Creative Sparks presents poems about home: haven, solace, a body, an intruder, a memory

Home is a haven, where hearts find solace,
A sanctuary of love, a comforting embrace.
It’s not just walls and roofs that stand tall,
But the warmth and memories that forever enthral.

Home is where laughter echoes through the rooms,
Where dreams take root and love ever blooms.
It’s where we find shelter from life’s stormy weather,
A place where we can be our true selves together.

Home is where the aroma of delicious meals,
Fills the air, and love is what it truly reveals.
It’s where family gathers, sharing stories and cheer,
Creating bonds that grow stronger with each year.

Home is where we find peace after a tiring day,
A refuge from the world, where worries melt away.
It’s a place of comfort,
where we rest our weary souls,
And find strength to face whatever life unfolds.

Home is not just a physical space on a map,
But a feeling, an essence that bridges the gap.
It’s the place where memories are made and treasured,
A sanctuary where love is always measured.

So, dear friend, home is more than just a place,
It’s where our hearts reside, a haven of grace.
No matter where we go or how far we may roam,
Home is the anchor that always brings us home.

Home, a place of comfort and rest.
Where the heart finds solace,
and the soul is blessed.
A place where memories are made and dreams take flight.
The bricks that hold us in,
the shelter that protects us from rain.
A place to lay our distress, and love is felt.
The roof that keeps us safe, away from pain.
A place to live, every single day.

Would he be my home?
My lover, who hugs me warm
Heals me when I’m torn.
His luminous smile
ignites a spark within me.
Causing fireworks.

But then, at some point,
The fireworks exploded
As he raised his fists.
Words cut through my heart
The spark morphing into bombs
Erupting in me.

Suddenly, I know.
It finally dawned on me.
My body is home.

It may contain flaws.
It feels fatter than others
With cracked and torn walls.
Rain might flood the roof,
Walls threatening to collapse, paint tearing apart.
But this is my home.
This is the place I adore, a place that I own.
My flesh, bones, and skin
Will not ever betray me.
Unlike my lover.
From my own body,
My hands will not abuse me,
My heart will not cease.
So I’m determined.
To persist, to persevere,
keep my healthy home.

my grandma says, I always feel like I’m in somebody else’s home
a thief sneaking in
first thing in the morning trying to blend into the dark
when night melts into day, and the neighbours say hi
she tries to paint herself white
to their liking
but roots are hard to hide.

the neighbours’ eyes grow suspicious narrowing in on spots of colour that don’t belong, they know.
“it’s that woman again”
and my grandma knows, too
understands despite the different words reduced to
stupid
they are saying gobacktoyourcountry

my grandma thinks, I wish I could.
back to my city carved in concrete, familiar intersections
and Seven-Eleven and mahjong and chestnuts in winter
but I’m here instead.
I’m here, and it feels like I am in somebody else’s home
I am an unwanted guest intruding on a hostess that I never asked to indulge me.

my 婆婆 settles. she exchanges 婆婆 for grandma and “a middle name” watching
her grandson blend into white
and watching it grow and grow until that patch consumes all until
white swallows her language
used-to-be-his language
used-to-be-our language
my 婆婆 says, I always feel like I’m in somebody else’s home
and she wants to have her own
grow old in a kaleidoscope with hawker stalls and a no-paint policy
I say, but 婆婆, this is our home
and she says no, it’s not.
這不是我們的家。

Flown have the golden years,
The immaculate stays by the hearth,
The jubilant years kept in a space named Home.

We were by the radiant crimson lanterns on that day of the year,
on bustling streets showered in glimmer.
The wine was warmed with our laughter by the night’s ere,
In lasting souls, in the rolling dust,
In hearty mirth under neon light boards.
My young self swore to brush a painting with our home’s hues,
A cheer to a future with no more blues.
The moon was our serene witness in the pitch dark, our joys the unwavering flashlight light in the chaotic grey wasteland,
Singing high that our mirth is what’s called home.
Fallen were the shabby stones, the bright sky looming over howling winds.

Grown I have, with my brow more cautious,
Strolling between high rises by the first light’s entrance.
Then again I see your glowing smiles
Under the dawn’s glory and the white flashes
Amid the midnight city.
I repay them in favour, regardless of day or night,
for hope prevails for eternity in its glimmers,
and the warm breezes take me back to the joyous days
Where we all were together,
Sending our golden hope across time,
And I know why it is called Home.