"homebound" poems
The heart’s not homebound
Wanderlust soul seeks to travel
Through the enormous universe
Feel the harmony of cosmic energy
This heart wants to travel beyond
Like an unburdened soul, with valor
Veer away from the usual path
Prepare for the eternal travel
Multiple destinations and one purpose
To enter the wormhole of space
Traveler always and enjoy the cosmic circle
Whirlwind of a tour of the vast eternity
The heart’s not homebound
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
The air was crisp and clean and clear,
The huntsman knew his time had come.
He gathered all equipment and gear.
Then shined and polished his gun.
He took a step, his boots polished black.
To his tiny little wife he blew a kiss back
Off, he was, to capture his prized buck.
She waved goodbye wishing him luck.
He got to his post, stood there and waited.
Patiently, with his traps he had baited.
For a time he remained quiet and still.
This kind of game was his kind of thrill.
Lo and behold, with rage and adrenaline
A perfect opportunity made its rise.
He steadied his rifle, an expert marksman.
He shot the young buck between its eyes.
In a moment it was done
And the huntsman had won.
The poor creature had no chance to fight.
It had fallen to the earth
No cry made it's birth
A silent victim in the night.
Time had come for homebound journey,
With the sun setting on both heads.
Only one of them back with family,
The other became family's dread.
The huntsman took his brand new trophy
And hung high the brown skinned creature.
Hand in hand with his wife he stood boldly
"I was the one to end this ******
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
Here come Jupiter child,
You can hear the flowers crying as they plead for her to stay a while,
She just collided with and intergalactic asteroid,
But things were only created never destroyed,
In the dark cool tunnels she found some pretty moon shrooms,
sheltering growing seahorses wrapped in loose water droplet cocoons,
Now towards earth you hear her come,
Within the clouds she beats her tribal drums,
The ocean sways and swells to the time of her rhythm and sound,
Reaching deep into the sea forest to whales traveling homebound,
She wears stars framed in turquoise,
Like the kokopelli she gives birth to planets with grace and poise,
Here comes Jupiter child, dread locks wound with comets,
extracts from the universe, she mixes matter-less tonics,
Recipes rooted deep in wizardry,
she borrows knowledge from indians and aztecs to cure all misery,
Her meteor showers made of her salty tears,
Are earth's dream catcher, snaring all nighttime fears.
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 10:01 PM UTC
Two walks at the park
Leisure strolls on her ground
Watching squirrels on tree bark
Before I turn homebound.
Today while passing along
On them my eyes fell
One in a bush alone
A little away another squirrel.
I wondered in my funny caprice
If they have ever had a chance
To exchange warmth and good wish
Or they haven’t met even once.
A little more daring in my whim
I thought the distance for them too far
So she roamed alone dreaming of him
And he unknowing forever seeks her.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
The drip drip drip of the Nespresso machine keeps me company.
I watch the brown pool rise and rise, filling my cup.
I take a sip, flinch unconsciously. It is bitter and scalding.
The cool foam coats my top lip.
No one is awake. It is 4am. I shouldn’t be awake.
Still, I am.
I will be nineteen in nineteen days.
This is not how I imagined my nineteenth; though my birthdays never really go the way I expect.
This is not how I imagined this month, this year.
There are worse things than being homebound; there are also better things.
I am trying to reconcile the existence of the two.
I am lucky enough to be (almost) nineteen.
To be safe
To be healthy
To have a home
To have a stable family income
I am unlucky enough to be (almost) nineteen.
To be mentally ill
To be isolated
To feel useless
To have a family spread thin
The two can coexist. I am lucky (and unlucky) enough to see this.
In nineteen days, I will be nineteen. Few people will know unless I tell them. There are bigger things to consider in the world. There are smaller ones too. I lie somewhere amid it all. I am just a girl— a faceless, healthy girl— amid a world of strife. The sun will rise, I will turn nineteen, and it will set; I doubt I will feel any different. The world will keep turning, with or without me. I am lucky (and unlucky) enough to recognize this.
Quarantine has provided me a bit too much time for introspection, I think.
My coffee is finished. The brown drops on the cup’s bottom resemble a smile. I am lucky enough to notice this.
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 12:16 PM UTC
I am but a rose of beginning green,
imprisoned to darkness all day,
within a monumental fiend,
who covers up the radiance that I want to give away
Occasionally a small opening would be sewn
into the darkness' fiery grasp
and your pure radiance could be shown
concealed in a kindhearted mask
Share your light with me
and for you I will light the way
wrapped in an unfamiliar livery
prepared for our intimacy till the end of our days
We will cross waters on a homebound stretch
and become fuel for our endurance,
so beautifully etched
I'll take my chances, following the sun
the garden we grow
means that together, we are one
Share your light with me,
and forever I will stay.
my petals can become your livery
we need each other, I daresay.
