Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
clem-cPoems
Growing up was not in the spoken word of the country of origin, parental choice was the language of the country of birth, lost were the years when learned idiomatic expressions would                                        now be automatic, as growing would have it, one language was enough, and was lavished, while the parents, moved and moved, to a hockey town, with a mountain named, after the color of blood, and another mountain, like Granite. All that has been lost, drags behind, pulling toward home, tongues and time, both lost on this life, cities and memories out of reach, the pity. travelling home alone, with only strangers to greet you, treating you, like a visitor, who knows better, once you say your last name, flames of memory lit and rekindled, the smile either stays or vanishes as they embrace or banish, who your Ancestors were to them, lost on the city history, tongue spoken a foreign exchange, eyes down cast never focussing, like you did locusts bring and they carried a little of the past, each one a story with as many exaggerated, laughs as honest chuckles, and your will buckles and you admit, this place is my home
0
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
Lost Cities and Languages
Growing up was not in the spoken word of the country of origin, parental choice was the language of the country of birth, lost were the years when learned idiomatic expressions would                                        now be automatic, as growing would have it, one language was enough, and was lavished, while the parents, moved and moved, to a hockey town, with a mountain named, after the color of blood, and another mountain, like Granite. All that has been lost, drags behind, pulling toward home, tongues and time, both lost on this life, cities and memories out of reach, the pity. travelling home alone, with only strangers to greet you, treating you, like a visitor, who knows better, once you say your last name, flames of memory lit and rekindled, the smile either stays or vanishes as they embrace or banish, who your Ancestors were to them, lost on the city history, tongue spoken a foreign exchange, eyes down cast never focussing, like you did locusts bring and they carried a little of the past, each one a story with as many exaggerated, laughs as honest chuckles, and your will buckles and you admit, this place is my home
Red and Granite
clem-c
Written by
clem-c
Norwegian
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem