Here is my Where I'm From poem, such as it is. any thoughts are welcome.
The house I’m from sits empty
Except for a few feral felines.
The huge oak pocket doors no longer part to reveal
the magical Christmas tree ensconced in packages
my grandparents’ color TV (the first in our family)
my budding showmanship that was not yet encumbered by embarrassment
forts made of card tables, couch cushions, and hand crocheted afghans.
They hang silent.
The kitchen no longer bubbles over with
the laughter of mis-measured Christmas recipes
(a lot more math than I wanted to do for caramels)
Depression era ham salad made from bologna
Manual typewriter keys pecking out first affirmative constructives and negative rebuttals
Gentle reminders of too much salt, too little time.
The staircase no longer
Conceals the secret stop on a railroad without tracks
Rings from cleats that weren’t supposed to be worn in the house
Clicks beneath Sunday shined shoes
Reveals the truth about Santa
I wonder if that mysterious lady in yellow still ascends it,
now that the house is a fading apparition too?
And yet the lilacs, lavender and white still grow in the backyard they were transplanted to years ago.
Their fragrance wafts through the skeleton of the home, filling the spaces that a family left.
The house I am from is now the home to a different family
The sculptured rose-taupe is gone
So is the danger of losing traction on the steep steps it covered and going down “the fast way”
And the crevice to wriggle through the time the sleeper sofa opened as it was being moved upstairs
Along with the impressions of the upright piano, the place of torturous practice
As are the stains of red Kool-aid spilled during Saturday cartoons
that covered the stains from more mature beverages from the night before
The little window where shouts would tell friends the coast was clear
now offers a baby his first views of the world
Its loose pane that rattled in the terror of the spring winds is now triple-pane secure.
It no longer offers access to the ancient cherry tree that was access to the garage roof late at night
It no longer vibrates from late-night conversations that consisted of only dots and dashes
The light mint exterior has blush pink, aged to gold, and now turned white
The parking lot that extended the backyard into an icy snow mount is as empty as the factory beyond
The rails that brought the thrill of danger and promise of hobos derelict too.
The pond that held the goldfish won at fairs is filled with dirt and peonies
The horses still clip-clop by pulling the plain people to the worldly wonders of town.
And yet the lilacs, lavender and white still grow in the backyard they were transplanted to years ago.
Their fragrance wafts around the home, filling the spaces of another family’s life.
The house that I am from is about as far from the house I dreamed of as it could possibly be.
The brick and asphalt softened by millions of little green hearts and pink blossoms
The library overlooks the homes of families I meet at church.
The side door swings open to
Shouts of “howdy” and drawn out “hiiiiii”
“Y’all come back” “Y’all come over.”
A table where there is always room for one more and the only sin is to not have too much.
“Don’t you want some” [plop} “more?”
Thirty pounds of homemade fudge and white chocolate raspberry torte
“Do you share your recipes?”
“Not that one, but…for you…well”
Guileless love from a plain spoken woman
It is guarded by a chocolate and black panther, or so he thinks.
The terror of robins and blue-jays
He has trouble getting traction on the kitchen floor
The front door opens only to visit in the rocking chairs on the porch
What is front-door company?
It is surrounded by blue grassy hills, not glass and boxes of concrete and steel
And yet the lilacs, lavender and white still grow in the backyard they were transplanted to years ago.
Their fragrance wafts around my New Kentucky Home, filling the spaces with memories.
The house I’m from sits empty
Except for a few feral felines.
The huge oak pocket doors no longer part to reveal
the magical Christmas tree ensconced in packages
my grandparents’ color TV (the first in our family)
my budding showmanship that was not yet encumbered by embarrassment
forts made of card tables, couch cushions, and hand crocheted afghans.
They hang silent.
The kitchen no longer bubbles over with
the laughter of mis-measured Christmas recipes
(a lot more math than I wanted to do for caramels)
Depression era ham salad made from bologna
Manual typewriter keys pecking out first affirmative constructives and negative rebuttals
Gentle reminders of too much salt, too little time.
The staircase no longer
Conceals the secret stop on a railroad without tracks
Rings from cleats that weren’t supposed to be worn in the house
Clicks beneath Sunday shined shoes
Reveals the truth about Santa
I wonder if that mysterious lady in yellow still ascends it,
now that the house is a fading apparition too?
And yet the lilacs, lavender and white still grow in the backyard they were transplanted to years ago.
Their fragrance wafts through the skeleton of the home, filling the spaces that a family left.
The house I am from is now the home to a different family
The sculptured rose-taupe is gone
So is the danger of losing traction on the steep steps it covered and going down “the fast way”
And the crevice to wriggle through the time the sleeper sofa opened as it was being moved upstairs
Along with the impressions of the upright piano, the place of torturous practice
As are the stains of red Kool-aid spilled during Saturday cartoons
that covered the stains from more mature beverages from the night before
The little window where shouts would tell friends the coast was clear
now offers a baby his first views of the world
Its loose pane that rattled in the terror of the spring winds is now triple-pane secure.
It no longer offers access to the ancient cherry tree that was access to the garage roof late at night
It no longer vibrates from late-night conversations that consisted of only dots and dashes
The light mint exterior has blush pink, aged to gold, and now turned white
The parking lot that extended the backyard into an icy snow mount is as empty as the factory beyond
The rails that brought the thrill of danger and promise of hobos derelict too.
The pond that held the goldfish won at fairs is filled with dirt and peonies
The horses still clip-clop by pulling the plain people to the worldly wonders of town.
And yet the lilacs, lavender and white still grow in the backyard they were transplanted to years ago.
Their fragrance wafts around the home, filling the spaces of another family’s life.
The house that I am from is about as far from the house I dreamed of as it could possibly be.
The brick and asphalt softened by millions of little green hearts and pink blossoms
The library overlooks the homes of families I meet at church.
The side door swings open to
Shouts of “howdy” and drawn out “hiiiiii”
“Y’all come back” “Y’all come over.”
A table where there is always room for one more and the only sin is to not have too much.
“Don’t you want some” [plop} “more?”
Thirty pounds of homemade fudge and white chocolate raspberry torte
“Do you share your recipes?”
“Not that one, but…for you…well”
Guileless love from a plain spoken woman
It is guarded by a chocolate and black panther, or so he thinks.
The terror of robins and blue-jays
He has trouble getting traction on the kitchen floor
The front door opens only to visit in the rocking chairs on the porch
What is front-door company?
It is surrounded by blue grassy hills, not glass and boxes of concrete and steel
And yet the lilacs, lavender and white still grow in the backyard they were transplanted to years ago.
Their fragrance wafts around my New Kentucky Home, filling the spaces with memories.
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