Quote from
DevonB on May 2020, 10:54 pm
Here is what I came up with, from Emma’s prompt:
Home and Hope
They almost mirror each other.
Two words, four letters each.
Their only deviation,
that third letter,
marks miles of meaning between the two.
Simple mathematics, with a difference
that points in two directions
Hope rises up,
while home roots down.
Home is so familiar,
it often disappears.
It’s well-worn patterns smudge
into a pre-Oz grayness
from Kansan repetitions.
Hope is so engaging,
it lifts us up into aliveness.
We’re carried over the rainbow
on wings of heart.
Each heart has its turning point.
The place where rising
must converge,
or get lost in soaring,
mooring-less.
I need the gravity of home
to pull me back
to earth.
To help me see what is.
Home’s regularities calm me
into opening.
I feel their support as containing arms.
When I yield to them,
they rock me as flow.
I trust I will survive,
with surety, because
home tells me so.
Home hums hope into me.
When these two connect,
hope/up, home/down,
they form a kind of spinning,
becoming round,
enfolding with each other.
In this fusion form, third letter
turns alpha and omega.
Two directions, past and future,
spin into now.
************
I am fond of Oz metaphors, but I’m not sure these belong here, or work with my initial use of numbers as ways to compare home and hope. Usually, I find the middle ground between opposites, so I looked for their differences. Thank you again to Emma for the prompt. I am open to suggestions for ways to play with this poem.
Here is what I came up with, from Emma’s prompt:
Home and Hope
They almost mirror each other.
Two words, four letters each.
Their only deviation,
that third letter,
marks miles of meaning between the two.
Simple mathematics, with a difference
that points in two directions
Hope rises up,
while home roots down.
Home is so familiar,
it often disappears.
It’s well-worn patterns smudge
into a pre-Oz grayness
from Kansan repetitions.
Hope is so engaging,
it lifts us up into aliveness.
We’re carried over the rainbow
on wings of heart.
Each heart has its turning point.
The place where rising
must converge,
or get lost in soaring,
mooring-less.
I need the gravity of home
to pull me back
to earth.
To help me see what is.
Home’s regularities calm me
into opening.
I feel their support as containing arms.
When I yield to them,
they rock me as flow.
I trust I will survive,
with surety, because
home tells me so.
Home hums hope into me.
When these two connect,
hope/up, home/down,
they form a kind of spinning,
becoming round,
enfolding with each other.
In this fusion form, third letter
turns alpha and omega.
Two directions, past and future,
spin into now.
************
I am fond of Oz metaphors, but I’m not sure these belong here, or work with my initial use of numbers as ways to compare home and hope. Usually, I find the middle ground between opposites, so I looked for their differences. Thank you again to Emma for the prompt. I am open to suggestions for ways to play with this poem.
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