredible clear water waiting
Just for us.
Whole days we spent in that land where
Water sprung to fill the quarried pits.
Fish appeared as if by magic, frogs and
Crawdads, turtle, snakes, clumps of algae,
Water moss, cat-tails, reeds every water
Loving thing and all the neighborhood,
Daylight swimmers to evening fishermen
Campfires lit the midnight sky and music
Floated through the fields to home.
Boys and girls in cut off jeans, tanned bodies
Sun bleached hair. We learned to swim by
Jumping from the rocks. We dove, Tarzan-style
Swinging on vines to reach the deepest spots
Then letting go – tremendous splash! Water
Spraying upward like a fountain and in the
Middle – us! Schools of minnows hurried
Past, if we were quiet they’d nibble our
Toes, mosquitoes hummed about our heads
The snakes came out at night. When all
The wild things had their fun and all of us
In bed, dreaming of tomorrow and all the
Days of all the summers we believed would
Last forever,
.
.
.
Really, really, neat – both story and poeming.
Not sure, but sounds like you are in (to me) the southeast end of the USA. Me, I am far NW. MMT
Wonderful!!! There is no season like Summer!!!
Yeah, that’s GOT to be southeast…my world too. Brambles, briars, and pine-cone-wars. Love this, Marian.
Such elegant, exquisite writing…as always! I can’t pick a favorite. So well written, Marian.
Afraid I took this prompt a bit too literally — introducing myself and my state to folks who might be unfamiliar with both! 😉
Connecticut
I hail from “Quinnehtukqut”, an Indian word,
meaning “beside the long tidal river”.
Bits of me are scattered all about this tiny state.
I am it, and it is in me – both of us seemingly
insignificant pieces of a larger, united whole.
Birthed in the “big city”, but a child of the ‘burbs,
I was raised in the days when the neighborhood was
an extended family – a suite of parents maintaining
a stable of unrelated siblings under their watchful eyes.
Farm laborer in the family’s tobacco fields,
and nearly a quarter century in the insurance industry
back in the day when the city of Hartford was
the renowned “Insurance Capital of the World” —
a title it has since ceded to Minnesota.
Still we boast of our role in the American Revolution –
one of the original thirteen colonies — take pride in claiming
Nathan Hale our state hero, “Yankee Doodle” our state song;
brag of how we once secreted Connecticut’s Royal Charter
in the trunk of our state tree — a white oak, and control enough of a
coastline to also cite sperm whales and eastern oysters as state reps.
This tiny bit of land beside a long tidal river–
sweet seashore, tree covered mountains and valleys,
nestled midway between Boston and New York City —
has been the keeper of this homebody heart
for over half a century, and still counting….
Hi Pam, earlier today I was cheking to see how my island (Kodiak, AK) compared to various states – Connenticut was the closest is size. With all the coves and harbors we have less than 7 sq miles with-in our 100×50 dim’s. Is that also where the first School for the Deaf was (is) located? Visited the school once, but can not remember where is was. -Very muh enjoyed reading about Conn. = Your Home. 🙂
Thank you, Marjory! Kodiak sounds lovely too! 🙂
Apparently, The American School for the Deaf (ASD) is not the first of its kind, but it IS the oldest permanent (as in still operating) school for the deaf in the United States. It was founded April 15, 1817 in Hartford, Connecticut by Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet and Laurent Clerc and became a state-supported school in 1817.
I had to look that up — as I didn’t know it myself — and I live here! Thanks for the history lesson — again! :-))
Loved: “…I am it, and it is in me…”
Thanks, Hen! 🙂
Pam,
you made me want to come there. I will, one day. Lovely description.
Thanks, SevenAcreSky! I do love it here. Hope you make it here one day too — and enjoy it as much as I do. 🙂
“I hail from “Quinnehtukqut”, an Indian word,
meaning “beside the long tidal river”.
Bits of me are scattered all about this tiny state.
I am it, and it is in me – both of us seemingly
insignificant pieces of a larger, united whole.”
Perfect, Pamela!! I love what you’ve done here especially! 🙂
Ahhh… thanks, Hannah! Glad you liked it! 🙂
Pamela, yes, great images. I especially like the last stanza where you kind of narrow down the entire American history – down to yourself. Great!
