Between the Cracks

Home is in the cement cracks,
the ant hills and lizards retreat.
It lies in the cement cracks
and the parched wood
of an old porch, torn down.
It smells of rot and mildew
as cobwebs thrive
in corners, entwined
with curling paint
and memories.

Home, an ambiguous word,
at best an alabaster dream.
Pink shades like the dress
and a memory I can't
place beside red geraniums.

It is an over ripe fruit
that drops, drips juice
from wasp stings
and the lingering
Sense ~ of what?
Home, I hate the word
as I untangle
and chop wood
to burn on ancient ashes.




Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2009-05-17 at 13:08

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NicholasG
Home can be a lot of things, and not always home.
Maybe it's just a placebo for what comes before :-)
xox Nick
2009-05-17



As I read your poem, I see the starling out on my balcony railing. He (or she) always pauses there before the final jump to the roof where "home" and a nest full of gaping mouths await the unfortunate worm in its beak. Those cobwebs were once home for some crawly creature; the rotting timber from the abandoned porch is now the termite's castle; and ants traverse the corridors of the cracks in the cement. I guess home doesn't have to be a structure at all. As an old adage used to express it: Maybe it's anywhere we hang our hat.

I like this poem very much. Like so many good poems, it seems to imply much more than the words express. And it's cool the way you sort of surprise the reader with the phrase "I hate the word....". It's startling and thought provoking since the word home usually has comfy, positive feelings.
2009-05-17