PROMPT #299 – A HOUSE IS NOT A HOME

A prompt that came to me while watching my favorite show, House, M.D. 

We are writing about a house or a home. It could be a house we live(d) in, a house we wished was ours, a supposed haunted house … it might be our home and the people in it. There is a difference between a house (the building) and a home (the environment in which we prospered). Choose one about which to wax poetic. A house is not a home, but could make a great poem.

MARIE’S HOME:

Home is Where I Watch the Buckeyes with Dad

As August slips into the back side,
and daylight is squeezed
into fewer hours,
I miss the distant sound
of drum cadence,
bringing in a new season.
In just a couple weeks,
Dad and I would have had
our decades-long ritual
of gathering in front of the T.V.
and saying (as though it is a surprise),
“Can you believe it is already
the first game of the season?
Didn’t the season just end?”

It didn’t matter whose home we
were in,

until it did.

Those final years, he became too frail,
and it became harder,
and then impossible,
to get Mom out the door.
So we would haul food to their place,
and hope Dad could stay awake
and out of the bathroom
for most of the game.
We hoped he could enjoy it
a fraction of what he used to.

The lamp that was part of each home
Mom and Dad called theirs
now lights my front window
as I write poems
about football
and marching bands
and drum cadence
and Mom
and Dad.

Because poems
and their light
are all that remain.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

WALT’S POEM:

A HOUSE OF CARDS

Brick by brick we assembled
this life we’ve come to know.
Mortar provided strength,
but little else to solidify
these emotions. A devotion
cemented and inflexible;
an expected result of
living and learning
and burning all bridges behind us.
If they find us outlined in chalk,
the talk would be that we wore you out.
But I doubt your facade would crumble
as easily as that. Pointed and level,
every detail possessing its own devil,
dishevelling all your efforts
to build it better. Give yourself room
or your doom will be certain,
veiled by a curtain of doubt.
Maybe brick by brick is flawed
Each terra cotta block is rigid and hard
not like some wind-blown house of cards.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2020

Also, Happy Birthday to my wife Janice, today!