Home is where the heart is

So often there is a sense

Of feeling adrift, disconnected

An indescribable feeling of loneliness


A sense of a small battered vessel

Being thrown about in a choppy sea


Lamenting for a sheltered cove

The warmth of a fire side

The smell of a home cooked meal


The promise of a loving embrace

Feeling that sense of ‘home’

We all yearn for the home of

Our heart of hearts


Some find it immediately

And grip it with both hands

Never to leave their sight


For others it’s a search

Ongoing for some time

Even a life time


Search and searching for the light

In the stormy seas

To that special place of where

The heart of heart lives

That place called Home.

10 minutes to spare

Almost didn’t make it with ten minutes to spare.

As I try to force my eyes awake I notice…. I have no clue what to write.

Like the muses kept snoozing because they too, were wiped out from the night before.

What could have I been possibly thinking?


Sure! You can close down a kitchen at 2 in the morning and get home by three and then still eat, shower, get cleaned up and then have your alarm to wake you up! But….it doesn’t.

Your alarm clock on your phone fails you just like the impending doom of the cakes you were supposed to make for service today.

Tick tock tick tock, I need to learn to read a clock.

One down, twenty three to go and almost hating myself for this…..

But I still love writing too much.

Poetic Evolution

When does it become a poem?
When I tumble the words around in my head like rough gems,
Examining them for facets
I can polish?
When I spill them onto the page,
Inky bright, flashing light?
Or when you pick them up and carry them,
Cats eyes
In the pocket of
Your memory?

10 a.m.

I thought that a drive would delay a thought, but as the wheels turned so did the mind and I only imagined where I would go from here, both mind and physical…

The Raging and Consuming War of The Poetics

Part II

The war continued day and night,
for years and years and years,
the girl kept silent behind the red vinyl bunker,
the poet inside mustering courage to
actually draw pictures and put words to paper;
she piled them up and pushed them underneath
the couch,
it was her secret –
the only one she was allowed,
so she thought…

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 9:00 AM

A New Day

A new day

Like 18,322 she had awakened to before

Black to gray to white

Darkness to dawn to light

Exactly the same

And completely new

A new day

The Unsavory Alarmist

Soft sad cries just beyond my bedroom door

Her world may be ending, as I try to steal some more time, in the quiet cool darkness.

I have no choice, pleading for my own sanity makes no impression.

I relinquish and follow her down the dark hallway, and she guides me to her destination

She clings to the walls for support, as if weakened by her long solitary nighttime journey

Anticipation is heavy in the air

I can almost hear her heart beating through her thick fur coat,

As I empty the contents of a can of turkey giblets and gravy into the bowl.

All is well with the world again

I can go back to sleep now


Cloud 9

Floating in the idea that this will last forever blissfully ignorant. Hopeful for the future whatever that maybe head first no questions asked. I believe in you I trust in what we can be. I will never come down from this high you give me. You are the perfect daydream in a flawed nightmare When I can’t wake up we will fly away together on cloud nine.


Willows weeping waterfalls,
When watchful wraiths wager wishes,
Where webs weave worthiness,
While wildlings whisper wickedly.

Wrongful wishes wash within,
Witches wielding wildfires,
Warrior’s wits withstand wisely,
Winning with wet woodcuts.

Willows wilts, weeping waterfalls,
Wicked witches whine, warring warriors win,
Watch with wisdom,
Wagering wraiths whimper.

-Note: This was a challenge by my daughter, now read it out loud.