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Poems On / About HOME  2/6/2016 12:24:53 PM
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  197.     

A Stroll Home

A Stroll Home

It’s time for the night to lay,
It’s darkness upon the day.
Strolling home alone, again.

All the stores have closed,
An empty city has exposed.
Strolling home alone, again.

Nobody around at all,
To watch the snowfall.
Strolling home alone, again.

When the sirens ring the silence does shatter,
All the Mexicans boys do scatter.
Strolling home alone, again.

With a heavy stink on my breath,
No hope and no money left.
Strolling home alone, again.

Listening to Shane cry,
I dream of a western sky.
Strolling home alone, again.

And when the sun begins to ascend,
My journey closes and comes to an end.
Strolling home alone, again.
 
peter francis

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  198.     

Infancy To Clarency; Womb To Tomb

but, truthfully, we are never without home, in the larger scheme of things. and, perhaps the definition of home changes within each indefinitive moment; within the consciousness of our own dilemmas, our own surroundings, our own individual definition cloaked behind each word.

i erupt in the light of day, tuning slowly through each complete home freebase station. i fold to good graces, a sucker for elegant words; beautiful familiarity seeps like sludge through distraut corneas. it bores me. this city is my wreckage...idle hands. infancy to clarency; womb to tomb, i covet my Mother's intense idolatry. born into belligerence, i seek the life most loath because of distrophied diagnoses.

i am the impoverished monkey dining at the wheel of fortune; i perpetuate the umbillical cord of dominance; days stacked like pancakes before an overstuffed belly; releasing the resurrection of my treetop, star-spattered, freedom fall to beggar's chance; in simplicity's hands; within God's fan club incubator.
my home is where i am as free as possible from the nonsensical malignant tumor of society's lasting imprint. hard to conquer freedom in lawful territory; when the chip's monitoring whether or not i went to confession.

my life is plagiarized from different sources, and i hope that the instances i take from ideas constantly morph magnificent; welding together and breaking apart in different ways to keep my everchanging mind the epitome of chaos. ideas rejecting one another; combining and creating wisdom within my home base, attic space continuum.
home...
i wonder if i'll ever find it in this life. i staged hope as lead in this play; backed by integrity's willpower.

fear of homelessness is the fear of the unknown. we aren't taught to fend for ourselves in the wilderness...we are taught literature, writing and mathematics instead. we are taught to fear what we don't know, what we do know, and what we have no experience with.
impoverished, beggar, homeless, bag ladies...all words to keep us in need at the threshold of the television screen or the mall doors. home in this society is any shopping mall or convenience center-kwik trip for instance. without things we become nothing according to this mentality. dirty is bad; although, science has found that there is a bacteria in dirt that helps depression; nature is our refuge and cities our slums; our back alley abortion tollways...they rent wire hangers on the on ramps...usually only to abort the brainy figure in the dimlit aquarium. they bogart it in their conspiracy theories and mass murder epidemics.

it should be a choice. those who choose to be nomads should be able to take advantage of the opportunities and lessons Earth has to provide; those who choose eternal poverty inside the gates of heaven...so be it. but let us choose in which way we decide to define 'home'...without force or persuasion.
the future is coming...and i stand before it, arms spread and eyes peeled. ready to embrace catastrophy.


horizon's sunrise address slips west
continuous exertion
lavendar cast-away
drip, slip, fade
 
rhiannon fisher

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  199.     

Lost And Found

Like the lost boy’s of peter pan, like the lost children of our generation. Like the lost slaves of our ancestors, like leaders of our world. Lost

The lost boys always had their home their refuge their one place that was not lost like they were but found. Some people could say it was their unity that was their home. Some people might say it was their home in the tree. A place they could count on to be there. I say they found their way through Peter Pan

The children of our generation find their home and refuge through drugs, phones, other people, being “cool”
Where is their home their refuge. Where is the found to their lost? Where is their safe place?

The slaves who ran, and ran, and ran got lost of course, got captured of course, and also died on their way to their happy ending their peace and refuge their found in the world of lost. But to me their found was their spirit, and faith and hope

Lost and found to complete opposites yet one can’t exist without the other.
Lost. Then found.
 
Joi Till

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  200.     

Blue Home

Sea, if only you knew how I miss you
you'd come and take me
gently while I'm asleep,
you know I regret it, every time I leave you
blue blue home, take me home
let me fall asleep on your waves
wash my body and my face
breathless I am, my blue home
take me Sea, take me home
this dirt, this sin, this love is making me a sinner
take me home, my blue love,
I am only good when I'm home
on the waves, there's my bed
my light are the stars
you sing me, o lovely whale
I hear your voice...
beg the sea, my whale, to take me home
to my blue blue home!
 
Arta Krasniqi

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