"homefront" poems - Hello Poetry

Oh, the many feet that have trod these stairs. White, red, and brown. Walking, running, skipping, down and up, up and down. Runaway slaves hid ‘neath the ‘case waiting for that friendly voice to say the coast was clear, and they could travel father north or stay in the village near. The soldiers with their rifles, going off to fight. Women left on the homefront, comforting children through the night. Happy times, sad times, through oh so much. These stairs have carried families up and down, down and up.

0

Sep 2, 2015

Sep 2, 2015 at 6:43 AM UTC

cathy-hoff

Stairs

Oh, the many feet that have trod these stairs. White, red, and brown. Walking, running, skipping, down and up, up and down. Runaway slaves hid ‘neath the ‘case waiting for that friendly voice to say the coast was clear, and they could travel father north or stay in the village near. The soldiers with their rifles, going off to fight. Women left on the homefront, comforting children through the night. Happy times, sad times, through oh so much. These stairs have carried families up and down, down and up.

20

a brief confession: until now, i have written my best friend into a storybook heroine, untouchable and our friendship one of puzzle pieces falling in place perfectly i love her beyond words and love makes you romanticize everything but i want to show the truth because incredibly, it is even more brilliant sure, we have the happy story of meeting in summer camp, bonding over crafts and a shared love of books and in most ways, what we have is simple and pure and obvious but in all honesty, our true bond was not born in beauty or the sunlight it was born ****** fighting, and dangling by its umbilical cord over a bottomless abyss see, we were first stitched together in battle opposite sides of a wound that drained us of tears and dark poetry emptying pens stolen from a slate-eyed boy whose skin never seemed to be fully closed we were surgery in a brightly lit, white-walled classroom taking turns as his dialysis machine until one day, we finally looked up and realized he was stealing all our oxygen on the homefront we were dissection victims, perfectly preserved insides laid out for the world to see so that no one would think to look for the secrets hidden beneath our sharp tongues we were ***** donor and receptor, and she gave me bone-marrow strength in return for my rib-cage to cradle her overworked heart both of us breathing heavily from the same pair of tired lungs we were bandages on each other's wrists, painfully tight tourniquets to keep our souls from leaking out with the blood we were interlocked fingers between our deathbeds and silence on either end of the telephone too afraid to speak the truth aloud but even more afraid of hanging up instead letting our quietness drown out the silence other times, we were barely contained sobs in a 2am voicemail we were long periods of no contact passive-aggressive silence bottled anger that was too heavy to carry for long over reasons we no longer remember yes, our connection was held together by bruised knuckles, scarred skin but though it was often ugly and rough and messy it also saved my life

0

Dec 30, 2015

Dec 30, 2015 at 4:33 AM UTC

alyssa-yu

scar tissue

a brief confession: until now, i have written my best friend into a storybook heroine, untouchable and our friendship one of puzzle pieces falling in place perfectly i love her beyond words and love makes you romanticize everything but i want to show the truth because incredibly, it is even more brilliant sure, we have the happy story of meeting in summer camp, bonding over crafts and a shared love of books and in most ways, what we have is simple and pure and obvious but in all honesty, our true bond was not born in beauty or the sunlight it was born ****** fighting, and dangling by its umbilical cord over a bottomless abyss see, we were first stitched together in battle opposite sides of a wound that drained us of tears and dark poetry emptying pens stolen from a slate-eyed boy whose skin never seemed to be fully closed we were surgery in a brightly lit, white-walled classroom taking turns as his dialysis machine until one day, we finally looked up and realized he was stealing all our oxygen on the homefront we were dissection victims, perfectly preserved insides laid out for the world to see so that no one would think to look for the secrets hidden beneath our sharp tongues we were ***** donor and receptor, and she gave me bone-marrow strength in return for my rib-cage to cradle her overworked heart both of us breathing heavily from the same pair of tired lungs we were bandages on each other's wrists, painfully tight tourniquets to keep our souls from leaking out with the blood we were interlocked fingers between our deathbeds and silence on either end of the telephone too afraid to speak the truth aloud but even more afraid of hanging up instead letting our quietness drown out the silence other times, we were barely contained sobs in a 2am voicemail we were long periods of no contact passive-aggressive silence bottled anger that was too heavy to carry for long over reasons we no longer remember yes, our connection was held together by bruised knuckles, scarred skin but though it was often ugly and rough and messy it also saved my life

42

On the Highway, on the Hill–are We there yet?– makes the Town look like a playset. First time out in forever, the Valley looming, the homefront receding, this van cruising. Man, driving together in the mornin', each waking with an industrial potion– caffeine yaknow gets workers workin'– celebrity talkin'–what We've all got in common.

0

Apr 27, 2014

Apr 27, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC

anthony-brautigan

First Time Out

On the Highway, on the Hill–are We there yet?– makes the Town look like a playset. First time out in forever, the Valley looming, the homefront receding, this van cruising. Man, driving together in the mornin', each waking with an industrial potion– caffeine yaknow gets workers workin'– celebrity talkin'–what We've all got in common.

8