Today’s prompt takes us to our comfort zone – home. Write about home past or present – yours or someone else’s. There’s home plate, home base, home run… anything home will do.


Come Home (Sonnet to Immigrants and Refugees)

So, at what point does one decide to flee
the land where fruit and spice speak Grandma’s tongue?
Where generations of their family 
breathe music, art, and song as through shared lung?

This land (their land) where memories are made:
The land that births their children’s love of life,
where laughter laughs, and prayers-in-sync are prayed,
with rooted norms for husband and for wife.

At what point does their home feel foreign-born,
so much so that they have no choice but leave?
How long ‘til all their colors wilt war-torn?
How long until their soul does naught but grieve?

At what point can one let go of what was,
to feel at home in land of unlike flaws?

© Marie Elena Good, 2022


An unfamiliar place with no trace
of anything you can recall.
So many thoughts and ideas
given birth as your mind unearths
sorrow with little hope for a tomorrow.
Webs cobbled in fine silk
milking memories from misty midnight menageries.
Windows to the world, a soulless place
replacing what once was held dear,
here where love blossomed
and generations of sons 
and daughters grew in tune.
Airy, left in decadent decay – 
a shell of better days
ghosts of confiscated youth 
ripped from the grip our longing hearts
by upstart degenerates and renegades
where as children we once played.
Zombied now and denigrated to
wait for a wrecking ball or an overhaul.
In dreams you find your mind returning,
yearning for what long ago was your domain.
In dreams you can certainly go home again,
but why would you want to?

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2022

101 thoughts on “PROMPT #395 – GOING HOME

  1. My home?
    This place is not
    It’s just temporary
    A stop before the eternal
    A life between the dashes

  2. Home is
    Where the heart is
    It’s where you hang your hat
    My home is my sanctuary
    My fortress against the world

  3. HOME

    Home is where the heart is,
    or could’ve been.

    There was always food
    on the table. Roof over our heads.
    Clothes on our backs.

    There was a chilly neglect.
    A cool distant love.
    Harsh stone cold justice.

    There was demanded respect.
    Faulty rocky ground.
    Hands that didn’t hold back.

    Home is where the heart is.
    True memories of miseries
    once lived you’d like to forget.

    We heard things a child should never hear.
    Witnessed things a child should never see.
    Endured things a child should never bear.

    © Benjamin Thomas

  4. Home

    The home I love
    Is no more….
    All those that made
    That home
    Crossed over the waters
    To the home…
    My soul longs for…
    But I hear the gentle words
    “Not yet… there is more
    For your purpose is not done.”

    I feel the tears cloud my eyes,
    As all I want is to feel the hugs of joy
    When I crossover, but I am left here…
    For what my days will bring me,
    Longing for a home again.

    I don’t think of this often…
    Except in the dark of night
    When my body is more an enemy
    Than my friend, and I want the pain
    To lessen, but I am a warrior,
    And warriors face life,
    And each morning I do.
    I go on.

    Today I miss a friend…
    She was a kind loving valiant fighter…
    Smiling when there was pain.
    Laughing more than crying.
    I know she is home,
    And pain is behind her.
    The hole in our lives after she left
    Gapes open, and only time
    Will close it partly,
    For those that love her
    That hole will never really close.
    Until they finally cross over, and
    She meets us on the other side.

    Give me strength today,
    I ask, and know it will be given.
    For hope is always there
    A guiding crystal light
    Within my soul…
    Leading through the day before me.
    Leading me always
    To my final Home.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    July 17, 2022

  5. Home

    I have lived in many places
    From Colorado to P-A
    With fifty states and some countries
    On vacations along the way

    In the deserts, mountains, valleys
    Along the ocean with its foam
    I have come to the conclusion
    That where my toothbrush is, is home

  6. Almost Home

    It’s Sunday morning again, once more,
    time to open my spiritual center door,
    no longer driving to a physical space,
    making it work at home, my perfect place.
    Struggle and strife are left at the door,
    I’m centered in peace and love and so much more,
    choosing which service with each little tap,
    finding wisdom and joy with my pad on my lap.
    I do miss the feelings the sanctuary brings,
    the smiles, the hugs, the community things,
    but until the world heals at some future date,
    it will be my home where I pray and meditate.


