The Home is a Memory

A Poem by Madeline Anson

Collage Poem

The sun is setting,
pink and orange,
as we come out to play.
In our clothes we break into a run,
as soon as our feet hit the soft, cool sand.
The moment feels timeless, with my friends
at my side. As the tide creeps out, the sandcastles
go up, and the fun has only begun. All 5 of our names
carved into the moist sand that the ocean has graced upon.
Hearty smiles upon our faces, as if this is the only place we belong.

Slither, slither, slither, slither, to House of Horrors we go.
Some are deceased, to say the least, indeed quite a thrilling show.
From a state in the west, this captive’s prison a test.
For oodles of snakes, my heart dearly breaks,
To the House of Horrors we go.

The small boat slices through the water ever so elegantly,
the sail flapping in the refreshing wind.
As I reach my hand over the rail,
I dip my fingers into the cool, soothing sea.
The smooth waves bobbing up and down,
peaks here and there, stirring as one.
the mesmerizing blue-green color.
Off in the distance,
the waves crash majestically
upon the sand. Taking in
the salty sea breeze, I feel quite at home.

My flashlight beam roams the sand as my eyes scan the beach.
My friends at my side, there is nothing we cannot conquer.
We can still smell the salty breeze, and feel the cool air,
as we gaze up at the crescent moon. We glance down
at the tiny ghost crabs, scurrying here and there.
Paler than the moon, but faster than the stars.
Taking one last glance around the empty
arena, we cannot help but feel, we
are ghosts as well, representing
age old fright.

Breaking News, pal. Recently, a house in California was found to be the location of over 400 snakes, as well as a rodent infestation. Rooms were stacked with bins and bins of snakes, more than half of them dead. The stench wafting from the house had bothered many for quite a while. Apparently, Buchman was involved in “morphing” snakes; breeding them a certain way to result in different color patterns.

I pull the rose up to my face.
It is rich and red in color, every
little pigment an effect of pure
magic. I bring my fingers to the
spongy, delicate petals. They’re
soft beyond reason, almost like
the feel of summer sand. I run
my fingers along the waxy stem,
careful not to snag them on the
single thorn. The sweet aroma
crowds my nose as I take a deep
breath in. But the fragrance of
this flower is not where I belong.

© 2014 Madeline Anson

Author's Note

This is a collage poem, please ignore the lack of connection between the stanzas. Also PLEASE give feedback!(:

My Review

Would you like to review this Poem?
Login | Register

Featured Review

Abigail Shell

I really like the choice of words that you use. Your poem is really descriptive and rich. The only constructive thing I have is that it is sometimes hard to follow your train of thought because you tend to bounce around from thing to thing. I would suggest sticking with a few things and describing them in depth rather than pick many things to describe.