You can't go home again” Thomas Wolfe.


I remember thirty seven acres of hay meadow.

The brick home we all pitched in to build.

The firewood I split in preparation for each winter.

And the Orchard I planted with you as a child.

The ponds and cattle.

Snowball fights in the yard.

The hay grew, years flew. I moved.

You're still there. I miss you.


A mobile home. My new bride made lace curtains.

From the tablecloth we were given by someone.

Triple beams to weigh out each bag of pot.

On our kitchen table. The shotgun in the corner.

In the kids room under a rug, a trap door.

Thirty six inches square.

Installed there to escape the madness.

That we knew would someday visit there.


Then prison, that barren monks cell quarters.

Eight feet by nine feet square. Toilet bolted to a wall.

Desk of solid steel. Stool made my ass hurt so very bad.

I learned a thing or two while locked in that home.

Thank God sometimes you can't go home again.


Now this brick house. We strive to call a home.

Some days I feel I do it all alone.

But that’s not true.

Grandma has her good days and her bad.

You sit and play your X box half the night.

While I do everything I can to make life right.

Son it's time you grab these reins.

But I can't force you.

I've seen and done so many things.

And I hope that you see more.

Feels like the ride is ending now soon for me.


I envision hardship up ahead.

But I love a good challenge.

So hell, that isn't quite so bad.


I long to see my new home up above.

To trod the streets of gold.

And learn all there is to know.

Yet I've got time.


So I intend to push you gently on your way.

Not just you, but all the children God has

entrusted me to raise.

I wish that I could see the path that each will find.

But I lack the power of my father's eyes.

Who will they become? Where will they go?

Will anyone be waiting for them at night when

they arrive home?



Most important now to me, will they know God?

Will their memories of me be something I can view

with pride? I am working on it.

Seems all that I can do.

I love each one and want the best for you.

So look back on me with fondness.

But know deep in your souls.

You can't go home again.......

Look forward children.

You can't go home again......



Phil G. Inman Sr.


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Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

philjonesin’s Poems (53)

Title Comments
Title Comments
Lie with you 1
The Mechanic's 2
Don't eat the buffet 2
Carnivorous Carnival 1
Too much L.S.D. 1
Sensual Machinations 2
Gone 1
Poets Elysium 0
Tools, Lessons, Memories and Grace 1
Tonight 2
Time 0
This Time 2
The way you look. 1
The Void 0
The Stars 0
The L.S.D. Adventure 0
The Despot 0
The Demon 0
The City 0
That's just me.......... 0
Tarnished 0
Spoke the Leo to the Capricorn 0
She Said 0
Questions of faith 0
One Thousand 0
My uncle's Cat 0
My Neighbor 0
my best friend 0
Magical World part two 0
Magical World 0
Judgement Day 0
Jack and Jill 0
I'm no "G" 2
It hurts me.... 0
Insanity 0
Humanity's last days.... 0
How? 0
Hatred 1
Glass house 2
For Tammi 0
For Raina.... 0
Facilius Descensus Averno 0
Drive 1
Brother 1
Corridors 0
Rage 0
The Heart 0
Home 0
Father 0
Untitled 1
The Tragedienne 0
I Am 0
Sad Goodbye 0