Growing up on Encanto Drive

Our house was creamy white
with blue grey trim
(like my mother’s eyes).
A single story ranch style,
brand new when we moved in;
a quiet street corner house
in a quiet town
with neatly mowed grass
and tall shady trees.
In my bedroom
I played horses
and read
gazing out the window
to the rugged San Gabriel mountains.

In later years,
my room was a refuge
from discord with my father;
hurled, hurtful words ricocheted
in the family room.
I retreated and got lost on
John Denver’s country roads
and in the ballads of Bread.

Gone were the carefree summers
of childhood,
when we gathered plums together.
Now I was careening into adulthood,
my skateboard clacking
over the sidewalk cracks;
my oak tree roots
pushing against boundaries.

Prompt: Poetic Bloomings asked us to write a poem using our childhood home as inspiration.


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