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 |   Poems written for PPC 3 - 52 prompts, 52 weeks, 52 poems |
I went down our street yesterday. The trees that once were too young to be climbed, whose wispy arms barely covered our heads, now cast new shadows - throwing their silhouettes on every white vinyl-clad house. I felt lost where once my feet ran bare through tender grass, slick and green or tip-toed over the searing asphalt having memorized each sidewalk crack, and home was the house you built a security that I took for granted. All those Saturday nights sitting cross-legged on the floor you in that old recliner something “wunnerful, wunnerful” happened on a polkaccordion. Now strange cars sit in the driveway. The people who fill our spaces have other stories, other trees. Old neighbors moved or dead now, I wasn’t prepared for this transformation. You laid the bricks for the front steps in nineteen-fifty-two. The work of your hands undone piece by piece. It’s a sharp heart cry. I awoke to the expectation of my bed, the birds, the sounds of my street - but those I left in night visions. The tears stayed in my eyes. I can never go home the emptiness would swallow me. Written for "Promptly Poetry Challenge (2024-2025)"  Week #10 Your poem should be inspired by this prompt word: HOME What does 'home' mean to you; a person, place, or something else? Required Form: none Required Line Count: minimum of 8, no max |
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