    The trouble with a football field
    is goals at either end,
    marking places to attack
    and places to defend;

    and basketball is similar
    and so with soccer too:
    everything is back and forth
    with little else to do

    but scurry here and scurry there
    in hopes to score a goal
    or cross a line or chuck a puck
    into a netted hole,

    and always with some violence
    or some sustained aggression,
    as if the contests were but war
    and victory, suppression.

    It must be lonely, playing games
    on pitch and ice and court
    where one is always changing sides
    just to defend the fort.

    In baseball, on the other hand,
    all share a common ken,
    for only on a baseball field
    can all go home again.

  8. Marie, your sonnet is a masterpiece, in my opinion, comparable to Emma Lazarus’s sonnet at the Statue of Liberty.

  9. Marie, you sonnet was achingly beautiful, and just perfection… and it touched me deeply…

  10. Best Buy at the Drive Up

    He no longer
    drops his head
    on the steering wheel
    and sighs as his tears
    sogs his Big Mac
    for these Friday
    are now as routine
    as the teen
    at the takeout
    who knows
    without asking
    that he needs
    four catsup packs
    to make it
    through the fries
    and onto his coke
    his ex-wife
    no longer looking
    over her shoulder
    as they drive off
    his kid’s head down
    already absorbed
    into his Mac tablet
    without so much
    as a gif good bye

  11. walt your poem is haunting and i think those words will haunt my mind for a little while.

  12. Summer in Ames

    A voice inside said,
    come, come back
    to place where
    my college years
    I left college
    in Cedar Falls
    for the summer
    where I rarely
    felt at home
    for a more familiar place,
    and I was reborn.
    Six others and I stayed
    in the fraternity
    working summer jobs.
    The quiet bars near campus
    and familiar places
    echoed memories
    of the bustle
    of fall and spring semesters.
    But now I sought
    a sense of peace.
    The sun reflected on sidewalks
    that crisscrossed
    the university campus
    journeys taken
    of myself and others
    to discover who we were.
    In the midst of classes
    and changing measures,
    I found my place
    in life.
    But now
    the voice that said transfer
    two years earlier
    called me back.

  13. Varied Places Called Home

    Brooklyn, the cradle
    that rocked me as
    I grew. For years,
    the only place I knew
    to call home.

    Later, I traveled,
    mostly within
    the States, and one
    trip to Italy
    I will never forget.

    While it is true
    that our country
    is divided, and much
    healing is needed,
    I think about,
    and watch news
    from Ukraine. Whole
    country of people
    who only want peace
    in which to enjoy
    their home. How I hope
    they will return
    to their land
    and rebuild
    from the ashes.


    Home lies in between these walls.
    Hard evidence of lives lived to the fullest.

    A variance of shoes interspersed along the
    shoe rack and floor, and back door.

    An assortment of size, style, and colors worn
    to adorn the feet that have come and gone.

    A plethora of feet that have taken refuge upon
    upholstered couches reinforced with comfort.

    Relieved from bearing the weight of the world,
    by the structure of home bearing them in return.

    House plants sharing the same care, air, breath
    inhaled and exhaled by the whole family.

    Home lies in between these walls.
    Lives well lived to the fullest.

    © Benjamin Thomas


    Home is where the heart is.
    Heart is where the home is.

    Home and heart.
    Heart and home.

    Inextricably linked,
    you can’t have one
    without the other,
    or find one alone.

    They are one and
    the same. Even though
    they appear as two, and
    have different names.

    Home and heart.
    Heart and home.

