Windows broken,
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

Author: Darlene Franklin-Campbell

I am a poet, novelist and artist living in the Appalachian Foothills. I believe we are great spiritual beings on a journey through this physical realm. We are timeless entities stepped into time.

4 thoughts on “Homeplace”

  1. Nochipa

    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
    important focus

    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



  2. “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.



  3. 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.



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