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.


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.”



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.

408 thoughts on “COMING HOME – PROMPT # 55

  1. 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!

        • 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.

      • 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!

  2. ~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.

  3. “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!!!

  4. 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.


  5. Happy Mother’s Day all!

    Marie, intricate loveliness; Walt, bittersweet beauty…

  6. Home, Hearth, Haven

    I carry my home
    within me, memories of
    places I have loved.


    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.

  8. “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
    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.

  9. 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?

  10. 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.

  11. 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
    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

  12. 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.


    • 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:)

    • 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.

      • 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.

    • 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.

    • 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!!

  13. 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.

  14. 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.

    • 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.

    • 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.

  15. 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

    Home is not a place,
    a building, a map dot,
    it is you and our children
    that make this house

  16. Pingback: Coming Home | Awakened Words

  17. 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.

  18. 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…

    • …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. 🙂

    • 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.”

    • 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!!

  19. Pingback: A Peripatetic Life | Vivinfrance's Blog

    • 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.’

  20. 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”.

  21. 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
    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

  22. 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

  23. 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.

    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.

    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.

    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

  24. 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.
    Home, in the big city, is where my heart is.
    It’s refreshing.

  25. 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.

  26. 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.


  27. 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.

  28. 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.

  29. 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.

  30. “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
    through travels,
    this first dirt
    into a layer of bedrock
    on which
    you stand.


    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.

  32. 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,




  33. Afraid I took this prompt a bit too literally — introducing myself and my state to folks who might be unfamiliar with both! 😉


    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! :-))

    • “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! 🙂

  34. 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
    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
    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),
    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.


    • 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!! 🙂

    • 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.

  35. Tango Poem, ABCB rhyme. 4 line stanzas. Syllable count 9,10,11,12.


    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.

    • 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” !

      • 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.

  36. 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!

  37. It took me a few days to get here, but here I am! 🙂


    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

    • 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!!!

  38. 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.


    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.” !

  39. 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.

    • 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…”

  40. Pingback: Prompted Wednesdays: Scented Experiences « Through the Eyes of Meena Rose

  41. 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.

  42. 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.
    Building, clearing, mending.
    Under the sapphire sky, dirt in his jeans, working with
    Under the blazing sun working as a rancher
    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 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

  43. “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!

  44. 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.


    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.

    • Lovely poem, Paula. I am so very sorry for the loss of your stepfather. May his memory always warm your heart. Hen

  45. 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.

  46. 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…” !!!!!

    (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

    P. Wanken

  48. Pingback: Friday Freeforall: Join the Party « Margo Roby: Wordgathering

    • 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

  49. … and for cryin’ out loud, how are we going to choose only one bloom each to highlight tomorrow?! Oy …

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