Thank you, Andrea! 🙂 Yup, still counting… for a while — I hope! LOL
Late to the party, as usual, and praying for time to read all of the amazing stories above, SOON.
Gypsy Heart
Get the map.
First, pin your string along
the mountains of the west coast
to the tiny podunk town of Victorville, California.
But don’t stay too long;
stretch it loooooooong,
from sea to shining sea
(tiny quick prick in North Carolina)
to the beaches of Florida,
pulled wide
engulfed,
one pin on each side.
Got it? Don’t put down any roots,
beat foots to Ohio. Canton. Stick around
a few years, get to know your roots,
Christmas at the grandparents’…oops, gotta go;
now let that string flow way back west,
to Arizona, stick wild, feral, free among the Navajo
for a time. A year’s enough
to know what it’s like
to be
foreign
forlorn
forgotten. Pull up,
fling farther west,
Beatty, Nevada’s best.
Get yerself a horse and ride
your way through middle school
but fool, don’t breathe too long,
that goodbye song isn’t far behind.
Never mind, not far, just a few hours
and small town life resumes in Pahrump
(just over the hump).
Whew. Stay a few. Five years (the longest yet),
get
graduated. Then runrunrun to Vegas
(pin a dive studio apartment, a first rental, a house,
then this house)
murder your own heart
resurrect it again
learn its beat
play every one of those fine-pinned strings
and dance.
Now, take that living, beating thing
in your hands
sing to it in German
paint the edges a little Irish green
and then float her out to sea
where she really longs
to be.
.
OMG! AMAZING talent!!! Thank you, De!
Super poem De!
De! What a trip!
Loved the tour of your world….particularly,
“murder your own heart
resurrect it again
learn its beat
play every one of those fine-pinned strings
and dance.”
DE-billitatingly DE-lightful my friend!! I love your open:
“First, pin your string along
the mountains of the west coast
to the tiny podunk town of Victorville, California.
But don’t stay too long;
stretch it loooooooong,
from sea to shining sea”
But even though I love every breath of this I love your two closing stanzas SO VERY MUCH!!
Such a joy to read, De!! 🙂
I got all tangled up in this, it was so good! Wonderfully stirring, de.
Oh yes, I’m right there with you and the funny part is that my family, my ancestors, didn’t go anywhere for hundreds and hundreds of years but for one who was Andrea from Germany (now Poland) and came here around 200 years ago.
Tango Poem, ABCB rhyme. 4 line stanzas. Syllable count 9,10,11,12.
“Florida”
My home is where the sandpiper plays
Scent of sweet jasmine and orange the air
Key Largo where Bogey and Bacall did stay
Where wave the palm fronds and the crocodiles do stare.
A bongo moon plays staccato tune
Hemingway takes leave of his thatch-roofed bar
makes sunken footprints in the smooth skin of beach
And says: “I smell orange and jasmine in the stars.”
Early sings my beach in Florida
Sandpipers run to and fro from the shore
Double-daring the surf to catch tiny feet
With the song of orange and jasmine at my door.
Jacqueline,
my favorite place to visit, my daughter lives there, and you have tagged the orange and jasmine pleasures that are there.
“A bongo moon plays staccato tune”
and…
“I smell orange and jasmine in the stars.”
I love these, Jacqueline!! Great poem!
Loved it all, because I especially love Hemingway, Bogey and Bacall, and the Key Largo song, of course, but, mostly, I loved: “…With the song of orange and jasmine at my door” !
Welcome back, Jacqueline. I agree with Hannah … “A bongo moon plays staccato tune” and “I smell orange and jasmine in the stars” are great lines. I’m glad to see you are back, and wonder if you are aware that you received an honor last week. Here is a link, in case you missed it: http://poeticbloomings.com/2012/05/12/beautiful-blooms-prompt-54/ .
Marie Elena
Yes! Thank you so much, Marie Elena! I did not find it until today, 17 May and did thank you and Hannah for the nice remarks and the nice welcome to your Bloomin’ site.
WhimsyG. Gypsy Heart & poetic genious. Love how you pulled all that different geography together without sounding like a grocery list!
BTW My daughter & I once drove from NW Ohio to Riverside CA. . Everything OK until we came to Victorville CA, where car broke down. Not a great town to be stranded in!
