Home Poems - Poems For Home

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They Went Home - Poem by Maya Angelou

They went home and told their wives,
that never once in all their lives,
had they known a girl like me,
But... They went home.

They said my house was licking clean,
no word I spoke was ever mean,
I had an air of mystery,
But... They went home.

My praises were on all men's lips,
they liked my smile, my wit, my hips,
they'd spend one night, or two or three.
But...

Comments about They Went Home by Maya Angelou

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  • Suryendu Chaudhury 9/27/2020 1:43:00 PM

    Another poem on the castigation of patriarchal hegemony. Reply

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Dr Tony Brahmin 8/4/2020 8:44:00 PM

    My praises were on all men's lips,
    they liked my smile, my wit, my hips,
    they'd spend one night, or two or three.
    But...
    understanding the life of a woman. tony
    Reply

    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Adeeb Alfateh 2/16/2020 10:55:00 PM

    My praises were on all men's lips,
    they liked my smile, my wit, my hips,
    they'd spend one night, or two or three.///satirical stanza
    Reply

    3 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
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  • Moemedi Maruping 2/3/2019 3:00:00 AM

    I like this poem but its a sad poem Reply

    6 person liked.
    7 person did not like.
  • Alison Mujati 12/15/2018 4:34:00 AM

    I think im going to add this poet as my best of all time Reply

    8 person liked.
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  • unknown 8/30/2018 5:24:00 PM

    Smoke in the air the smell of fire, running home before dark. Old friends, memories. Tall trees and bright stars. This is home. Mom is going to be mad if i'm not home soon. Breath burns my lungs, heart pounding. I can see the light, lone house on north street. Delicious smells wafting me closer, i miss this place. Feet running through wet grass sending mud up my back. Laughter all around me. River rushing in the distance. This is my home. Reply

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Read all 46 comments »
Home Poems
  1. 1. They Went Home
    Maya Angelou
  2. 2. Home And Love
    Robert William Service
  3. 3. Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead
    Alfred Lord Tennyson
  4. 4. Home Burial
    Robert Frost
  5. 5. A Letter Home
    Siegfried Sassoon
  6. 6. Welcome Home
    Spike Milligan
  7. 7. Home Thoughts, From Abroad
    Robert Browning
  8. 8. Home, Sweet Home
    John Howard Payne
  9. 9. Journey Home
    Rabindranath Tagore
  10. 10. My Childhood Home I See Again
    Abraham Lincoln
  11. 11. Home
    Anne Brontë
  12. 12. Coming Home
    Ernestine Northover
  13. 13. A Home Song
    Henry Van Dyke
  14. 14. Letter Home
    Natasha Trethewey
  15. 15. Home After Three Months Away
    Robert Lowell
  16. 16. Bound For Your Distant Home
    Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
  17. 17. My Home
    Ella Wheeler Wilcox
  18. 18. Home Thoughts, From The Sea
    Robert Browning
  19. 19. At Home
    Christina Georgina Rossetti
  20. 20. Home Thoughts
    Claude McKay
  21. 21. Graydigger's Home
    William Stafford
  22. 22. Down Home
    Lucy Maud Montgomery
  23. 23. The Home
    Rabindranath Tagore
  24. 24. Home From Abroad
    Laurie Lee
  25. 25. Come Home, Father!
    Henry Clay Work
  26. 26. Away From Home Are Some And I—
    Emily Dickinson
  27. 27. Variations At Home And Abroad
    Kenneth Koch
  28. 28. The Old Home Calls
    Lucy Maud Montgomery
  29. 29. Lines Written From Home
    Anne Brontë
  30. 30. The Wrong Way Home
    James Tate
  31. 31. A Martian Sends A Postcard Home
    Craig Raine
  32. 32. Who Goes Home?
    Gilbert Keith Chesterton
  33. 33. Home Sweet Home
    Siyabonga A Nxumalo
  34. 34. Home
    Jennifer Burns
  35. 35. On Home Beaches
    Les Murray
  36. 36. The Hangman At Home
    Carl Sandburg
  37. 37. Oh Stay At Home, My Lad
    Alfred Edward Housman
  38. 38. The Princess: A Medley: Home They Brough..
    Alfred Lord Tennyson
  39. 39. Prophets At Home
    Rudyard Kipling
  40. 40. When The Children Come Home
    Henry Lawson
  41. 41. Home
    Zbigniew Herbert
  42. 42. .home Sweet Home
    Nikunj Sharma
  43. 43. Home
    Rupert Brooke
  44. 44. How Bateese Came Home
    William Henry Drummond
  45. 45. Night In The Old Home
    Thomas Hardy
  46. 46. Sweet Stay-At-Home
    William Henry Davies
  47. 47. Home
    Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
  48. 48. To Friends At Home
    Robert Louis Stevenson
  49. 49. Home Truths For Varus’s Girl: To Varus
    Gaius Valerius Catullus
  50. 50. The Hock-Cart, Or Harvest Home
    Robert Herrick

