Waiting for Home by Martina Gallegos (I AM STILL WAITING Series)

Waiting for Home
by Martina Gallegos

Until the beginning of my teen years, I lived with my family in a modest two-bedroom, one small kitchen my parents built after marriage. Originally, our home was only one bedroom and no kitchen. We had no restroom either, and we took care of our business practically in the open, only to be ridiculed by our two-story home neighbors.

Eventually, mom divided our one bedroom into two and asked someone to build another bedroom to her specifications, and that, in turn, became dad’s bedroom, and I felt sad that my parents were in different bedrooms and no longer telling us bedtime stories, and I kept waiting for the day we could all share the same bedroom again.

Many times, I despaired when I saw that other families had parties and lots of good food my family didn’t and would never have, and I wanted to run away from home, but I didn’t know where or how I’d do it. And because I never had peace anywhere, I am still waiting for that elusive peaceful and loving home.

PAINTING: Bungalow by Howard Arkley (1987)

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: After I graduated from university as a bilingual elementary school teacher and got a job, I figured it was time to start thinking about buying a house, but it wasn’t meant to be until more than 20 years later. After saving all I could for the down payment, I applied for a house at a project for first-time, low-income buyers, but because of unethical people involved in the project, I almost didn’t get my brand-new house. After toppling all kinds of barriers, I got my house and moved in with my then three-and-a-half-year-old daughter. And just as the process had begun with problems, it continued for 20 years and became my American nightmare instead of my American Dream. To this day, I continue to fight housing injustices and discrimination. I’m hoping to sell the nightmare and finally be able to purchase a part of the true American Dream.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Martina Gallegos was born and raised in Mexico. While recuperating from a work injury and stroke, she earned a Master’s degree from Grand Canyon University. Her work has appeared in the Altadena Poetry Review: Anthology (2015 and 2017), Hometown Pasadena, Spirit Fire Review, Poetry Super Highway, Silver Birch Press, Basta!, and others.  She was named one of the San Gabriel Valley’s top poets, and was a semi-finalist in an amateur national poetry competition. She lives in Oxnard, California.

Unlocking My Front Door by Daniel McGinn (MY FRONT DOOR Series)

Unlocking My Front Door
by Daniel McGinn

My front door turns
eggshell white
cracks open in the morning
as the sun’s great yoke
merges light into shadows
that break through tree leaves
shifting waving
calling its name

Stop stare for a spell
come see the white door
punched in the wall
of our blue house
appear to move
like a witch cloud brushed
into a tumbleweed crawl

Ancestors & descendants
given pass
step off the welcome mat
descend the stairs
down to the street
where worlds begin
& tumbleweeds spin

Every evening
shadows collect on the porch
to watch the sun drop scraped
from the plate
into the big black can

I don’t know why
my front door opens
with a dark sigh
on summer nights
stubbornly swells
against the frame
& refuses to budge
when it rains

Doors open & close
more like us
than we’d like to think
multiple lives
ring around rings
of unhinged days

Before the deadbolt
pierced its side
it was dressed in bark
with its own kind

Squirrels ran to its outstretched arms

Bluebirds twittered up & down
behind bright green wing shaped leaves

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I wasn’t sure what I could say about my front door. I wrote and revised it in several sittings but was unsure of how to approach this piece. Eventually, I decided it might be best to let my front door speak for itself.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Daniel McGinn’s work has been seen in Silver Birch Press, Spillway, Sadie Girl Press, Lummox, Bank Heavy Press, The OC Weekly, and numerous other magazines and anthologies. He received his MFA in writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts at the age of 61, and his most recent collection of poems, The Moon, My Lover, My Mother & The Dog, was published by Moon Tide Press.

What My House Would Be Like If It Were a Person, poem by Denise Levertov

WHAT MY HOUSE WOULD BE LIKE IF IT WERE A PERSON
by Denise Levertov

This person would be an animal.
This animal would be large, at least as large
as a workhorse. It would chew cud, like cows,
having several stomachs.
No one could follow it
into the dense brush to witness
its mating habits. Hidden by fur,
its sex would be hard to determine.
Definitely it would discourage
investigation. But it would be, if not teased,
a kind, amiable animal,
confiding as a chickadee. Its intelligence
would be of a high order,
neither human nor animal, elvish.
And it would purr, though of course,
it being a house, you would sit in its lap,
not it in yours.
***
“What My House Would Be Like If It Were A Person” appears in Denise Levertov’s collection Poems 1972-1982 (New Directions, 2002)

PAINTING: “Hills, South Truro (Massachusetts)” by Edward Hopper (1930)

Anais Nin’s Writing Room

Renowned diarist Anais Nin — the muse of Henry Miller and many others — lived in Silverlake (Los Angeles) from the early 1960s until her death in 1977 at age 73. Her beautiful home, located at 2335 Hidalgo, was designed by Eric Lloyd Wright (Frank’s grandson), the half-brother of Rupert Pole, Nin’s then-husband. Nin led a complicated personal life that included bicoastal husbands (Hugh Guiler in New York and Rupert Pole in California). She eventually had her marriage to Pole annulled, but continued to live with him in the gorgeous house he had built just for her.

From REFLECTIONS by Henry Miller (Capra Press, 1981): With Anais I felt safe, secure. She delighted in keeping things running smoothly so I could write. She was really a true guardian angel, supportive and enthusiastic about my writing at a time when I needed it most. She was generous too. Kept me going with little gifts — pocket money, cigarettes, food, and so on. She sang my praises to the world long before I’d become regarded as a writer. In fact, it was Anais who paid for the first printing of Tropic of Cancer. For these reasons I feel utterly grateful to her. It’s rare to find a friend, a confidante, a colleague, a helpmate, and a lover, all in the same person. 

The Low Yellow, Haiku by Jack Kerouac

Haiku (The low yellow)

by Jack Kerouac

The low yellow

moon above the

quiet lamplit house.

Photo: Ally Beag, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Anais Nin’s Writing Desk, Silverlake

Anais Nin lived in Silverlake (Los Angeles) from the early 1960s until her death in 1977 at age 73. The beautiful home, located at 2335 Hidalgo, was designed by Eric Lloyd Wright (Frank’s grandson), who was the half-brother of Rupert Pole, Nin’s then-husband. Nin led a complicated personal life that included bicoastal husbands (Hugh Guiler in New York and Rupert Pole in California). She eventually had her marriage to Pole annulled, but continued to live with him in the gorgeous house he had built just for her.