A Word is Not a Home
A word is not a home
but we set our tables
between its walls,
cook meals, annoy
friends, abuse ourselves.
Sometimes I misplace
one, and can’t find
my house, much less
the window’s desk
or the chair behind it.
But if I wait, something
always takes form in the fog,
an arm, a ribcage, a feathered
hope struggling to emerge.
Inept, I take comfort
in these apparitions,
accept their offerings,
lose myself in mystery,
find shelter there
in the hollowed curves.
O at the Edges 
I so identify with this one, Bob; walls, windows, doors and words, the lost and found department
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I live in that lost and found department!
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I love this. You always surprise me. I like how the line breaks accentuate the words in the poem. Starts out a little disjointed separating important clusters of words, but when it comes out of the fog the line breaks smoothly separate phrases and ideas. Wonderful attention to detail.
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Thanks, Richard. I’m so pleased that you noticed the line breaks. They play an important role in my writing.
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For me figuring out where to put the line breaks
is like running into
a brick
wall.
So, when I see someone who knows how to use them, I pay attention.
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You might try reading your poems aloud. You’ll find natural pauses, where lines can end. Then adjust.
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True. That is the only I can do rhythm. For some reason I am blind to stressed and unstressed syllables, but I do it subconsciously when I compose out loud. The problem is that people think you are crazy when you are speaking random gibberish while you are shopping at Walmart. 🙂
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Ha. Or at a coffee shop. Hmm. Maybe we should wear earbuds, to pretend that we’re talking with someone.
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I write some weird things sometimes. They would still think I was crazy.
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Ah, the hazards of being a writer.
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