That Forgotten Home

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he safe? Is she smiling at whatever dreams await? As my grandmother and uncles look over her As of now, my grandfather does too. Did he finally make his amends? Oh, beautiful earth, be kind to them.</p><p id="6729">I write poems, like they’re suicide notes to yesterday, my only legacy, that will be left, when I am dust, swaying in a chilled October wind.</p><p id="9a23">For I write poems like a mad man, looking for answers, in incoherent patterns and universal symbols somewhere in an ink stain believing I will die at any moment, If I don’t find this hyper-fractal field theory, this final equation, to explain my mind.</p><p id="cfa1">I write poems like an animal in a trap I wail and yell and roar off the peak of mount improbable and our unobtainable summit, climbing and stumbling scraped knees bleeding lips for each line, for each word, for each buried truth. It takes more than stitches to write.</p><p id="be4c">I write poems to you as if I’m forever falling into the great chasm of the impossible nihilistic descent that life pushes us towards at the end of adulthood. And so I climb Bruised and weary muscles spasm and furry my heart climbs and I let Gaia do the rest in the bed of time I shall decide my fate, before the dirt and

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worms the great giving back to what she has bestowed to us all. Her children her mirrored poets of biological awe and horrifying wonder.</p><p id="b587">I write poems as if they were the last words, I will leave buried in this digital maze. For she will always be our mother even when we’ve grown even when we stand years later at the ramshackle wooden dome wondering how a loving family once sat by the fire, telling stories of star gods. Wondering if we can still repair, this forgotten home.</p><p id="dfd3">© <a href="undefined">Bradley J Nordell</a> 2021</p><p id="43e9">If you enjoyed this poem, you might also want to read:</p><div id="c0af" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/the-harmony-of-wounded-skies-5340db859b63"> <div> <div> <h2>The Harmony of Wounded Skies</h2> <div><h3>A sestina poem about the many faces of nature amidst climate change</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*9eglz8V-qGv6W8rh)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

A poem to earth

I write poems to earth as if we’re divorced and still sharing the kids — being cordial at graduations, birthday parties, and swapping Christmas mornings. Yet I still love her, though she’s moved on with a better me, one who had time, and didn't spend it all, in stories and meanderings of eternity.

I write poems wondering if she’s reading them pondering that when she sees fireflies does she think of our first kiss? Wondering, always wondering, what she would say, If we met again in Kansas City, would she ask to see my laboratory, and skip out on another date, to hold my hand?

I write poems to all broken-hearted fools. For the earth is the most shattered of them all. But I hope, she’s taking care of my sister, six feet down, into the womb of perpetuity. Is she warm? Is she safe? Is she smiling at whatever dreams await? As my grandmother and uncles look over her As of now, my grandfather does too. Did he finally make his amends? Oh, beautiful earth, be kind to them.

I write poems, like they’re suicide notes to yesterday, my only legacy, that will be left, when I am dust, swaying in a chilled October wind.

For I write poems like a mad man, looking for answers, in incoherent patterns and universal symbols somewhere in an ink stain believing I will die at any moment, If I don’t find this hyper-fractal field theory, this final equation, to explain my mind.

I write poems like an animal in a trap I wail and yell and roar off the peak of mount improbable and our unobtainable summit, climbing and stumbling scraped knees bleeding lips for each line, for each word, for each buried truth. It takes more than stitches to write.

I write poems to you as if I’m forever falling into the great chasm of the impossible nihilistic descent that life pushes us towards at the end of adulthood. And so I climb Bruised and weary muscles spasm and furry my heart climbs and I let Gaia do the rest in the bed of time I shall decide my fate, before the dirt and worms the great giving back to what she has bestowed to us all. Her children her mirrored poets of biological awe and horrifying wonder.

I write poems as if they were the last words, I will leave buried in this digital maze. For she will always be our mother even when we’ve grown even when we stand years later at the ramshackle wooden dome wondering how a loving family once sat by the fire, telling stories of star gods. Wondering if we can still repair, this forgotten home.

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