Second Story



This poem is
the place I live. It’s a shanty
by the sea, with a view of
forever. It’s a well
-weathered cottage
dotting a crimson sky. It’s

a penthouse suite, a one
-room apartment,
a periwinkle chalk cardboard
box on the corner of the street.

Ask me my address, and
I will give you this phrase,
the trodding of days in paper
skins, the
(trailer trash)
thin line that
curls ’round and finds itself
a place to be. Un

-zip my code and you’ll
see I am a transient soul,
a gypsy pirate wonder
-wandering the stars. I’m

thick with brick and mortar
scars, elm-stretched sketches
and fallen oak breeze.

This poem is where I hang
my way too many hats
and too few dreams. It’s a
noisy sidewalk and a silent
cathedral psalm, a cityscape
and a silver sliver scraping an
ebony sky. It’s a left
          (over)
lung and a forked tongue
and a scritching finger
lingering too long
on lost syllables.

It’s a flophouse and a
tree house and a tea house
and everything in be
-tween. An inky palace,
a castle made of stones
unthrown.

And every time I think
of leaving,
it whispers
welcome home.

 

Miz Q‘s got us off and running with another fun prompt today. Come play! 

 

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12 Responses to Second Story

  1. Gorgeous. I esp love “It’s a shanty
    by the sea, with a view of
    forever.”

  2. Edward Rinaldi says:

    This is the best casserole poem I’ve eaten in a long long while … home is where the heart is … fuck yeah poet … Love this thank you …

  3. tsdwords says:

    Once again, you have left me sated with so many wonderful turns of phrase, a full day of recess-wordplay…The sixth and seventh stanzas really snuggled into my solar plexus and shone brilliantly. The title is also fabulous. Still smiling. Thank you 😚

  4. julespaige says:

    Welcome home…our poems do!

    While fairly stationary for a bit I’ve moved over twenty times (or more)!

  5. ‘This poem is where I hang
    my way too many hats
    and too few dreams. It’s a
    noisy sidewalk and a silent
    cathedral psalm, a cityscape
    and a silver sliver scraping an
    ebony sky. It’s a left
    (over)
    lung and a forked tongue
    and a scritching finger
    lingering too long
    on lost syllables.’

    Where to start? This poem is brilliant, De. I keep rereading this stanza. Incredible use of words!

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