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A Blue House

January 31, 2012

As I move this week, I’m reminded of the power of home and a sense of place.

This poem was written about the house I lived in while teaching 10th grade English on the prairie of South Dakota.


I want to know you –
silent places of my house,
dark shadows and smudged corners –
bruised where walls meet.

I am someone who unknowingly
whispers to you and, through
sun-rays shelved from the window,
I speak to you, the outermost place I can reach,
the porous holder of my quiet existence,
the cratered dwelling of small night-thoughts,
of early morning hurting.

Thank you to the four walls of this house
and the openness with which you receive
my nightly exhales, my openness to
the Sleep World. It is you who sees my
Vulnerability in sleep, hears the released
breaths of this moon wanderer, this
night-sleep mourner, a man who wakes
with a drum in his chest to again
triangulate his journey forward within these
patient right angles and plaster burdened sheet-rock.

You have become extraordinary, small house –
for in the night, in the morning, in the
twilight moment when I’m not sure I should
turn on the lights – you are a conduit of living,
all good and true hours happen in you – my blue house –

My home.


From → Poetry

One Comment
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