by Kathy Robertson

Come Home

A whisper takes flight
from ashes
of a war-torn land
once filled with
promise for today
hope for tomorrow
and it beckons
to a humanity
of migratory birds

Come Home, Come Home

A reply returns
on mangled wings
of airborne currents
from a wounded people
broken by the brevity
of a home-made bomb
in the shattering
of glass and souls
as they ask

Where, pray tell, is Home?

A light reflects
off mortar shell
with the clarity of angels

Home is with you
wherever you fly
Childhood Memories

A distant man
he flitted from
one pursuit to another
without an interest
for offspring
he beget into a
fatherless world.

An absentee Dad
whose authoritative
presence seeped into
cracks and crevices
of their home
like dense fog
even though

his empty chair
gave testament
he was elsewhere—
a place that
took precedence
over mingling
with family.

Yet
faded photos
reveal alternate reality—
a father who attends
family functions;
plays among his children
with affectionate banter.

Thus one is left
to question the inception
of memory—which
modicum of fantasy
takes root until images
of fiction and fact
blur beyond recognition?

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