borgo says "Is there such a place?
If there is I imagine it's where words grow
like flowers they are then picked and assembled
into little bouquets to be distributed
to the inhabitants."
Please send me 100 words on the concept of home, and Everything, Kansas. Love it, hate it, gives you the creeps, I want to read it.
For anyone who has not done a 100 word challenge, DO NOT post it separately - you will get slammed. Send it to me, and I will add it to this writeup. Blessings for 100 good words.
grundoon
I want community
I want
Bloomsbury
I was
fireflies,
muddy feet
Children out all day,
mosquito bites, kick the can.
I want
Gertrude Stein
I want a
red door
I want a
climbing tree
hammock,
tree house,
secret hideout,
rope swing,
swimming hole.
I want late night
discussions
I want home-brewed
beer
To know my
neighbors
shared
supper,
barbeque,
camp fire,
backpack,
day hike,
celebration.
I want
writers
Thinkers,
talkers
Dreamers,
artists
Detrimentals
musicians geek boys fire eaters motley goth girls old folks babies teenagers
and
you.
Bitriot
I want colonies on the
plains where we live in
shacks with dirt floors and write
nodes in longhand, formatting and everything, on paper we've pressed ourselves from woodpulp from trees we planted in the Spring.
I want laughing mornings. I want to scratch poetry in sandstone with
rummage and make necklaces with
j3nny3lf. I want to hear voices saying
Ching!.
wertperch
As we walk up the slope, it's the scent of leaf mould as we get into the woods, and later, the smell of woodsmoke from the Big Kitchen. Winters, we're swaddled in handspun woollens and summers we're sweating like the lumberjacks we're not - they are further up the hillside.
Our muscles ache with that satisfied tiredness that speaks to our spirits of satisfied work, as we carry our loads up. Crops from the farmers, fresh clay dragged up by the potters. Now we drop our boots on the decking and grin at the smell of home cooking.
RangyJoeyHondo
Home is a bed
a man within it.
For nine days
he has hung on.
We are all here
gathered up.
A man's life.
Witnessing.
There is no hope.
Now it's for us
his wife
six daughters
to indicate when
he can be released.
From machines.
Cruel tubes.
And our grip
on his life.
This father.
This center.
And it will be soon
and in the room
nurses withdraw
the thrum gone.
And thirty-three
of us cry
(as I do
again now
ten whole years
gone by)
as peacefully
he leaves.
Leaving us
each one
pondering
our own
last home.
Dinde
Home is being able to walk around in your
socks on the carpet. Home is the familiar smell of
last night's dinner as you enter the
kitchen in the morning. Home is
cuddling by the
TV on a
stormy night wrapped in your lover's arms. Home is the smell of fresh cut
grass. Home is waking up next to the one you love. Home is knowing exactly where to grab for the
sweet tea pitcher in the
fridge. Home is sitting outside to watching a golden
sunset.
Home is where the heart is...
momomom
Everything is a
doll house only bigger, with many rooms and a foggy
toad abode yard. The clay pot tilted in the mud is at least as wonderful as the
orchids on the roof. It is a cozy, wonderful home where I can set the table for friends and wiggle my toes while a little girl sends me a construction paper book of poetry and an old lady leaves a messages on my answering machine to discuss
writing her life. I have a shorthand with
friends of the heart whose name in pixels lights up the room and my
heart.
rummage
We've got a big dinner table, that's just a given. So after all the plates get cleared and washed up and our bellies are busy, we'll put on music, something good that none of us have heard before. With the speakers humming low across the house we'll sit to play cards and tell stories and get everyone figured out. When the newness has faded we'll take to our rooms and write long after lights out, even if we have to generate our own power for those pesky electric lights. On second thought, we'll invest in candles.
Apollyon
My neighbour is a cricket pitch.
If I point, it looks like it could fit -
Onto the end of my
thumb.
Home is so quiet
that when the bails fall
I can hear the relief
move up the
valley.
Sometimes I make them think
that I have brilliant eyesight
by shouting "Owzat!"
I think
it annoys
the
Umpires.
the.web.hermit
Home is where one is always naked but no one comments, where the masks are hung upon the wall when one comes back from work, where as many words are spoken as necessary, where conversation never becomes dull, a stationary point in the whirlpool of life...
Home is a state of mind and I’m leaving it soon...
Kansas- the maddened combustible dream of a people thrown together by the random and chaotic winds, the purest of adult fantasy, spirit and dreams spun and woven into a communal dream collision, where community is not a swear word on a politician’s lips...