A House

The calm of the field
glares an emptiness back,

against the window
neither aghast nor sure,

the sun turns
a million blinding
ears of corn

to face this house
which may not be home.

The floorboard's sweaty wax
of childhood
are exposed,

the carpet now stripped
in my prodigal absence.

And if the scent of
polish decays
to reveal the dust of
wasted years;

where is the mop
that would wash?

How many windows
need be opened?

This may never
be understood.

Apart from love,
this house hums
to the tune
of stale wine and blood;

soaked through its roots,

into the ancient clay.

About This Poem

Last Few Words: Childhood, memory, sometimes an ideal, sometimes not.

Review Request Intensity: I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back

Editing Stage: Editing - rough draft

About the Author

Region, Country: Tasmania, AUS

Favorite Poets: Glen Richards, Thomas Hardy, Phillip Larkin, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Carol Ann Duffy , Ani DiFranco, Seamus Heaney, Emily Dickinson, T. S. Elliot

Comments

scribbler

7 years 11 months ago

memories

such fragile things and so often they are frangible too. "to face this house which may not be home". Most excellent statement of one not always being the other.........stan

vandiemenspeak

7 years 11 months ago

Thanks Stan

Small tinkering. i won't change much here, pretty happy.

Thanks for the feedback.

Geezer

7 years 11 months ago

a tale from the dark-side. I felt a familiar emotion, hard to describe, but easy to recognize. Must have been pretty hard sometimes. Your use of words, the tone and pace that was set, made this a good read. ~ Gee.
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