And the word is...

[ampoule]

So......doesn't anyone have a new word for us?

[firefangled]

So......doesn't anyone have a new word for us?

If I may, in honor of your return, how about ... HOME.

[ampoule]

Yes, HOME. Thank you fire.

[Pendragon]

Where the Heart Is: Home

Down at the end of a short little block in town they call Maple Street,
There is an empty lot on the right hand side of the road.
I have all of my memories buried there always waiting, it’s my retreat—

As a boy in the 60’s the little white house there seemed like a treat,
As poverty-stricken as we were, at least we had a home.
Down at the end of a short little block in town they call Maple Street,

My mom raised three kids on her own sometimes wondering how to makes ends meet,
And I learned responsibility and how to hold down a job of my own.
I have all of my memories buried there always waiting, it’s my retreat—

How those old wooden floors resounded with pounding of happy feet,
My little brother and I, lost in our dreams and our fantasy tomes.
Down at the end of a short little block in town they call Maple Street,

We finally had to move away from there to an apartment complex from difficulty.
I was in the hospital at the time and when I was let go, I didn’t go home—
I have all of my memories buried there always waiting, it’s my retreat—

But the old house fell in the great flood two years later; we were safe as could be.
Stood and watched from across the river until the old homestead was gone—
Down at the end of a short little block in town they call Maple Street,
I have all of my memories buried there always waiting, it’s my retreat—

Pendragon
© 8/7/07

[firefangled]

Earlier the night long rain ended,
and now rises like watery ghosts.
Everything is muted with morning
as if morning is trying to recall
what it has been doing
and where it has been, and I
know from some old experience
not to speak. So my eyes whisper.

Sitting on the damp rock wall
watching the wet waffled empty
bench, I sense someone there,
but there is no one now.
The concrete walk shines, reflecting
nothing but indistinct sky, soft
and ethereal like a child’s hair,
distant lone trees and towers
stand like shadows in a darkened room.

On the walk is a brown long neck
bottle, its reflection sharp, another
bottle joined at the hip, the whole
making alligator jaws or binoculars,
through which I look this windless
gray morning, wanting to see
how distance found its way here,
wanting to find the lens that reaches home.

[CdnReader]

You have truly beautiful vision, firefangled. Thanks for this.

[CdnReader]

.
greeted with a warm smile
whispers of comfort and acceptance
easy communication in familiar surroundings
an acknowledgment of radiance shared
the peaceful luxury of being
myself

friends never met
keyboards only connect...
can this be home?

answers escape me
questions scattered in the wind
a breathless moment away

.
cdn/02jul06
.

[ampoule]

Footlocker

No burro, no horse, no ox,
but a wooden box of army-green
lopes along, carrying my treasures
from house to house,
but it is my true home,
that footlocker.

Father-built,
a baby girl playpen made room
to hold Tiny Tears and paperdolls
and books with golden spines,
and Mother said whatever fits,
you can take and the layers began.

A Chinese tea set with dragons,
Korean dolls from Father keeping peace,
a tiny silver and turquoise ring made
by roadside natives, lava rocks, and
a tearful note from a little friend
whose party I would miss.

Layers of photographs and stacks of 45 love,
with books by Uris, the love scenes earmarked,
and letter sweaters and yearbooks and ribbons
and trophies and poems and stories and books,
always books and love notes hidden,
all frosted with Grandmother's garden quilt.

Yes, like some luscious rectangular layer cake,
I imagine the contents turned out upon a plate
to make my mouth water as I eye all of the
wonderful fillings, just sweet enough with memory
and the right amount of teary salt and sprinkles,
sprinkles of color from all I have seen and done.

And as I look around this messy room,
stacked with papers and books, music and photos,
what would I choose today to fill that box,
and I know...Tiny Tears, paperdolls, books
with golden spines, a Chinese tea set, Korean dolls,
a silver and turquoise ring...all that, and a thankful heart.

.

[ampoule]

Earlier the night long rain ended,
and now rises like watery ghosts.
Everything is muted with morning
as if morning is trying to recall
what it has been doing
and where it has been, and I
know from some old experience
not to speak. So my eyes whisper.

Sitting on the damp rock wall
watching the wet waffled empty
bench, I sense someone there,
but there is no one now.
The concrete walk shines, reflecting
nothing but indistinct sky, soft
and ethereal like a child’s hair,
distant lone trees and towers
stand like shadows in a darkened room.

On the walk is a brown long neck
bottle, its reflection sharp, another
bottle joined at the hip, the whole
making alligator jaws or binoculars,
through which I look this windless
gray morning, wanting to see
how distance found its way here,
wanting to find the lens that reaches home.

I love those morning drip drops after the rain has just passed by.
And whispering eyes...how beautiful.
Home is where we are, right?
I love the buddhist saying, Wherever you go, there you are.

[ampoule]

Another word please. Someone, anyone, please choose.

[CdnReader]

Well, to follow "HOME", the next word is.....

Heart

[motherhubbard]

This is my first go on this thread, so here goes

The heart of the matter


Peel away the layers as if it were an onion.
I know the juices make you cry.
Maybe if you hold it under cold water
or cut off the root first
the sting will be lessened.
It is a hard thing to face the pain
or general discomfort one finds
at the center of their own personal universe.
What things are hidden there-
secrets, lies, fantasies, ambitions, longings?
Peal away each thick layer and examine it.
Is it fodder or fit for your consumption?
Once you have revealed the heart.
hold it up for all to esteem
and chew over the sweet juicy center.

[CdnReader]

.

“Keep that door closed!”
the heart shouted back.
“Don’t you know any better?”
And he stomped off,
in search of a stronger padlock.

.
cdn/10feb07
.

[firefangled]

It is a hard thing to face the pain
or general discomfort one finds
at the center of their own personal universe.
What things are hidden there-
secrets, lies, fantasies, ambitions, longings?
Peal away each thick layer and examine it.

What things, indeed, MH. Beautiful beginnings for this word.

Psssst! I am cheating and writing this at work. I will tell them you have encouraged me to, if they ask. They won't ask. I am the strange writer with hawk feathers hanging on his computer screen. It's good to be strange.

[Pendragon]

Heart was the word, correct. This one may be too personal, and if you think so, PM me, and I'll remove it. OK?

Feeling empty again…


Forgive me if I sound bitter
I’ve tried so hard to understand
I know your job is important
And that things can’t always go as planned
But I just came through hell again yesterday
And I can still smell the flames
And here I sit again alone
I’m not saying you’re to blame
It just seems that when I need you most
Other things always get in the way
I can’t fight this battle all alone
I just don’t have the strength
God knows you’ve been more wife to me
Than I ever will deserve
I’d never have made it half this far
If you hadn’t helped to heal the hurt
Oh, but I wish and long to be together
To feel that magic once again
To feel the pain get chased away
By your fingers on my skin
To gaze into those deep green eyes
And fall in love with you all over again
To feel the brush and taste of your sweet lips
As you tell me I’m your man
Oh dear God it’s so hard—
Feeling empty again…

Pendragon
© 6/25/05

Heart out on the sleeve, perhaps, but heart...