Where I live

Where do I live? You ask? Why would you? Can’t you see from there?

I am here. Always here. Never fear. No favours asked. At last

I can tell you. The road has cast its path far enough. Just.

Then, from where I stand, where my feet did land from flight,

From fright, from cautious contemplation. Knowing only

What I know is true, some more of what is not, and less, for sure.

I can hear the gospels calling from the given and the fallen

Who claim to know what stands behind the doors and walls

Of this house. They are welcome. There are no rules to bare.

No potentate to stare down while I wake or sleep.

What is here is fare, not fear. What is worn is fixed

 Without the perquisite of service due, respect and grace 

Of those who patch and plough with blows from a blunt axe.

Here, where I live, the carpets feel the pace of treading mills

And grinding tills, showing threadbare to the floor beneath

A flake of paint floats on ponds of tears. Wretched smears

Of battle grime exposes bones and blood I fear is mine.

And to be sure I know I am home, the hinges creak and stick

Against the youthful glare of imagined times, all mine.

Oh, how such reflections bare the scars of learning, 

Of yearning, of vacant pages in desperate ages, never sure

Of what to find, who to ask, walking blind before the mirrors

Of what is real, then holding still to its infinite uncertainty.

Now, I see the cracks and feel the sharpness of the ragged edges

And know they are mine and mine alone. For me to stare and share.

To value as the Kintsugi jar. Know not the gold that makes the mark

But all the damage done, the mistakes made, the battles lost.

The ground beneath is still intact and the vessel still holds blooded clots.

This has always been where I can be found. Right here, alone.

Living outwards from my home. Ruminating the grains of knowledge

Wondering, waiting, watching for that which I don’t understand.

Where I can chose to know or let it glow in its own light.

What aches me is the giving in, resolving to a noisy din of others

Who claim to know who made this home, that which it has become.

For some the answers are it’s all. Then comes the failure of the fall.

To repair, the angst of despair, the need to be forgiven for what they are.

Mistake me not. My dwelling is as close to the worms caste 

As I am to any other. And treasure just the same. For it is here

That everything exists that I own. There is nothing broken here

That cannot be repaired by me alone, reaching within, then holding On to others while repair is done. All that remains is the stoic’s bow.

To know, as anyone need know. Which question to ask: not last, First. 

The sceptic knows one lifeline thoughts are built upon.

We are reasoning mammals, the builders kit on which

We all build our home. Any visitor who claims to know more than that

Never to know the beauty of finding the cellar filled with unwavering doubt.

You have found me. At last. Drink well from the doubters cup, drink up.

Feel the freedom it provides, no longer answering to the stalkers deride.

Even in the darkest hour, when distances are not within my power

There is the memoirs of others in other places, still there, staring,

Baring witness to my presence in their dominion. Tasting

The tang of their lives, fragments of what they chose to hide.

Walking the path of many lives, hearing the cries of welcome.

I view the garden of their home and smell the roses just the same

Then feed on the culture of what they are. Designed by nature

No less, nothing greater. Home to the odours in the heat of day

Reminding me of what I was; no longer in that home. Growing

From the soils of spoils and boast, lost in the remote suburban fame.

Fair game for others, wealth for stone banks, suits of destine.

Epicurean delights. Not mine. Someone else’s Devine.

So, next when you ask. “Are you at home?” Know well

I am always here. Straightening the frames, polishing the bell

Shining the shelves, sorting the books, sweep and cook

Listening, sipping on the pleasures I find, in words of mine and others

Fluffing the covers, making teas for me and others, view

The world from open windows, wondering which way

The wind blows. Counting friends on one hand, holding out

The other so I can understand what comes. It is the sum

Of all things. From nothing to nothing comes a small glimpse

Of something we call real. Our home, for a while. 

Welcome. I am home.