It took me a few days to get here, but here I am! 🙂
Tidewater
I am a seashell
Chipped and worn
By sandy feet
Along my shore
I curl inward
To capture fading
Ocean sounds
Inside hollow spaces
But there is more
Within my curves
Than watery echoes
And bay gull cries
Hold me up
To your ear
And I will whisper
What the waves say
Stories of strange
Currents running
From east to west
And farther still
Dreams of Hands
That carry me
Inside a warm
Bosom pocket
To be awakened
By low-tide mornings
And the promise
Of new songs
Love this! Beautifully done, thanks.
I LOVE that you’re here, Catherine!!! This is art, too, in case you didn’t know!! 😉 I’m thrilled with this poem and had a wicked hard time picking a favorite line…but:
“But there is more
Within my curves
Than watery echoes
And bay gull cries”
I DO REALLY love this part!!
Thank you!!
Thanks! By the way, my poem refers to the Tidewater region of Virginia, where I was born and raised. Living in Texas has made me appreciate (and miss) the ocean.
Oh my goodness, I LOVED: “…Hold me up to your ear and I will whisper what the waves say… Dreams of hands that carry me inside a warm bosom pocket… To be awakened by low tide mornings and the promise of new songs” GORGEOUS!!!
Just loving your return to Poetic Bloomings, Catherine!
Marie Elena
Thanks! It’s so good to be back here and writing. I’m hoping for a wonderfully productive summer!
I love to listen to the song of the shells.
Love the prompt–any prompt that leads us to take our garden tools of words and dig deep into our lives, our past especially. This memory is feeding roots in my life almost daily, and I still love the place, though it has changed so much since my childhood. It’s still magical, and wondrous, and I might load up the kayak and go again today.
————————————
LOVING RIVERS
Dad took his two sons,
water high or low,
with the johnboat to go
to the rivers to fish
for bream and cat.
For bass or carp,
or whatever might bite
on whatever weekend day.
We’d leave the home
among woods we loved
that lay between
flat delta and piney bayou.
Down road past the charcoal plant,
past the paper mill,
breathing in the
sulfur-tuna-sauerkraut smell
of every dad-in-town’s industry in the air.
We longed for a different odor,
longed for the aromas of adventure
and awe.
We’d stop
at Homer’s gas station to get
an RC or a Crush for the icechest,
to wash down crackers and viennas
that Mom had sacked.
And crickets—a quarter a tube,
a hundred chirping Jonahs
destined, elected
for either slow cruel drowning
or merciful digestion.
The Ouachita, the Saline,
and all their creeks and sloughs
still live and lay
in the center of our minds,
the mirrors in our eyes.
Black water around gray cypress,
and gar flapping,
slapping at passing boats,
as if they’d scare us.
Dark, dead loggerheads on wire snares
hung over the water from tree limbs
when the water fell out.
Old wrinkled men,
dark brown like mud,
often waved us aside,
to look into a washtub
in the middle of their boats,
maybe full of one monstrous
large curled up flathead cat,
breathing, mouthing air,
its gills getting sticky in the heat,
its eyes glazing white as they dried out.
“It’s a big-un,”
Dad would say.
and we’d lean over the transom,
reaching to touch it if we could.
We’d sit back into the boat,
Dad would rev up the Evinrude,
flick his orange glowing cigarette away,
and we’d lean forward
into the surge of outboard
outbound dreams
We’d let the air of wonder
blow back our hair and ears,
and we’d plunge on into our day
to love our rivers,
even more than we loved home.
“This memory is feeding roots in my life almost daily”
I love to hear you echo the very thought I was having earlier today about this. There’re certain things in our lives that will be fodder for our entire lives.
Your poem is proof. So well wrought. 🙂
I love the way that you let images of your Dad surround your poem like whatever you experienced later in life were seen through these “glasses of home.”
7, I loved: “… We’d let the air of wonder blow back our hair and ears, and we’d plunge on into our day to love our rivers, even more than we loved home.” !
I’m bacccckkkk!
Going Back Home
I still say I’m going home, though I go as a visitor,
navigating unfamiliar new roads past empty stores,
new names on old cafes. Those who stayed
keep moving houses—new addresses, different
roof, strange bed—so return’s a true homecoming.
