Home is Where, a poem

Poetry doesn’t come easy to me. I can’t crack off a haiku as fast as I might a 50 word story. My poems aren’t mathematical and the only ‘metric’ I know is the beat and rhythm dictated by my thoughts and words. Yesterday was a hot day in Dublin. It was also the longest day of the year, the summer solstice, an important day for me. This poem woke me at dawn and by the time the day ended, so did the poem. Written, or scribbled, in a notebook, I waited until this morning to type it. I will post it once, for five days, then it’s gone. I ask my WordPress friends to help me out and comment. It’s called Home is Where.

Please note: the original poem has stanzas but WP, for reasons best know to itself and despite several edits and updates, excludes them. So, dear reader, please imagine there is a break and each verse begins with ‘Home is where’.

 

 

Home is Where

Home is where
your first and lost loves linger
the scent of Cusson’s Imperial Leather
and lavender, like a silken scarf
curls and twines around your head,
her marshmallow touch,
teasing your memory.


Home is where
fresh baked bread and apple pie,
 jams and jellies, all cooling
in the afternoon’s mellow light,
greet you coming there
when school is out
and saffron yellow butter melts
on a fresh cut welcome scone


Home is where
dreams are born
waking in the morning sun,
fresh and frisky,
brimming with light and hope,
unfettered by failure,
treachery or disappointment,
ripe and blooming with possibility.


Home is where
memories fragment,
like packing boxes,
broken, confused,
their contents lost
while you search for a thought,
a hook to hang a hat.



Home is where,
past follies, misdemeanours
and careless adventures
echo down the streets and lanes,
tip tap in your footsteps,
flit through the shadows,
in the corners, out of sight,
in your mind’s eye.



Home is where
brooding menace waits,
the bogeymen of childhood terror,
with menacing patience
until childhood play abates,
there, in the shadow under the bed
and behind the wardrobe door,
slightly ajar.



Home is where
the slap of tiny feet
on a kitchen floor,
telling you home is where you’re happy,
but there’s no notch on your compass
to point you there.