"Home"
By Joseph Ridgway
Outside on a bench,
head tilted back,
legs extended,
searching the late-winter sky, and
the words to describe it.
Brilliant white clouds
as close as your pillow —
shredded cotton, each puff monozygotic,
yet different; motionless —
thinly spread upon a pale blue backdrop,
the color of an erstwhile lover’s eyes.
The Northeastern sky is personal,
more intimate than the wide-open and
vast expanse of the Southwestern vista, which
I find too extravagant and disconnected—my
absence unnoticed, when
making my final passage.
The Northeastern sky is here and now —
focused, assiduous, even dangerous.
Looking up into a falling snowstorm —
white flakes lightening the black sky,
the sharing of light and dark —
mimicking the natural composite of the world.
The ocean off the Northeastern coast —
dark, gray, gritty, foreboding;
white-caps escorting the waves
to conquer and vanquish
the waiting sand castles, and
reduce the sea-shells
to glittering works of art,
worthy of examination.
Eventually, the cold wind pushes me home —
to my fire
to my books
to my writing paper,
pencils resting at the ready —
in the event lightning strikes.
The percolating warmth of the fire
mends me —
unlike retreating from the heat
of the Southwestern sun, to
seek the contrived coolness
of an air-conditioned space.
How could I ever leave the rhythm and rhyme
divulged and imbued by the seasons themselves?
head tilted back,
legs extended,
searching the late-winter sky, and
the words to describe it.
Brilliant white clouds
as close as your pillow —
shredded cotton, each puff monozygotic,
yet different; motionless —
thinly spread upon a pale blue backdrop,
the color of an erstwhile lover’s eyes.
The Northeastern sky is personal,
more intimate than the wide-open and
vast expanse of the Southwestern vista, which
I find too extravagant and disconnected—my
absence unnoticed, when
making my final passage.
The Northeastern sky is here and now —
focused, assiduous, even dangerous.
Looking up into a falling snowstorm —
white flakes lightening the black sky,
the sharing of light and dark —
mimicking the natural composite of the world.
The ocean off the Northeastern coast —
dark, gray, gritty, foreboding;
white-caps escorting the waves
to conquer and vanquish
the waiting sand castles, and
reduce the sea-shells
to glittering works of art,
worthy of examination.
Eventually, the cold wind pushes me home —
to my fire
to my books
to my writing paper,
pencils resting at the ready —
in the event lightning strikes.
The percolating warmth of the fire
mends me —
unlike retreating from the heat
of the Southwestern sun, to
seek the contrived coolness
of an air-conditioned space.
How could I ever leave the rhythm and rhyme
divulged and imbued by the seasons themselves?
Author’s Note:
My writing of this poem was initially prompted by watching my friends finally retire and leave New Jersey for the steady warmth and sun of Southwest locations. Although understanding their desires, and beyond family considerations, I just could not do it. So, I wrote this poem hoping to fully understand why.
This poem was nominated for a 2018 Pushcart Prize by virtue of its second place finish in the Arizona Authors’ Association 2017 International Literary Contest and was published in the 2018 Arizona Literary Magazine.
My writing of this poem was initially prompted by watching my friends finally retire and leave New Jersey for the steady warmth and sun of Southwest locations. Although understanding their desires, and beyond family considerations, I just could not do it. So, I wrote this poem hoping to fully understand why.
This poem was nominated for a 2018 Pushcart Prize by virtue of its second place finish in the Arizona Authors’ Association 2017 International Literary Contest and was published in the 2018 Arizona Literary Magazine.