meloostraightfromhertilt-a-world

      Poet's Home             All Poetry       Sign Up!  Login
© 2000-2020 Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors.   352675 Poems Read.

Search for Poetry

   


Read Poetry
Wisdom of the Infinite

If Prejudice Were Dumb And Could Not Speak

The Differences

The Springtime Shadows Play Games Upon The Wall

A Little Bit of Harlem in Your Life



The Voice Lost In the Wires

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

All Beings Considered

After Wide Sargasso Sea

Great Big Waterproof World

The Storm

I Turn Forward

Patch-Worked Trilogy

And Then It Wasn't Hard To Be Eight Years Old

Prairie Town Progress

Beyond Door Number Three

Great Spirit

Elise, Elise

The Make-Up of Molecules

Someone Send Out A Search Party

Make (of) Me A Snow Angel

Threading Myself Through The River Called Night

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Dragons

HOW

EVENTUALLY...

THERE WILL BE MORE ...

At Night I Dream of Vampires Who Have No Bad Intentions

morning thoughts (begin again)

Human History is Pockmarked With Tragedy

Unseen, The Lilacs And The Daffodils

More Poetry >>

 
Features

  Sign Guestbook

Read Guestbook

 
   

Perchance


"You are one of ours,"
he said.
He wore a long grey coat,
a thick long beard.
I blinked. He winked.
"You are one of the hill folks
surely as the day you were born."
"Mayhap," I peeped. Mayhap?
where did that word come from?
I looked down at my tanned skin,
hands raw red from the chill in the air.
"We traveled forward through time to
find you."  I was lying in bed, and my
bed was perched on a boulder over a
seam of green Serpentine rock,
below lay a patchwork quilt of the
greens, golds and brown-bronzes of
Autumn. I was on a mountain top
and the grey sumptuous curls of
misting fog were rolling in to
obscure the view below.
"I can't be one of y'un," I said,
covering my mouth with my hand to
keep the foreign vocabulary from
seeping out.
"You are, Perchance, yes you are home."
The hills filled with an echo of hymns.
We were surrounded by a church choir. It was a greeting.
"There is a Balm in Gillead,
girl...it is the place of your birth and kin.
We conjured you home so you could begin again,
so your soul could breathe and your heart be set free
to wander once more."
I asked him, "So is this what sacred means,
what sacred's for?"
He answered,
"Oh, yes, my child,  it is to be at home,
to be with your people."



Melissa A Howells Meloo from her Tilt-a-World
Copyright June 4, 2013 All Rights Reserved By This Author.


Accounting of a dream of returning to my people in the Appalachians;
I hadn't realized I belonged there.
 





Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem

Comments

 Email Address

 

Vote for this poem