This poem originally published in Dennett’s wonderful site, Weeds and Wildflowers. I wrote this poem based on Dennett’s prompt “The Idea of Home.”
Smoke Rising from the Teapot I’ll miss my home when I die, the sheets of paper stuck to the walls with my ideas, computers charged on power cords, palm trees swaying outside my window I’ll miss the brown sofa that I shared with my wife, watching baseball games and old black and white movies Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy They don’t make stars like that anymore I must have cooked a hundred stir-fry on that large black wok, chopping onions and carrots, adding the baby bok choy There will be no more hand drums played in the living room, the beating of my conga, the tapping of my bongo No longer will smoke rise from the metal teapot, the blueberry hibiscus bag dropped into the cup, or holding my wife’s warm hand during tender moments.
Sigh.
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love the domestic images lovingly evoked 🙂
Thanks, John
Very touching . . .
Thank you, Liz. 🙂
You’re welcome, Mark.
Another evocative poem, Mark.
Thank you, Maurice. 🙂
Wow Mark!! Love the way you moved us on the journey around the room and life to you moving and loving ending!!
Bravo, My Friend!!
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Thank you, Chuck. 🙂
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Very sweet! She does have warm hands – speaking as her sister, of course. 😉
🙂