    Apparently they are
    different, but they never

    ©Benjamin Thomas

  16. Enough

    She homes in on how it’s never been
    about a building or a town
    not the termite-ridden four room
    where she grew out of her childhood
    her dime allowance hoarded against
    the hope of a doll at the pie-suppers
    that ended in a grape soda, drank too soon

    and not the bed-sit of those first
    college days or the cement block apartment
    in Mexico City where she dried her Kleenex
    on the foot rail of a borrowed bed
    as she sipped Dos Equis with the abuela
    wondering what she’d do after she’d quit
    her job; the boss’ hands pawing at her
    as he made his crude demands the cost
    of employment so she’d taken the blue bus

    leaving or coming or just moving on the way
    she’d moved a few times in between:
    the brick ranch, the cedar-sided split
    the modular that was really just
    a glorified double wide; okay everywhere
    if you didn’t look in the mirror too closely,
    passing the PTA tests and gracing the weekly
    pew at the local church with the in-laws

    But that one time she discovered what
    home could mean off the Gulf Coast
    where liquid language not her own
    slipped from her tongue as she sipped
    an espresso and tried to capture feeling
    so free as she recapped climbing
    the sides of the sleeping Orizaba
    its ice-cone shimmering in the winter sunrise

    with the sky for her roof she felt herself
    the way she vaguely remembered in what
    she’d come to call the before time
    those few years when she’d dreamed, hoped
    before she learned the meaning of futility:
    so many costume changes, the garish makeup

    but in the dawn dripping with the scent
    of purple bougainvillea, fresh bolillo and
    steaming tortillas she’d shed it all
    like the iguanas sluffing off old skin
    eyes blinking in the bright light that
    invited her to stay and be even though
    she knew she couldn’t, too late

    for that as she toed a brick newly swept
    by the old man and his twig broom
    but then and now it was enough to have known
    just once, what it meant to call somewhere, home.

  17. HOME IS…

    Home is….

    Where the pen is.
    Where the order of words
    is milked onto the page.

    Like the sweet essence
    of the cow’s gift to the
    thirst of masses.

    Home is….

    Where the heart is displayed—
    in sonnets, haikus, the lyrical
    delight of free verse for days.

    © Benjamin Thomas


    My home away from home
    is void of the rigid confine of walls.

    It has open windows to the halls
    of nature’s kitchen—baked in summer’s

    The humidity caked in beads of sweat,
    evidence of the season’s recipe.

    The distant thrum of a lawnmower’s
    effective rotor.

    The disturbance of air permitting breezes
    by passing cars nearby.

    The too-close-for-comfort buzz of wings
    aimlessly looking for things.

    The chirping of bird chatter gossip amidst
    the presence of a battalion of trees.

    The clatter of a displeased child aiming
    for a well wearied mother.

    A home without the rigid confine of walls,
    but blessed open windows to nature’s feast.

    © Benjamin Thomas


    My home lies in the mood
    of unpredictable roads.

    Evading the chains of permanence,
    riding the coattails of the
    beast of change.

    My home, though buck wild,
    only has one lane.

    Driving home—wayward,
    scenic, home is never the same.

    © Benjamin Thomas


    While mucking out the scattered slops
    she stops
    to contemplate all living things
    and sings
    of everything that brings a thrill
    she thinks she even could arouse
    the cows;
    but no amount of singing makes Jerome
    come home.


    I love it, here at home,
    upon your lips.

    Set upon the mountaintops
    at the height of the clouds.

    Your dress dense with particles,
    cloth your nakedness.

    Make it rain down to the valleys,
    into deep ravines and flowing streams.

    There—a storm of will, shadows, ecstasy
    and pleasure of thunder.

    Where there is no more covering of cloud,
    but loud rains upon the earth.

    Watering the seeds that stays hidden
    in the comfort of dark soil.

    There is a plethora of bloom, lush green lands,
    and wildflower after the storm.

    © Benjamin Thomas

  22. Marie, an outstanding sonnet, so heartfelt and so true.

    “Webs cobbled in fine silk
    milking memories from misty midnight menageries.”

    Walt, this is one finely tuned poem, with imagery so vivid.

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