Homecoming

Home is Atlantis. It is Lemuria. It is comfort.

It is between the Big Dipper and Little Dipper constellations

My home is amongst the poetry

The delicate lines that shape my reality

With a rising and falling cadence that lilts of peace and purpose at once

Home is serendipity and synchronicity

Where I take note of the Universe while it takes note of me

It is the etheric in-between that is surely the most fitting home for this poet.

P.O.E.T

O

E

T

Horizontally and vertically. Poets are always climbing to a precipice only to launch out across the horizon and fall again through the chasms of creativity and inspiration

Once we reach the bottom we scale the pursuit again because we can’t stop. It’s our home. It’s our funhouse.

That’s what we do right? From the home space of our minds we are. We are.

We are P.O.E.T. I am P.O.E.T/ Precipitous Oracles Exacting Transcendence

From our homes in poetry we exact transcendence through our use of language onto the earth plane

That those who amble through our atmosphere may experience the thrills of occupying liminality if only for a few moments

From my home, my poetry, I bear you across the miles

An escorting presence to bring you from your quiet spaces to enjoy adventure

And when you’re tired to make your own homecoming all the sweeter

Making my homecoming, where I come back to center after your escort

All the more satisfying

And from this place of deep satisfaction, I create anew

Another fresh work

In my home I’m busy at the desk

My altar, my place of offering to the world all the treasures it so carefully placed within me

My home embodies space, time, feelings

It is where I make a sojourn of soliloquies

It is where I enjoy the cosmos of chiasmus

Home is where I am initiated by a rite of rhymes

And advance through anaphora

While at home I observe my own motions through metaphor

And my progress through paradox

It is where I am most comfortable, my intoxicating infinity

Where I can drink deeply of the love of poetry and not worry about being pulled over

My kitchen cupboard is filled with literary devices

They are my spices

When cooking up my best

They’re at my behest

The kettle of my conscious steams

When it whistles I pour myself streams

Of literary lustration

Here in my home is regeneration

On the sofa I drift as sunlight beams through the fenestration

My skin warm as my closed eyes dart back and forth

Exploring a newfound dreamscape

My cat purrs as she rests on the rise and fall of my chest

While at home I dream of home

It never gets old to find rest in the familiar

My homecoming is a liminal retreat

Where I hide between the lines of my poems

My energy ebbing and flowing

As I think about going

As I think about where I come

Where my verses thrum

And my heart beats in syncretic themes

And the silvery moon gleams

Onto the cobblestone path that leads to my door

When I come home there is no obligation for more

Homecoming is cathartic

A reprieve from the brutal Antarctic

Tundra of tedium

Where poetry is the medium