Where Home Is

home is different to us all.. answer to a Paradise challenge

for many years ‘down home’ meant

my grandma’s store where I was sent

to spend a day a weekend or a week.

a place where everything was antique.

there was a single bare bulb for light

but grandmas heart was always bright.

 

fifty years since I was there last

and twenty years since grandma passed.

my mind’s grown yare to cope with this.

I sometimes miss my grandma’s kiss.

 

my parents bought a brand new house

but there I was made to feel a louse.

I’m sure I must have called it home

but feel I lived there all alone.

for thirty years it’s belonged to others

and if asked and I had my druthers,

 

I’d not go back and re-live my pain.

real or imagined there’d be no gain.

my mind’s grown yare to cope with this.

I can think of nothing there I’d miss.

 

 

Fran and I stayed in an apartment.

our marriage was a hurtful stint.

Kay still lives in her nice place

but that marriage was just a case

of mutual false identity

or maybe too much energy.

 

relationships that made me feel bad

did not make my home feel glad

my mind’s grown yare to cope with this.

without these two my life is bliss.

 

now I’m married to my true love

and it’s easy to thank the Lord above.

for thirty five years we’ve moved to often

and in that time I’ve learned to soften

my opinion of myself and that of others

and to judge all people to be my brothers.

 

now I find that I’m at home

even when my body roams.

home is where my heart is gay.

I’m here to say that’s not cliche.

Reviews

[Nick Erickson]

Well done!
The one bare bulb at your grandmother's place - missing her kiss, really brought out the wonderful imagery in this poem, the feeling of... home. I've moved a few times myself, and just like you've summed up, "home is where the heart is gay".
Again, well done!

[Cold Coffee Magazine]

Bravo, PapaEd. This peice echos of your past and I sense the pain you've dealt with. Missing your grandma's kiss really touched me.

Don't we ll have that grandma or grandpa we miss? I know I do. My grandpa was a story teller like me only better. He was friends with Bill Elliot and raced go carts when he was younger. He died of heart attack in 89 at the the age of 79. His brother was a story teller too. Every one called him Smoky but his real name was John. He died this past year.

I truely appreciate your writing and sharing this not only as your friend but also as your peer.

Dave