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 8:51 PM UTC
Homesick or just sick
Unsettled by the clock's tick
Thinking of posters on my wall, of furry paws in my face
Longing for familiar footsteps in the hall, for discussions of grace
I want fangs and feuds and cutthroat nights
Not to look over my shoulder between homebound lights
Homebound, not for months and seasons
I want to call but I have no reason
Even my imagination left some things behind
They lived at home though I thought they lived in my mind
Now I feel truly alone
But who wants to hear untroubled youth moan?
Not sick for home but sick for my friends
An empty ache I don't think time can mend
And I won't feel better locked in this new room
Knowing I'll be gone when hometown flowers bloom
December, holidays, so far from home
For a frightened foolish freshman who wanted to roam
Afraid to move forward and out
Terrified whispers and tears masked by shouts
Same album plays again and again
Hoping some peace will find its way in
Maybe
If I just take the clock off the wall
Time would stop, or go back, and we'd forget it all
Tie our highway hopes tight with small road ropes
And collegiate walks back to high school talks
Could I dream
Awake
Alone
With you
I know it's true
But I can't imagine that you're lonely too
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC
that place with comforting as theme overriding,
essentials of dream, complex, shelter, cocoon,
which/whether, almost irrelevant,
if and or,
don't matter when you are at home,
light, fierce sun rays eyes filled,
moonlight stars invading one's composure
now!
time
to alight, feet on the grounding,
rain,
pelting, not an inhibitor to the poem
in me, its resonating drumming me up,
to a beating, a lyric, a thyme of rhyme,
fragrantly repeating in my head, home,
home is where the flagrant poems are
born, delivered by no midwife, from
the ***** of my entirety, all five sensoria,
commanded by multiple generals on
different battlefields, coordinating a
battle plan, exhale, attack, coordinate,
brain, eye, smell, movement, urgency,
taste, words gushed, light emitted from
the fingertips, you cannot write as fast
as required, you, self, afired, and afeared,
losses will be greater than expected, but
no matter when we carry the tide behind
us, sweeping the obstacle of ego, pinging
pain, the hesitation that collapses courage,
oh god, oh me, be brave, lead me into the
breach,
the hole, the aperture that will allow a totality
of me to exit, to escape, to compose, p r o p o s e,
the confines of my uncontrollable uncontained
unconscious natured being and fervent annouce,
on this day,
*this poem shall be
written in its fulfilling, exiting fulsomeness,
&
entirety,
and let me rise, raise up, lift and shout,
one more last time, like the first time, praise and glory,
hallelujah to the parts of me that gifted me this
poem in-the unity-of-unison, uncensored, un~
inhibited and finalized momentarily perpetual,
with an amen amendment offered up too all and to
me…
amen, amen, amen
and let us rise up to morrow and once more,
write up to ride to birth the essentials of my next
homebound
be-ing
Aug 18, 2025
Aug 18, 2025 at 5:15 PM UTC
*Under the banyan few bamboo stalls
Baskets of garden’s produce
Whiff of fresh fish from fishing trawls
Buyers the sellers amuse.
Brinjals and pumpkins papayas and gourds
Small catch from neighborly streams
With buy and sell exchange few words
Alike a sketch seen in dreams.
Small things small price wish don’t soar high
A few coins to relieve bowel’s pain
Will do enough to let the hopes fly
No need for too hard bargain.
Will be left behind not all will be sold
The fragrance of freshness will stale
They won’t rue hearts of true gold
Having learned this hard fact too well.
Some hours spent when shadows grow dark
Sun decides to recline in west
Wind up they all under moon’s arc
Happy souls homebound for rest.
Sighs the banyan long standing witness
Pains it the quietude of stars
Holds it through dark watches endless
Coming and going of pedlars.*
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 7:17 AM UTC
Listen:
it’s 3AM and your heart feels like a gear
that slipped the track.
Or the sunshine smells like honeysuckle
and its the most perfect day of the year
but the knuckles of winter close on your throat.
This is not a new story. Some women can’t
find a good man.
The intellectuals, the homely homebound
finding nothing but silences, theirs and that of
God (or someone that goes by His name)
Anyway, He’s not on the other line,
your prayers spread like ripples,
skimming, only reaching the surface.
Some women are cursed by Eve and her
****** want to know, you know?
No. Eve was a ***** or a saint,
nothing more, not a woman with a real ribcage housing
a real blood heart. Some women can’t find a good man,
but she had two and chose neither and
that is her curse.
