A recent trip back to my old hometown prompted some haiku.
Thomas Wolfe may have said “you can’t go home again,” but you actually can. It just won’t be the same as it was.
I’m not sure if there were any satori moments on this trip, but there were pangs of the heart. I’m posting this as a Father’s Day remembrance.
The old hometown seems
Smaller than I remember.
Once, it was magic.
Last time going home,
The old place sitting empty.
Memories and dust.
Mother and Father,
And all three of my brothers.
I alone remain.
Well over sixty
Dad built a barn by himself.
Now it, too, molders.
Father’s old Bible
Held together with duct tape.
Now he’s face to face.
(A few years ago, on an earlier visit, my brother and I walked through the town cemetery)
Last time I saw him
We strolled between tombstones.
Now he has his own.
I left to find truth.
Yet here I am seeking scraps.
Scraps of memories.
Poetic Champions 
Reblogged this on By the Mighty Mumford and commented:
BRAVO!
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That was awesome.
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Thank you, Linda. It was an emotional visit.
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These are all so good. Favorites are “Once it was Magic” “Now he’s face to face” “I alone remain” and “Now it too moulders”
Each one gets at that pang of nostalgia, which is, of course the pain (algos) of the journey home (nostos).
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Thank you. I should have remembered — but didn’t — the meaning of nostalgia. That’s perfect.
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I really enjoy reading your memories. I never left Marshall. It’s changing so much that sometimes I feel like the memories is all that is left.
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