New Home Poems

  1. Stay Home, Prabir Gayen
  2. The Man Came Home From Pipiganj, santoniyo santoniyo
  3. Warning For Those That Want To Bring The.., Patricia Kelley
  4. Home And Homeless, Arun Maji
  5. The America Poem, Branden Wellington
  6. Home 3, Edward Kofi Louis
  7. Tired, Diana Ballesteros
  8. Monoku-113 (Identity-5), SRIRANJI ARATISANKAR
  9. I Remembered Home, john chizoba vincent
  10. Home & Paradise, Nikhil Parekh

Home Poems

  1. A Letter Home

    (To Robert Graves) I Here I'm sitting in the gloom Of my quiet attic room. France goes rolling all around, Fledged with forest May has crowned. And I puff my pipe, calm-hearted, Thinking how the fighting started, Wondering when we'll ever end it, Back to hell with Kaiser sent it, Gag the noise, pack up and go, Clockwork soldiers in a row. I've got better things to do Than to waste my time on you. II Robert, when I drowse to-night, Skirting lawns of sleep to chase Shifting dreams in mazy light, Somewhere then I'll see your face Turning back to bid me follow Where I wag my arms and hollo, Over hedges hasting after Crooked smile and baffling laughter, Running tireless, floating, leaping, Down your web-hung woods and valleys, Where the glowworm stars are peeping, Till I find you, quiet as stone On a hill-top all alone, Staring outward, gravely pondering Jumbled leagues of hillock-wandering. III You and I have walked together In the starving winter weather. We've been glad because we knew Time's too short and friends are few. We've been sad because we missed One whose yellow head was kissed By the gods, who thought about him Till they couldn't do without him. Now he's here again; I've been Soldier David dressed in green, Standing in a wood that swings To the madrigal he sings. He's come back, all mirth and glory, Like the prince in a fairy tory. Winter called him far away; Blossoms bring him home with May. IV Well, I know you'll swear it's true That you found him decked in blue Striding up through morning-land With a cloud on either hand. Out in Wales, you'll say, he marches Arm-in-arm with aoks and larches; Hides all night in hilly nooks, Laughs at dawn in tumbling brooks. Yet, it's certain, here he teaches Outpost-schemes to groups of beeches. And I'm sure, as here I stand, That he shines through every land, That he sings in every place Where we're thinking of his face. V Robert, there's a war in France; Everywhere men bang and blunder, Sweat and swear and worship Chance, Creep and blink through cannon thunder. Rifles crack and bullets flick, Sing and hum like hornet-swarms. Bones are smashed and buried quick. Yet, through stunning battle storms, All the while I watch the spark Lit to guide me; for I know Dreams will triumph, though the dark Scowls above me where I go. You can hear me; you can mingle Radiant folly with my jingle. War's a joke for me and you While we know such dreams are true!

  2. Home And Love

    Just Home and Love! the words are small Four little letters unto each; And yet you will not find in all The wide and gracious range of speech Two more so tenderly complete: When angels talk in Heaven above, I'm sure they have no words more sweet Than Home and Love. Just Home and Love! it's hard to guess Which of the two were best to gain; Home without Love is bitterness; Love without Home is often pain. No! each alone will seldom do; Somehow they travel hand and glove: If you win one you must have two, Both Home and Love. And if you've both, well then I'm sure You ought to sing the whole day long; It doesn't matter if you're poor With these to make divine your song. And so I praisefully repeat, When angels talk in Heaven above, There are no words more simply sweet Than Home and Love.