She found herself naked and embarrassed
and Adam was a fool with nothing to say
and she was embarrassed by him too.
When lo, the angel of God cursed her *****
from which she birthed ****** and cowardice.
Some women can’t find a good man
and nights seem like the barrens of Eden
with fruits that birth flies and rot on the vines.
Remember, sister, our mother who from out
of Adam was born then cursed to his side.
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 4:04 PM UTC
"gravity has taken better men than me
just keep me where the light is"...John Clayton Mayer
where the light is...
this lyric gets carried from midnight to midnight next,
from troubled sleep to the bus stop, to and from work,
onto, back to, the homebound bus stop once again,
from solitary man to father to grandfather and cycles back
to once again a troubled sleeper poem writer,
who just wants to know, John,
when I find it, will, does the light fill, complete and heal the cracks...when I find that light...
in the city, starlight been banished by street lamps pointed downward, far too often it is believable that the whole world has been wrapped in white crinkled, filmy, wax paper, then,
how will the light know where it is needed most,
how will it find the empty chest cavity that writes these lines
there is real and artificial they say, nature vs. man made,
sun upon the face that heals for but an eight minute
bandaid summer ferry crossing, the fluorescent that says here, here is the bus stop, tarry, sit and rest, while you wait for
answer unscheduled, on a bench beneath to the street light
that illuminates a small swatch of street
between the dark spots on the x-ray of
this patient patient's soul awaiting,
are either of those
the light I need John?
no worries man, I'm just teasing, well knowing, neither of us,
tables turned, know where the light is, up high, down low,
if it is yellow or gold, if light is real or imagined,
only the sensation of the curettage needed to be healed when the
chest drained and the light supplants the drained fluids,
when it interferes, interpolates, how it found me or I it,
how I recognized it, how it reignited the home fire, and
I'll drop you line how light, lightly to find or be heavy found,
how light supersedes, defeats, the gravity of daily tugging,
and how what happens afterwards is golightly
up to us
2:10am **** it
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 2:21 AM UTC
Mister Mumble Plight in vain ironed his tie dry-cleaned his hankie several hundred times spent his life eating his three hundred dollar caviar from his three hundred dollar caviar jar
As he goes out on a world that expects nothing of him than expectations from him for as loong as he remembers opens his anti-UV umbrella on a fake sunny morning Mister Mumble Plight
Mister Mumble Plight on his quest to do everything right
All deeds done correct I just wish it follows the rest
Mister Mumble Plight
Mister Mumble Plight don't fail us now cuz the earth stood still as it gave us your frown please cover your stab wounds Mister Mumble Plight
Mister Mumble Plight homebound again his bag bound full of paper and knitted tie on a fake programed day lurks fake programed rain
On his bag hung the Awkward Arachnid with limbs shihivering cold evidently bearing a burden twelve years old
"But Miss Awkward my hands won't be of any help" Plight plead "but a trade-in is not what I acquire but it is to lead these feet into paradise, Mister Mumble Plight"
As the spider walk towards the end of the tunnel Mumble's steps involuntarily forward and as the blur clears out flowery patterns of bluets and daisies Mumble blabbered as his eyes never thought it sees to see the day.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
*Come brother let’s sit under memory’s canopy
Walk down olden times chatter childishly
Forgetting the ravaged mind the years’ tempest
Retrieve the tender moments in heart's youthful jest!
Come brother let’s hold hands like the days of yore
Walk down to find that house knock on its door
It must still be standing in the sun whitewashed clean
Waiting for us to go back dig out treasures within!
Come brother let’s go back to that half-lit classroom
Where the walls bear our scribbles the blackboard our gloom
The air still must breathe there our voice and hidden sigh
Unmended is the windowpane through which we stole the sky!
Come brother let’s go back to our childhood’s playground
Where small feet kicked dust at day end turned homebound
It craves our splashing touch contemplates the placid stream
The two that no more come remembered only in dream!
Come brother let’s once more take that precious ride
Tug each other’s heartstrings bring out the child inside
Forgetting the weathered skin the worry beaten face
Go hunting for the lost treasure of unshackled happiness!*
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 4:02 AM UTC
In these strange lands I deposit my sleep
into a small percentage of the neat twenty-four boxes in which I can make a memory.
The clock runs 24 instead of two swings of 12.
I wish it could all be black and white
not Greenscale.
In the movement of the long white snake through the ocean of soft hills,
they glide up and down like a bloated wave in the See.
I stare blankly in disbelief at the rows of wise buildings.
