In memory of my grandparent's place, torn down when I was a teenager. The only place that felt like home to me.
A life's journey spent at many unfamiliar places. A childhood lived amongst the shadows of strange
walls.
Ears often hearing the echoes of empty rooms.
Soon moving on to another unfamiliar place.
A whole life spent moving place to place.
Never staying long for the heart to belong.
Once there existed a home.
A home familiar to the heart.
A tiny white house with a cement porch and
metal posts.
Small rooms with wooden floors.
An old swinging screen door.
A weeping willow and a giant sycamore that
were familiar friends.
A humble place that was not much compared to
other homes.
To a child's eyes and heart.
It was the only constant in a life of hardship.
This place was the inspiration of childhood
imagination.
This home sowed the seeds of a poet's heart.
The only home ever known.
Years ago it became the empty echo of a
childhood's end.
To stand without life.
To be tumbled down and tossed away.
Only the sycamore is left as a relic of dreams
now fulfilled.
That child is now grown.
She still dreams of that old place.
The heart still not belonging to any place.
In her dreams that only home still exists.
In her dreams the only place to belong.
Can your heart belong to one place so
completely that when that home is lost, you will
mourn over it like a lost friend?
That you will continue to dream of that place all
your life?
Poetry by Amy Buchanan
Read 734 times
Written on 2006-09-15 at 05:16
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The Only Home
A life's journey spent at many unfamiliar places. A childhood lived amongst the shadows of strange
walls.
Ears often hearing the echoes of empty rooms.
Soon moving on to another unfamiliar place.
A whole life spent moving place to place.
Never staying long for the heart to belong.
Once there existed a home.
A home familiar to the heart.
A tiny white house with a cement porch and
metal posts.
Small rooms with wooden floors.
An old swinging screen door.
A weeping willow and a giant sycamore that
were familiar friends.
A humble place that was not much compared to
other homes.
To a child's eyes and heart.
It was the only constant in a life of hardship.
This place was the inspiration of childhood
imagination.
This home sowed the seeds of a poet's heart.
The only home ever known.
Years ago it became the empty echo of a
childhood's end.
To stand without life.
To be tumbled down and tossed away.
Only the sycamore is left as a relic of dreams
now fulfilled.
That child is now grown.
She still dreams of that old place.
The heart still not belonging to any place.
In her dreams that only home still exists.
In her dreams the only place to belong.
Can your heart belong to one place so
completely that when that home is lost, you will
mourn over it like a lost friend?
That you will continue to dream of that place all
your life?
Poetry by Amy Buchanan
Read 734 times
Written on 2006-09-15 at 05:16
Tags Home
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
