Innocence As Home

Vintage Words


Between then and soon

life will lose cells that

are no longer willing to divide 

and renew continuance. My

wish, if wishes were really

possible or fulfillable, would

be to go home to innocence.


That time was a place,

absolutely joyous, bad 

news more mystery than 

sadness. Ill winds explanations

seldom drifted my way.

Every wake up welcomed

as if energy and enthusiasm

were a yawn, each hour 

a mandate to seance forth 

that omnipresent entity

called play.


Neglect had lots of up sides.

Dense freedom was a rarity

encountered ever since.

Provisions were ample, love

rose from carpets and fell

into rooms through window

blind slats in sun and shadow

stripe patterned landscapes

where Christmases and

Halloweens and Easters

were abnormally idyllic. 


Lost around age eleven,

innocence was abandoned 

on a small street in a city

not much as cities go. I envied

the parting until childhood

faded into illusions inspired

by comic book dreams and time's

artifice easily erased niceties

clothed in naivety. 


Innocence is not a place

or a time or a street, neither 

old faces nor live pine trees.

It never existed as crowded

holiday meals in a floral

wallpapered oil stove dining

room. Innocence may simply

have intangibly been a thread

of limited wonder in search of



Innocence is a home long ago 

torn away by decades decaying 

soundlesly into history surviving

now as hoped fors and vividly

reconstructed images posing

as memoirs. What remains

is a cascading vague human

desire for Heaven here,

somewhere. Anywhere.









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Heaven Here

somewhere. Anywhere. When I read a poem again after a long time, I wonder at certain lines and think "Like wow! I wrote THAT! ~A~

reread 03-16-18 and it still has pizazz. slc