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.


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.

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!.


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.


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.
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
our own
last home.

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...

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.

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.

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.


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...

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