A poem about love and travelling by David Tombale: Past the open gate

Written for the prompt Home Behind.

Past the open gate

Out beyond the open gate the

world has beckoned, it will not

wait, the miles and years have

called me and I being a gentleman

will not tarry here, so past the

hills and across the meadows

steeped with green and purple

buds I’ll venture out to chase

my fate and when my feet have

wearied of sea and shore,

the taste of dates, the love of home

will take me back into the arms

of rose and stone, the bundled

warmth of covers in yonder home.

A poem about home by David Tombale: A love for home

Some of us are lucky enough to get a chance to spread our wings but home can be where you will always feel the most loved and that is what this poem is meant to represent.

 

 

 

A love for home

 

A love for home is hidden in the

 raindrops, it’s hidden in the roughness

 of my father’s hard back books.

 

 A love for home is a promise of days

 to come and days gone by,

 it’s in the way I touch your arms when

 you fold them, it’s in the leaves that rest

 beside my father’s battered truck,

 all smeared over with the awful smell

 of goats and cows.

 

 My love for this place is

 hidden in the way I leave it,

 running fingers over weathered stone,

 picking paint chips off my shirt, they’ve

 been falling from the walls and

 I know I’ll miss them all.

 

 

A poem about nostalgia and love by David Tombale: Missing home

There are many reasons to love someone, each personal and unique but they are all the only reason some of us ever need. Missing home is just a reminder of that.

Missing home 

There were more Closed signs than

Open, more reminders than smiling

storekeepers to ease my heart.

My neighborhood fell brick by brick

but I never cried.

The names of my friends poured like

paint in rain, clogging gutters with

dreams of large households that would

never be-

it is these thoughts that kept me

prisoner, rubbed the granules of dirt

around my eyeballs but your cool

lips have met my skin, your long fingers

have gripped my weakness,

they have molded clay,

creating spires out of lumps,

building houses from the earth,

and I have not missed here

ever since.