a Favorite Place

A favorite place had not been a lucid stroll down a fashionable road.

Nor had it been a trinket I could honor with my mortality.

Nor could it be a light placed upon a severed tree, displayed in the melt.

A watered bauble…I cannot hold.

A favorite place strikes me as, everywhere I want to be, unintentionally.

It is not the curiosity that stirs me.100_1241

For I could not find a message in a bottle even with several attempts.

A favorite place strikes me as, everywhere I want to be, unintentionally.

 

We Must Get Home

We must get home! How could we stray like this?
So far from home, we know not where it is,
cropped-bridge-2.jpgonly in some fair, apple-blossomy place
of children’s faces…and the mother’s face.
We dimly dream it, till the vision clears
even in the eyes of fancy, glad with tears.

We must get home…for we have been away.
So long, it seems forever and a day!
And, O so very homesick we have grown,
the laughter of the world is like a moan.
In our tired hearing, and its song as vain…
We must get home!  We must get home again!

We must get home! With heart and soul we yearn.
cropped-woman-and-man-3.jpgTo find the long-lost pathway, and return!…
The child’s shout lifted from the questing band.
Of old folk, faring weary, hand in hand,
but faces brightening, as if clouds at last
were showering sunshine on us as we passed.

We must get home: It hurts so staying here.
Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear.
And, where to wear wet lashes means, at best…
When most our lack, the least our hope of rest…
When most our need of joy, the more our pain…
We must get home…We must get home again!

We must get home…home to the simple things…
cropped-imageedit_10_7365917179.jpgThe morning-glories twirling up the strings
And, bugling color, as they blared in blue…
And, white o’er garden-gates we scampered through…
the long grape-arbor, with its under-shade
blue as the green and purple overlaid.

We must get home.  All is so quiet there:
The touch of loving hands on brow and hair…
Dim rooms, wherein the sunshine is made mild…
The lost love of the mother and the child.
Restored in restful lullabies of rain,
We must get home…We must get home again!

The rows of sweetcorn and the China beans
Beyond the lettuce-beds where, towering, leans.
imageedit_21_7011298630The giant sunflower in barbaric pride
guarding the barn-door and the lane outside.
The honeysuckles, midst the hollyhocks,
that clamber almost to the martin-box.

We must get home, where, as we nod and drowse.
Time humors us and tiptoes through the house.
and, loves us best when sleeping baby-wise.
With dreams…not tear-drops…brimming our clenched eyes,
pure dreams that know nor taint nor earthly stain.
We must get home…We must get home again!

We must get home! The willow-whistle’s call,
trills crisp and liquid as the waterfall…
imageedit_206_7223608855mocking the trillers in the cherry-trees
and, making discord of such rhymes as these.
That know nor lilt nor cadence but the birds.
First warbled…then all poets afterwards.

We must get home and, un-remembering there…
all gain of all ambition other-where…
Rest from the feverish victory, and the crown…
of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down.
Fame’s fairest gifts we toss back with disdain…
We must get home…We must get home again!

We must get home again…we must…we must!
(Our rainy faces pelted in the dust)
Creep back from the vain quest through endless strife…
to find not anywhere in all of life.
A happier happiness than blest us then …
We must get home…We must get home again!

imageedit_80_4389937315We must get home! 

We must get home!

James Whitcomb Riley

 

 

Old Hippie, Old Hippie Songs

imageedit_11_9034959498

The human among the abode…Among us…So real.  So real.  As though, we would not know normal if it flew up, and slapped us in the face.

What an ugly word…flawed?

So caustic…yet, this house was built upon it.

Handicapped brick and mortar…stacked in the most irregular manner.

Inch by foot

Pallets of disability…covered with hairline fractures of pride.

As the years grow older and higher…there is still a dog and a cat…on the lawn.

Still, two old hippies on the deck…

singing the same old hippie songs.

t n b 1To run from the mess…now…

we would have to pack the home and leave.

All the bumps in the night

All the aches and groans in the wind…

All that normal tells us not to…believe.

https://youtu.be/NZtJWJe_K_w

 

Backyard Clarity

marching band clamoring

church bells with a twangimageedit_43_8842562016

night-owl Cardinals…preaching

serenity… a visceral sense of knowing,

‘this is where I am meant to be.’

never have I been overly religious in the partaking of…someone else’s god

awaiting the traveling chipmunk…this is where my faith belongs

attempts of whistling…mimicking the creatures who are serenading

winged beasts perched above me

unrestricted the renaissance

no matter the travesty about my weighted soul

I am brought into the fold…

backyard clarity

 

Going Home

No words from someone else made of pitch, sap and self-doubt.

Only the flower that fell from a wall.

Floating aimlessly to the ground.

She flowed over so slightly…into a nameless room.

She had come to take me home.

She had been in full bloom.