I tally houses there I’ve called my own—
nine in childhood, seven after marriage—surely
they must have been seeking something too,
and yet they stayed here, holding a place
I could return, a way station, a headquarters
for my wanderings. Only rarely do I venture far
without family. Holidays bring their demands,
command performances, replete with gifts,
familiar foods, my favorites, they remind me.
I want to slip away, out on my own, tracing paths
of everyday remembrance, adolescent haunts,
looking up old friends for rare face to face time.
I want to swim in Shoal Creek, wet a hook, hunt
for Morel mushrooms on Uncle Waylon’s farm,
hike out to the Forks of Cypress, sit in the shadow
of her columns, all that remain from the fire
so many decades ago. I’d drive to the dam,
watching as the water lowers, dropping barges
down for the next leg of their river journey.
When I go back home, though, I feel an itch
to get out of there faster than I left before,
heading northeast where the only family besides
we two are those we choose ourselves, widening
our circle, with ties stronger than friendship.
So now I return, like the visiting team, rounding
the bases, passing home, but never staying there.
Nancy P.
I’m glad. We were worried about you! Very much Nancy Posey, I must say. Excellence by any other name… W.
Hear, hear! WELCOME HOME, NANCY!
Marie Elena
So nice to see you here again, Nancy!!!
I love this section so much:
“I want to swim in Shoal Creek, wet a hook, hunt
for Morel mushrooms on Uncle Waylon’s farm,
hike out to the Forks of Cypress, sit in the shadow
of her columns, all that remain from the fire
so many decades ago.”
So very visual!!
Wow: “…so now I return… rounding the bases, passing home, but never staying there…”
Pingback: Prompted Wednesdays: Scented Experiences « Through the Eyes of Meena Rose
Essence of a Rose
By: Meena Rose
I hold the garden hose aiming
Its jets at the courtyard;
Older cousins sweep and
Clean the sitting area.
Baghdad – dry and dusty;
Oppressive heat and an oppressed life;
Drink your Rose Water flavored
Lassi and wash away the oppression.
Water skiing at resorts,
The last vestige of imperialism;
Drowning in the bliss of a
Political oasis.
Abu Dhabi – hot and muggy;
Living the privileged life;
Memories of war ruin my amnesia
While I eat Rose Water ice cream.
Girl meets boy, hormones flare;
Living in a cultural bubble
An ocean away; might as well be
Another planet.
Montreal – vibrant and alive;
Individual expression forming
Social signatures; I can only
Watch as I sip my Rose Water tea.
A family, children questing for
Hints of heritage unlock
Recesses of memory; fresh hurt
Upon raw wounds time did not heal.
Portland – organic and natural;
The land of green and blue when you
Can glimpse it; I bathe myself in Rose
Water immersed in a home I never had.
http://meenarose.wordpress.com/2012/05/16/prompted-wednesdays-scented-experiences/
“A family, children questing for
Hints of heritage unlock
Recesses of memory; fresh hurt
Upon raw wounds time did not heal.”
Such aching and honesty bleeding through these lines, Meena. Very good!
Thank you, Hannah… It was a hard poem to write… In a way I was “forced” to write against my conscious will.
Hmmm, this is a familiar feeling to me, Meena. Speaking for my own situation…While it hurts, it hurts good…and then growth or freedom. Warm smiles
I gotta agree with Hannah, I love those same lines. Painfully beautifully.
Thank you very much!
Well, you talk of roses! What amazing images of roses and what a great poem.
Andrea, thank you!
Loved these words: “Montreal–vibrant and alive… and, Portland–organic and natural…”
Thank you, Henrietta!
Here’s a copy change poem I did a few months ago that fits the bill:
Mexican Land grant,
Ancient Indian settlement, rural, remote
Home to ranchers, gardeners and retirees.
Rabbits, squirrels, raccoons.
Community of Workers
They tell me you are wild and I believe them, for I
have seen your bobcats and coyotes walking the roads;
your rattlesnakes golden brown gliding in the grass.
And they tell me you are strong and I say: Yes, with
the strength of ancient oaks rooted deep in the dry earth
and mesquite bent by the wind.
And they tell me you are eccentric and my reply is: I have seen
the residents fight like cats against conformity. I have seen
teepees and a Statue of Liberty.
And having lived on a dirt road, recently paved, I say
keep your suburbs and neatly manicured lawns.