As if they are unreal, like a theme park.
Rivers quietly saw through the hard earth
knowledgeable trees gather at her banks.
Vast and soft.
Green clouds of leaves.
And the airplanes slice through the heavens
leaving a trail of white blood.
Raging with accents of gold from the sun.
As she makes her journey to you, westbound, southbound, homebound.
Her last fingers of light drizzling inside me like golden syrup to sweeten the foul, rotten darkness that feasts on my starved love.
But I shall find sweet redemption, in these strange Femdlände of my blood.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
Stretched skies and vast spaces
Erase my name from society,
And mosaics, trigonometry, and fractals beneath
At my feet in time become simple and empty.
So with distance, their powers are diminished,
Finishing off the last busy thoughts to my name.
And the explicitly raw material world disconnects
objects of connection to my world and within this plane.
Shut off from the rest of the world, time wasting,
Tasting the distinct flavor of being in time out,
Awaiting a landing that may or may not be homebound,
Undrowned, within the stream of consciousness’ drought
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 2:43 AM UTC
It’s gonna be a long, long road / with too many minds / too straight and too narrow, / narrow. / I know that together we are a big ship to turn, / and it happens slowly, one heart at a time, / but I am convinced / that we can either cut through these waves of change coming our way / to timeless truth and changeless grace / or be swept away by the currents.
I know that culture tells us we need to pick a side, / to claim the ground beneath our feet and fight, / but I refuse to believe that people are my enemies. / This is not a war of flesh and blood, / but of powers and principalities. / How long will we continue to point the finger / and fail to take our own hearts into account? / I believe we are being deceived / by this mess inside our chests.
I know that I am a prodigal son, / and I like to tell myself I’ve had my fill of filth / but the desires haven’t gone away. / I know the feeling of going to bed every night, / thinking “God above, no. Amen,” / the name of Jesus too painful to speak, or / sobbing in the basement of a coffee shop, / praying, “All I want is one kiss!” / A kiss on the cheek, / a kiss on the lips.
But I know / that to this day I’m living with my Father / because he’s constantly convincing me to stay, / singing, “You are my son; / you are not my slave. / You are not my slave.” / And it’s uncomfortable, / but I’ve learned the secret of facing comfort and pain, / abundance and need; it’s Christ, / who makes a home out of me / when none of my homes feel right. / God, you are my hiding place and not this closet / or these secrets! / I’m resting underneath the shadow of your wings / and not the dark, looming clouds of fear!
I know that I want this word / tattooed in black ink on my heart: abide. / I in him, he in me, / because I desperately need it to be true. / It’s the thought that will be endlessly written through my life like poetry. / Every rhythm of life, / every half or perfect rhyme, / every break / at the end of a line / is according to the purpose of a Master Poet.
I know that English only goes so far, / and so grace will be my second language; / every word pronounced by this flaming tongue / will be from divine vocabulary, / redemption and redefinition. / My eyes will be open, and yet my arms will be open; / my heart will be open, and this, / this will be my proclamation: / “Orientation / is a beautiful word, / it means not where you are, / but the way you’re facing.”
I know / it’s gonna be a long, long road, / and though I am weak / still I will follow, / follow.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
You’re hijacking
my dreams and
forcing my reason to
walk the plank and
yet you hide your
jolly roger behind
a beautiful curtain
of handcrafted
self doubt and
insecurities.
It’s almost a cruel
joke that I’ve already
cut my wings to
daydream with the
stars, wishing for
sleep, but never finding
an ounce in this endless
sea of silent background
noise spiced with mint
and sage and bergamot.
I just hope that
my words will keep
me company enough
to not be lost among my
ever shifting thoughts and
anxiety driven panic attacks.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 12:00 AM UTC
Left alone to wander
Down the black stone road
Gushing, splintered, homebound
Spinning from the fall
Tightened, tinkered, totaled
Forced to reconcile
Is a call to arms in order,
Or is this just a trial?
Patched by panes of forgiveness
Light seeps through the blinds
The hurt is not well hidden
It’s just a matter of time.
Swelling, steaming, simmer
It flows over the brim
Caught by common courtesies
Stifled by general decency
Animalistic glances
Looks of sheer desire
Civilization is not well organized
Let’s set the ******** on fire.
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
I was returning
Home
Yesterday
Along the walkway
Through the paddy field
All set for reaping.
As usual
It was dusk
You know
I don’t go
To the paddy field
Except in the evenings
An evening
Of a day
Suffused with
Sighs, monotony
And unpleasant jobs.
