Monday, July 7, 2008

Memoir Monday: A poem from my childhood

Beech Street

I pass by the red brick house
where I climbed in the dogwood tree,
crashed my sled into a fence,
caught frogs in the creek,
danced to the high school band,
transformed into Princess Lea,
hunted for Easter Eggs,
first got stung by a bee.

Now, it’s no longer my tree,
my fence,
my creek,
my band,
my imagination,
my eggs,
my hurts.

Someone else lives there.
I feel like someone crawled
underneath my skin
and tried to be me.

Copyright Marcie Flinchum Atkins, all rights reserved.

Head over to Two Writing Teachers to read other Memoir Monday posts.

6 comments:

Stacey from Two Writing Teachers said...

Great to have you part of the M.M. Community!

Kevin said...

Your poem reminds me a bit of the song by Bare Naked Ladies called "The Old Apartment."
There is something disorientating about returning to the place of your childhood and not knowing if it is still your place (although the memories always bring us there)
Kevin

debrennersmith said...

It is true that you cannot 'go home.' Things change. You have described that change so well. www.debrennersmith.com

GirlGriot said...

This is how I feel when I pass my grandmother's house, the house I thought would always be in our family, but which is now in someone else's family. Powerful poem.
--Stacie

Rick Glass said...

Your poem unlocked a snootful of memories. I lived in eight different places by the time I was seventeen. I have a lot of writing to do.
Thank you,
Rick

Evening Nigh said...

Evocative! I haven't seen my own "house with the dogwood" since I was twelve years old... except in the pictures that I dig through, and sometimes scan for use in writings.