By John Philip Gething

Homesick Blue
It is that sense of home,
that almost grieving addiction
for
a place.
Stitched into the fabrics,
sewn to its walls that
drip a color of youth. Like vines.
Veins.
We painted the walls pinstriped
Blue when we moved in.
american yankees.
I was seven years old. Would have my
own bed for the first time,
everything a parent works for.
Love was present, always.
We fought that house to the
ground and screamed at it to stay
together. Shouting matches.
In one piece,
a part of it.

*
I am weariness of the night,
playing cricket ballads
in a moonlight smoke

to sounds of country sleep,
sullen dreams, a finely lit home.
The crying night
sees me
stoned, a
sad music. The barn
we stored all belief
in a craft,
played our heart
strings
and drank of romance.
It’s all covered in dust now.
Brotherhood is
lupine, blood and wolves.
Remembering that time,
the laughing over
and struggling for breath.
We are the lively ones
in the forgetfulness of death.
*

Away I part, a stranger.
In new walls, material white
and boring.
Shapes all the same.
City lined sky
now the trees
shaking their seeds
to the dirt. Water. Needs water.
But rain falls different. A
mist in your eyes, tearing before
you cry.
But a blur, good enough to
hue the light and hurt.
Soon, I will build a house
of skin and bone, and love her
growing old.
*
She is amnesia. I have no sense of
place,
but within
Her.
Here and then I miss
my pretty home.
That sadness lives
as long as the day
we mourn for,
wanting light to return.
.
Then I hear the voice, and It
looks to me. With the same eyes,
in a pinstriped Blue shirt, against
a portrait of fire.
Our music is exchange of breath,
of
beating
heart.
Still beating.