Come and show me another place with desert heat, coastal fog and mountain frost
that scrapes out beauty and fights against boundaries.
Joining forces to clear the brush and fight the
wildfires; here are people braced together
against the Santa Anas blowing fierce in the fall.
Scrappy as the sage clinging to the hills, thirsty
as the dry arroyos waiting for rain.
Sunburned
Calloused
Sweaty
Building, clearing, mending.
Under the sapphire sky, dirt in his jeans, working with
horses,
Under the blazing sun working as a rancher
works,
Working even as wild oat grass reclaims
the empty lots,
Sweating and working that under his shirt is the heart,
and under his hat the determination of the people,
Working!
Working the cottonwood studded land, carving a home
for ranchers, gardeners and retirees
in the rural, remote ancient Indian settlement.
Loved: “…mesquite bent by the wind…” — I miss their woodsy fragrance…
Welcome, Annette! Older poems are certainly welcome here. It’s all about sharing our words, and yours are enchanting.
Marie Elena
“rattlesnakes golden brown gliding in the grass.
And they tell me you are strong and I say: Yes, with
the strength of ancient oaks rooted deep in the dry earth
and mesquite bent by the wind.”
I really enjoy the description in this portion. Strong poem, Annette!
It has been an emotional week as I have returned home, literally, to say goodbye to my stepfather…who passed away May 2.The writing I’ve done this week will eventually find its way onto my blog (and maybe even here, before week’s end)…but the words need to sort themselves out a bit. Meanwhile… I’ve written a few poems in the past year on the topic of “home,” so I’ll post one of them here.
PORTRAIT OF LANDSCAPE
feet do not take me
to the fields of my youth,
the land to which I was born
memories carry me
to the rich, black earth
permeable to seedlings
of fresh produce, flowers and serenity
yet startling images,
full of anguish, also
remain frozen in time
flames engulfed
buildings, equipment,
shocks of corn — changing
the landscape of home forever
A thing – person or place – only dies when it is forgotten.
When you hold a memory, or repeat some activity tought to you by a person that peson stays alive through that memory or action.
The body (sadly) is gone – but the memory lives. Rest in that love.
Thank you, Marjory. We’re certainly holding onto memories, these days. ❤
Lovely poem, Paula. I am so very sorry for the loss of your stepfather. May his memory always warm your heart. Hen
Thank you, Hen. ❤
Love this poem – and Paula, I’m lost when it comes to writing comforting words in English. It so important to get the words right and I hope that when I say, I’m so sorry for your loss, that I really am. Really, really sorry. How I like to hear that your working on poems just now. That’s just so great! How I hope your stepfather still brings you smiles. Best wishes!
Andrea, Your words are beautifully selected – and woven in them is caring, love, sorry, understanding – those things come true in any language.
Yes, Andrea…I agree with Marjory: your words are beautiful. Thank you. ❤
Cactuses and Crocuses
Dry hills and windy prairies
Hold my heart captive,
Tangled inextricably
In brash, crunching thistles.
Cactuses prickling my palm
Tickles my memory,
Softened by downy crocuses
Caressing away
Bitter winter’s frost.
When home is such
A stubborn place,
Its hold is never lost.
Oooh: “… When home is such A stubborn place, Its hold is never lost…” !!!!!
COMING HOME, TO SAY GOODBYE
(a haibun)
Coming home this time has been different. Tractors still pull equipment through the endless miles of black earth, warm breezes still speak to me through the maple outside my window. Conversations still center on the forecast and how it will impact farmers. And Mom is still there, busying herself with the next project.
Yet…my eyes also see the two decades of growth in that maple tree; my ears hear the voices of my peers talking about the weather—not the generation before us. And Mom’s busyness is for her, a distraction.
seasonal changes ~
while my eyes were turned away,
life continued on
2012-05-17
P. Wanken
Gorgeous sadness…
Pingback: Friday Freeforall: Join the Party « Margo Roby: Wordgathering
391 comments? Good grief, you two!
Margo, it’s mind boggling! Walt and I are amazed, humbled, tickled pink, and so very thankful! And we’re also certain you have something to do with our traffic. Bless your heart for all you do for the poetic community at large!
Marie Elena
… and for cryin’ out loud, how are we going to choose only one bloom each to highlight tomorrow?! Oy …
I reserve all comment until 400. Yeah, what she just said!