door long gone,
yet flowered paper Momma hung
partially clings to the walls.
The banister still stands, winds,
but will never see
Christmas garland again.
There is no bed
in the room where I slept
and ghosts of laughing children
run down the hall.
I flinch at the phantom,
little girl gone,
did she live here at all
or was she a story child,
crayon on manilla paper,
yellowed by time?
First published in Pegasus 2004
4 thoughts on “Homeplace”
flinch is a good word
our rooms where we spent our childhood
and day dreaming the shape of the world to come
linger in the adult mind
and the absent bed in the room that’s an important thing
I like this its rings with those truths
and feelings we get from returning
listening to the ghosts of ourselves and the echoes of family
that once occupied the space
again like the slave hut
you capture the image in your eye and conveyed it
yes I swing with magic
“listening to the ghosts of ourselves and the echoes of family
that once occupied the space”
Thank you for understanding exactly the place from where this poem springs. They say you can’t go home again. I say we never really leave.
This one is my favorite ..but i truly loved them all..
Thank you so much. I am glad you have paid this piece a visit. I wrote it after taking a trek back to the home where I grew up and it was as if though the house was haunted by my past self.