  3. Home Burial

    He saw her from the bottom of the stairs Before she saw him. She was starting down, Looking back over her shoulder at some fear. She took a doubtful step and then undid it To raise herself and look again. He spoke Advancing toward her: "What is it you see From up there always? -- for I want to know." She turned and sank upon her skirts at that, And her face changed from terrified to dull. He said to gain time: "What is it you see?" Mounting until she cowered under him. "I will find out now -- you must tell me, dear." She, in her place, refused him any help, With the least stiffening of her neck and silence. She let him look, sure that he wouldn't see, Blind creature; and a while he didn't see. But at last he murmured, "Oh" and again, "Oh." "What is it -- what?" she said. "Just that I see." "You don't," she challenged. "Tell me what it is." "The wonder is I didn't see at once. I never noticed it from here before. I must be wonted to it -- that's the reason. The little graveyard where my people are! So small the window frames the whole of it. Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it? There are three stones of slate and one of marble, Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight On the sidehill. We haven't to mind those. But I understand: it is not the stones, But the child's mound ----" "Don't, don't, don't, don't," she cried. She withdrew, shrinking from beneath his arm That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs; And turned on him with such a daunting look, He said twice over before he knew himself: "Can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?" "Not you! -- Oh, where's my hat? Oh, I don't need it! I must get out of here. I must get air.-- I don't know rightly whether any man can." "Amy! Don't go to someone else this time. Listen to me. I won't come down the stairs." He sat and fixed his chin between his fists. "There's something I should like to ask you, dear." "You don't know how to ask it." "Help me, then." Her fingers moved the latch for all reply. "My words are nearly always an offense. I don't know how to speak of anything So as to please you. But I might be taught, I should suppose. I can't say I see how. A man must partly give up being a man With womenfolk. We could have some arrangement By which I'd bind myself to keep hands off Anything special you're a-mind to name. Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love. Two that don't love can't live together without them. But two that do can't live together with them." She moved the latch a little. "Don't -- don't go. Don't carry it to someone else this time. Tell me about it if it's something human. Let me into your grief. I'm not so much Unlike other folks as your standing there Apart would make me out. Give me my chance. I do think, though, you overdo it a little. What was it brought you up to think it the thing To take your mother-loss of a first child So inconsolably -- in the face of love. You'd think his memory might be satisfied ----" "There you go sneering now!" "I'm not, I'm not! You make me angry. I'll come down to you. God, what a woman! And it's come to this, A man can't speak of his own child that's dead." "You can't because you don't know how to speak. If you had any feelings, you that dug With your own hand -- how could you? -- his little grave; I saw you from that very window there, Making the gravel leap and leap in air, Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly And roll back down the mound beside the hole. I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you. And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs To look again, and still your spade kept lifting. Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice Out in the kitchen, and I don't know why, But I went near to see with my own eyes. You could sit there with the stains on your shoes Of the fresh earth from your own baby's grave And talk about your everyday concerns. You had stood the spade up against the wall Outside there in the entry, for I saw it." "I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed. I'm cursed. God, if I don't believe I'm cursed." "I can repeat the very words you were saying: 'Three foggy mornings and one rainy day Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.' Think of it, talk like that at such a time! What had how long it takes a birch to rot To do with what was in the darkened parlour? You couldn't care! The nearest friends can go With anyone to death, comes so far short They might as well not try to go at all. No, from the time when one is sick to death, One is alone, and he dies more alone. Friends make pretense of following to the grave, But before one is in it, their minds are turned And making the best of their way back to life And living people, and things they understand. But the world's evil. I won't have grief so If I can change it. Oh, I won't, I won't!" "There, you have said it all and you feel better. You won't go now. You're crying. Close the door. The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up? Amyl There's someone coming down the road!" "You -- oh, you think the talk is all. I must go -- Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you ----" "If -- you -- do!" She was opening the door wider. "Where do you mean to go? First tell me that. I'll follow and bring you back by force. I will! --"

  4. Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead

    Home they brought her warrior dead: She nor swooned, nor uttered cry: All her maidens, watching, said, ‘She must weep or she will die.’ Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stepped, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee— Like summer tempest came her tears— ‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’