Poem By Thomas S. Ebong
Home Sweet Home!
How compelling is the power of your name
You conjure up powerful images in my mind
Images that flood my being with nostalgic past
You are a nursery for humankind.
A starting point but not the end
A place where all members have a share
To feel at home is a signature tune
To all who belong to be relaxed
And ban formality from among the group
What defines a home, one may ask,
A place of birth or a dwelling place?
In all we say, it's more than these
It's not even a place that we find all our needs
But it's a place of acceptance, support, nourishment and love
Home-made cookies are made in love
That's why it has the power to nourish
Others not so named are commercially made
And their taste is lost for lack of love
For money, their goal can never be exchanged for love
The truth has been brought home to me
Means a profound grasp of the case at hand
That sinks to the depths of the pondering being
Whether hurting and pleasant
The truth sinks in now for it is perceived as a member of the home
An invaluable museum
Where mementos from ages past
Bring to mind the very presence of all that lived
Within the confines of the family home
Away from you
But still my treasure and reference point
I have moved in search of fuller life
Toiling and laboring like an expectant mother with the pangs of birth
To be born and accepted in a second home
But hostility and suspicion menace the new entry gate
One is labeled "Alien" as a being from out of space
Arising from the fact of a change of base
Which itself is a process of growth
And to grow belongs to all that live
All of us have roots in life
A hidden stratum but a source of life
Like the trees of the fields we draw strength from our base
Traits which manifest like branches, flowers and fruits
Bringing a share of joy to all around
A focus on the joys we share will open our eyes
And bring home the truth to all of us
That none of us is from out of space
But we are here and from earth changing our base from time to time
Searching for fuller life until our search comes to a final end in God alone.
Romance With Silence A friend once asked in wonder:
"How do you come to write you poems?"
My answer was short and cute,
Not profound at all,
For I fear to confound my friends.
The procedure is simple and short,
"Romance with silence," I said,
"and wisdom opens her inviting arms,
Pouring out before you, her guest,
all the precious
and golden moments you need
for your life's support and knowledge.
But prostitute with idleness,
and your imaginations run amok
a social outcast
and a derelict.
It's as simple as that
my friend. Mo magic at all.
So make a choice and pay at your pace." Thomas welcomes e-mail at: email@example.com