In the middle of
The daily
Skyward incantations
“Whom do I have
To claim as my own”
Got bored
Thinking about
The number of times
I have been doing the same.
You know
That boredom
Makes me miserable
Facing
That ripened paddy field
I lighted yet another cigarette
For a moment
Had plans
To set
The crowless
Heaps of hay
On fire
Imagined
A cigarette
Resembling a bundle of hay
Suddenly
You walk
In front of me
Trance like
Unaware of paddy stalks
Chatting to you
Or the two homebound mynahs
Passing comments at you
A leaf of the coconut tree
Sang a song
About you
You weren’t listening
Or seeing anything
You were the swiftness
Of a deer
Leaping
From one life to another
You were walking
The world expelled
Out of you.
Amidst the tenth puff
In the interval of a sigh
I saw you approaching me
You didn’t talk to me
Or show signs of seeing me
You are about to pass me now
And quite unlike you
You had your hair, ******* and face draped
By a shawl
No, that shawl
Was not violet in color
I hadn’t seen
Such a
Forlorn
And distressed walk
In any of my
Past lives
I realized that
You were crying
While walking
I saw
The seeds of your tears
Fall and germinate
In the walkway of the field
I feared
It would grow
Into a forest
You are leaving
Without a backward glance
My melancholy
Where did you go
Yesterday
Leaving me
All alone?
translator : Shyma P
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 2:07 AM UTC
(i only hope that it won't be so sad)
somewhere, in an empty row of trees,
that you still exist
is a truth that i cannot believe
and like the gentle sway of foxtails in the wind,
it is a truth, that can be seen
yet cannot be felt by the heart
when i was young i would squint my eyes and watch
those faraway hills, bobbing in and out of my vision
and as if to say
those faraway days will never return,
the hills in my pillowcase
are easy to see and
ever so close
...
when i close my eyes i begin to dream, what is not a dream but a spring that will one day come to me, and in that spring, looking to find again that empty row of trees, is a scene where i turn my head to home, and unlike some melodrama i can feel the sorrow on my face meanwhile i stare and stare and stare with my heart, yearning to feel something that cannot ever be seen, and that is just like the gentle sway of foxtails in the wind...
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 12:39 AM UTC
I awoke in the morn and walked to the shore
But the sea was faraway, could be seen no more
The abandoned beach stretched far as the eyes
None else was there, it was lonely sunrise.
There was no wave crowning the beach
The sea seemed vanished by a vengeful witch
My disappointment I could barely hide
I was supposed to be on a lovely seaside.
The wind though swept my face
As if to soothe and calmly redress
My discontent at the barren shore
Seeking a sea that was there no more!
Though crestfallen I was not homebound
Rolled my trousers, climbed the sands’ mound
And then I heard the casuarinas whisper
‘We’re here as the waves’ murmur’!
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
When bog water steals her wings’ day-smell
Comes the night heron to roost on the marshy night.
I have often caught her lost in the dim orb of moon
Got a whiff in the wind of her fishy smell
That says the night is not yet old
Her feathery dreams still unripe,
But like a philosopher in thought shy
The winged wonder would at my slightest hint fly
Leaving on my homebound way a trail
Till the moon reclines the night turns pale.
I wonder what thinks the night heron
In the stillness of the boggy night,
Is it her day’s catch and contentment
Or some way to carve a place in the starry firmament!
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
sitting silent in the dark of the night
watching ferocious dustbunnies ending the
days work in the mindmines of corners
homebound they chant merrily as
they swirl towards the safehaven under
furniture only scared when awakened by
the sound of the vacuumcleaner but not tonight
tonight we let dustbunnies live their own lives
only sitting
and watching
dreaming that nothing is too much
too much is nothing
enough nothing and you wish for change
change change change in the corners
cornered we all seek a way out
or a way in or just away
up up and away we sway on stacks of hay
down down down on the farm of striped
grassiron eating stardustplasma for breakfast
wearing fenominal hatlike feathers in
the colours of the rainbow
of long gone heroes
from other times
time
tim
ti
t
.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
She wanted to go home, back to stars. No more lonely boulevards and loud cars. No more expectations and broken promises. Just back to the place where her heart wasn't heavy and her soul full of darkness. Where the wonder and magic still tingled on the tips of her fingers, and no gravity pulled her down to the cold reality of the world. Just back home. To the stars, where the planets belonged to her and twirled around her, pulling her hair gently with care, and her future yet untold was still promised a galaxy of love, wonder, and no more pain.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
I was healed so I climbed and I left the abyssin the shadows still dark demons dwelledI was homebound at first then betrayed with a kissand from hell and from heaven expelled
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 7:51 AM UTC