Homesick
It’s a feeling
In your guts
A deep rooted tug
Your roots call out
From a T-shirt which simply says
“You had me at biscuits.”
A bluegrass song
In the background
Of a store trying far too hard
To be hip.
Someone posts a photo
Of March flowers growing wild.
A TV show features
A little soul food joint
You could walk to
Back in college.
Don’t get me wrong
I’m not ashamed of where I am
Or how I got here.
It can also be true
That I miss
Where I’m from.
With its y’all’s & yes ma’am’s
Bourbon & heat & country ham
My family
Friends who knew
The first version of me.
It’s a messy thing
To move away.
Tag: poetry
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I’ve started to embrace the grey skies
Instead of constant longing for sunshine
That’s where life usually lands
Most days I walk in the fog,
the uncertain conditions
That’s what grief is like
So much good left
Bright white
Splattered with midnight black
Moments that take your breath away
In the midst of intense joy
Your face flitters before my eyes
Your trouble, the sadness
Some say it makes moments sweeter
To know the bitterness
Happy moments aren’t meant to last
Though I do try
Continuum of losses & gains
The dark can shine, too. -
New year, new you
Is too much pressure
What if instead
We are fine wines
Aged, interesting, layered
Do not strip away the old
Clinging to another restart
Mistakes, failures, regrets
Pain, toil, suffering
Give you depth
They make you more valuable
Not less
The sweet aroma
Of perseverance, character, hope
This new year
I am a bold Cabernet
An elegant Malbec
An approachable Pinot
I only get better with time. -
I told Meme I like a wet crust
A child’s way of saying
A little fruit
A lot of under baked crust
She chuckles softly at my request
Her soft bosom pressed against my back
Holding me steady
Tip toed on an old rusty stool
At her aged linoleum counter
The old stove creaks
Groaning it’s way to 350
Taste of raw doe
Zaps the saliva off my tongue
Thirsty and happy
Meme’s soft instruction
Kneading crisco, cold water, flour
We make more of a mess
Than a dessert
Somehow it comes out delicious
My grandmothers magic
Afternoon snack of baked apples
In a flaky brown skin
A simple act now stamped
In perfect color from my memory
Kacie B. Sharpe 