Tuesday, December 31, 2019

Poem of the day

Visiting sixwordmemoirs.com, I found the prompt, 'I'm from.'

It's interesting to dabble with the theme, 'I'm from.' We are rooted in the places we've lived in. For me, the home is always the place I live in. And I lived at different places. One place, one year was the usual routine. So, whenever anyone asks me, Where I am from, I pause for a moment pondering where I'm really from?


The poem, 'Where I’m From' By George Ella Lyon


I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening,
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush
the Dutch elm
whose long-gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.
I'm from fudge and eyeglasses,
from Imogene and Alafair.
I'm from the know-it-alls
and the pass-it-ons,
from Perk up! and Pipe down!
I'm from He restoreth my soul
with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.

I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch,
fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger,
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.

Under my bed was a dress box
spilling old pictures,
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments--
snapped before I budded --
leaf-fall from the family tree.

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