I Can't Go Home Again

"Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
they have to take you in."
      Robert Frost "The Death of the Hired Man"

To have a home, a refuge to return to, was something
That I'd always taken for granted.
As children we played as though our yards went on forever,
The flying exuberance of Tarzan ropes and swings,
Fearless exploration of the nearby woods and swamp,
And the games, from baseball's thrill of rounding the bases
Heading for "home," to the evasive competition of...

"Kick the Can," "Hide and Seek,"  or "Capture the Flag,"
We waited breathlessly for the cry of

"All ye all ye outs in free!"


To return home safely, or in triumph with the flag
Of our opponents in our grasp was the object of our games.
The sanctuary of home was across the street
Or a few blocks away, but we always knew it was there
As dusk descended to put an end to our play.

As an adult, "Home" was still my parents' place.
It was nine and a half hours away now,
But still beckoning me to return, to touch base,
To seek sanctuary, to "kick the can."

"All ye all ye outs in free!"

I'd pull into the long familiar driveway,
Walk up the sloping cement sidewalk, and open the door
To the house my father had built some fifty years ago.
The door opened to permanence, to the reassurance
Of familiar smells, furniture and welcoming smiles.
My bedroom, converted to a sewing room now,
Still retained its aura of a haven of security;
A sanctuary, my return to the womb.

And when I'd step outdoors
The tree in the back yard that loomed over me
Like a protective entity, my dad's shed, his greenhouse,
His garden, indeed, as I grew older
The entire landscape seemed to contract
In order to envelop me with open arms.

"All ye all ye outs in free!"

My parents have moved into a retirement facility,
Having sold their home to a young couple;
Strangers who've usurped my throne of memories
In order to establish their own kingdom there.

Now when I drive past the house at the top of the hill
It no longer exudes that "welcoming" feel.
It seems alien to me.  It has become a stranger,
As are the people now who inhabit the old neighborhood.
I strain to listen for it, but I no longer can hear
The longed for echo of....

"All ye all ye outs in free!"

I can't seek sanctuary there anymore.
The  author of "Look Homeward Angel" was so right.
There comes a time when "You can't go home again."

The Loneliness of Injun Joe

It's time to retreat again,
To scuttle spiderlike back into
The most private recesses
Of cognative reflection.
In these caverns of conscious thought
These are the rooms that I rarely visit.
Here my darkest secrets lay suppressed.

In this netherworld of self-recrimination
I'll seek refuge in the soul salving
Withdrawal into solitude.

Here I tread upon recollection
Crushed into layers of sentiment
As I weave a disillusioned path through
The sedimental strata of my past.

At the end of this labyrinth of memory
My torch illuminates
The experiences that I've examined,
That I've reshaped into a mythology of self.
Chalk, iron powder, charcoal and berries
Crushed to use to create wierd scenes,
A strange tableaux of cave paintings
That quiver to life in the flickering light.

Here I'll dig through the silt of forgetfulness
To unearth images that I've long suppressed,
That I've wrapped and buried like Kachina dolls
In this, the holiest sanctuary of my soul.

This is the place where I hide aspects of self
That I don't wish the world to see.
A refuge from my wife, my son,
My friends and my parents.
I've locked out all humanity.

Is it perverse of me to retreat,
To withdraw deep into myself,
To compartmentalize my life,
To play Bartleby in such a selfish way
When I've got people who love me?

Loneliness is the damp musty smell
Of brackish water, of our despair
As we weave our way, blind as cave-fish
Through the dark stream that we call "life."

When I finally tire of poring through
My pathetic cache of regrets
By the dimming light of this dying candle,
Will I be able to roll away the stone barrier
That seals this entrance to my cave.

Christ, I'm not.

I'm more like Tom Sawyer's Injun Joe;
Trapped in darkness, thirsty and hungry,
Shut away from the mass of mankind,
Condemned to licking moisture
From the damp walls of my cave,
That false promise of liquid solace that
Leaves just sand and grit on one's tongue.

As my last candle gutters into blackness,
I stand alone in this cold musty room
That's become my silent tomb.

As I bellow my frustrated loneliness
At  indifferent walls,
They only echo my impotent anger
Back at me, taunting me
To cut loose with yet another

Primal scream.