Here’s a companion poem to the one I posted yesterday:
Wanderer, wanderer where do you go,
all alone on the road when the wild winds blow?
Where did you come from and why did you leave,
who are the loved ones you left home to grieve?
Hunched in your cloak with your pack on your back,
bent almost double by the weather’s attack,
you pass by my hovel. I stare out at you.
When will I ever bid loved ones adieu?
Held to a life of hard labor and toil,
grubbing for greens as I turn over soil,
I dream of far shores and adventures galore,
yet never will I set a foot out my door.
I’m a poet with a particular point of view. In these next blog posts I’ll post poems on different subjects from my point of view. Each poem is an expression, through me, of inspiration or Spirit or emotion. What you see in this light is what you bring to the poem.
Home is where the heart is. Home is where you hang your hat. Whatever your definition of home is, I’d like to hear it. Here is one of mine. Like a snapshot, it’s more of a fleeting impression than a textbook definition.
Above the hum of machinery
the sound of cars rushing by
I can hear the birds
There are still bugs
despite all the disinfectants,
Dogs roam free
in our neighborhood.
They come up to say hello
or bark their freedom
at their fellows behind fences.
There are more slugs every year
it seems like.
The rain brings them
in the morning, in the grass
And the deer
not hunted here
in this unnatural setting
eat weeds next to the post office
four of them, a family portrait.
with gun racks in their trucks
have to stop
as they cross the road.
© Anne Westlund
Photo by Chris Westlund
Come back on Friday, June 28th for Make Visible: Childhood
“Make visible what, without you, might perhaps never have been seen.”~Robert Bresson, French Film Director