On The Places I’ve Called Home

Grimy ghettos,
graffiti-graced brick walls the only chance for beauty.
Parents just survive and “don’t know where that girl has gone!”
Cats rummage in alleys where big boys bully babies
until there are no more tears,
and iron missiles fly like kites for a passage of rite.
For you can not become a man without a
notch in your belt::
Death dodges a bullet.

Uppity suburb,
artsy district with history
of American legends
both in writing and french fries.
Famous artists and architects,
fine dining and paintings
where nobody is anybody unless
you sing/act/dance/paint/write;
I run because::
I. have. no. talent.

Burrowed hobbit home
in the middle of dairyland,
bringing rabbit’s escape to
Alice so that she can preserve her Wonderland.
Crystal forests,
leaky roof,
smell of growing mold
and all that is green and thriving::
I grow; out of reach.

Busy ‘new money’ sprawl
where no one dares their hands touch
brown earth or soapy water.
They pay ‘people’ to do that.
And “it’s so hard to find good help these days,
don’t you know?”
And though my face may be falling
I prefer jowls than knife to skin
and to money spent on self and an image
I’ll never catch up to::
because it was never mine in the first place.

In ordinary
middle class
spring has sprung and
carries with it songs of
lawn mowers and robins,
radios and roaming children
whose parents aren’t afraid to let their
hands get dirty::
all the while intoxicated by barbeque.

I cannot afford the riches of my former life.
When I lived on Easy Street.
They are far too expensive.
For they bankrupt me from
smelling fresh cut grass that I’ve mowed myself
and squeaky clean dishes
which my middle-aged, middle-class, middle-of-the-road gloveless hands have wiped free
from what was left behind on plates that I’ve filled with home-cooked food,
from a kitchen I clean myself.
This past plunder keeps me from neighbors who sit on
the porch even though it’s far too cold,
but who look for community just the same.

This is where I’ve found home.
I much prefer
the life of common –
But it may not be where I stay.
Only time will tell where the path may lead.
They say that home is where the heart is.
But a remnant of my heart is left in each place,
And a remnant of each place is left in my heart.

linking with d’verse Poets

and my dear Emily: center>

29 thoughts on “On The Places I’ve Called Home

    • Lisa, you are so very kind. I could never write the way that you do either…you always bring such truth from God’s Word. Isn’t wonderful how He’s made each of us unique?

  1. This paints a picture…and how all the places we traveled…lived…bring us to where we are today…and where we will still be traveling. blessings to you~

  2. In all the places I’ve lived, I have learned that home is truly where Christ’s presence dwells. And in each place, I long to come home to Him. This is just lovely Kim, really. Your imagery and the way you tell the story of place, so good.

  3. Kim, I’ve got goosebumps here. that was beautiful.
    I’ve told my hubby hundreds of times. I can live anywhere and thrive. For this world is not my home anyway. And though I leave some behind, my heart will keep its residence…

  4. Thanks for the “word tour” of so many places and people. I think I like your present home best–fresh cut grass and all. But I’m sure all those places have made you into who you are today, kd, and for that I’m grateful. 🙂

  5. this is so good. i LOVE your voice in this piece. truly. i hope to keep reading your poetry. every time I do, I draw closer to you 🙂

  6. THis is so so so well written! I traveled every place you spoke of, and I contemplated my jowel and my image and what I can keep and what I can afford. I think this is beautiful. Retweeting! (she said with her fist in the air :))

  7. Oh I loved this. The imagery – the rhythm of the words in my head. “… an image
    I’ll never catch up to::because it was never mine in the first place.” That just keeps echoing truth to me.

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