I Wanna Go Home


Looking around
I recognise everything
and nothing.

This is not home,
but . . .
I can think of nowhere
that is my native land.

With a shock
I finally understand
that I am lost in this place,
on this planet.

it is okay . . .
if I keep moving.

We cling to the hope
that one day
we will
come home.


November PAD: Day 6

For today’s prompt, think of a location, make the location the title of your poem, and then write your poem.

The Way Home


There is home.

The place from which you were wrenched,

that for which you have spent every moment searching.

Sometimes you are so close,

you can smell the heather

and the pine.

No amount of striving will take you there.

You must settle in yourself,

let go

and dare the drop.

Too much thinking

will obscure the path.

You can only find your way home

by trusting your heart.


Day Thirty

Prompt: Write a poem in the form of a series of directions describing how a person should get to a particular place.



For a quarter-of-a-century
this was my home.
Year by year
I seeped into every wall,
used my heart
to jump-start
the gentle buzz of life
until each room
was permeated
with the fragrance
of joy.
There were dusty shelves
and dirty windows,
unwashed floors
and unwelcome clutter covering every flat surface,
a multitude of sins
to the rafters.

Leaving was like
tearing a scab from a wound.

This house will heal —
but it will never
be mine


Frank is our host at dVerse today and challenges us to use a polyptoton somewhere in our poem.  A polyptoton is a stylistic device in which a word derived from the same root is repeated (like “Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Lord Acton).

We moved during the course of this year.  Need I say more?



Long days
imprisoned in tight takkies,
or bound in leather vellies,
the toes cry out in hot protest
to be freed.

Stumbling through the door
I head straight to the bedroom
to kick off the offending shoes,
peel off the damp socks
and slip the barking dogs
into soft, reassuring
sheepskin moccasins.





I do love my slippers!


Interesting notes:

*  The title “peddomus” is from Latin  (ped-) and means “foot”
and “domus” (also Latin) meaning “home.”

Takkies are what most South Africans call a rubber-soled canvas sports shoes (Americans call them “sneakers” or “tennis shoes” and British call them “trainers.”
“Vellies” are the nickname of “veldskoens” which are handmade South African leather shoes or boots.

The use of “dogs” to refer to feet is American.According to Tom Dalzell, author of “Flappers 2 Rappers: American Youth Slang” (Merriam Webster, October 1996), it was during the Jazz Age of the 1920’s that “dogs” was used as a noun to indicate feet.

coming home / home coming


Slowly, one foot in front of the other, she begins the last part of her journey.  And with each step, “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.”

She starts down Main, one bag on her shoulder, the other in her hand.

Agate.  Six roads. Main, 1st, 2nd and 3rd Streets, 1st and 2nd Avenue.

She hesitates. then grabs her belongings.

Suddenly the bus driver pulls over. “AGATE!” he hollers.

Wallce, Sharon Springs, Weskan, Arapahoe, Cheyenne Wells, Firstview, Kit Carson, Wildhorse.      Wildhorse!  Smaller than her hometown, if that was possible.  Four white buildings and a church.  Always a church!

As the towns became familiar, her heart beats faster.

Maybe she should just stay on the bus.  Ride to California.

Perhaps she should jump ship early.  Get lost again.

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.” repeats in her head like a gutter drip falling on concrete — slowly over time creating a water-filled hole.

Traveling on monotonous roads, time slows down so that each minute feels like an hour.  Each hour an eternity.

She prays she’ll find forgiveness.  She dares not hope for anything more.

The last words she ever spoke in that place still ring in her ears.  Words of anger.

She’s coming home.


NaPoWriMo — Day Twenty-Eight:  Write a poem that tells a story. But here’s the twist – the story should be told backwards. The first line should say what happened last, and work its way through the past until you get to the beginning.

I’m late with this poem.  It was handwritten, but I didn’t have time yesterday to type it out here.