A house perched
On solid foundation
Provides shelter for a generation.

Homes aren't made of brittle bricks,
Wanning woods or crumbling stones;
You can't raze a well-built home.

A divided house will not stand,
A listing castle on shifting sands.

The peaks, dales and family travails,
At home are not abnormal,
They're common and diurnal;
Yet the undaunted home prevails.

Your house comprises various rooms
For eating, sleeping, and mundane routines.

Homes furnish rooms with smiles and tears,
And gatherings throughout your years,
To be shared or on one's own,
The choice is offered,
You're not alone.

Houses grow proud, though gratifying,
With amenities truly satisfying.

Homes swell with smells of love,
The sounds of children snug above,
A sense that all is safe and sure;
This day has given more than enough.

Houses get tidied, cleaned and aired,
Decorated for special affairs;

Homes are fingers, toes and hair,
Hampers, dishes, and underwear.
Its doors lead to who knows where.
Doors to let you out;
Doors to let me hear
When you're back again;
Welcoming your return.

Homes fill us
With memories
Houses never will.

We were in the eagle's chariot
A collection, all of us
We were riding the eagle's chariot
every last one of us

The earth was a cartoon sphere
With silly farm squares
Drawn there, and drawn here
  We were zooming into,
We were focusing upon
hills and hamlets
of my verdant youth.



The Light
The sky was in two. The light behind us. The light of June 21st. The longest light.
The light of 8:46 pm. It becomes antique light at that point, light that should not be around Light stolen from somewhere. Pleasant and eerie.
We were retreating from that light.



We flew westward on the eagle's chariot. "The West is The Best"
Looking westward, The sky was dark and decaying
The bruise of the summer storm loomed in the distance.
Western wind ruffled eagle feathers
A screech went off across the land
meeting and bouncing off the scattered towers
as the storms and their ally, twilight
stake their claim upon the embers
of the wanning year



Three times we circled a stone church
Then on to an old yellow house
The others on the chariot
Were seeing their churches
and their houses



We never met the decay
Nor did we fully leave
The solstice light



We held so fast
That way...till
Half-dying July