HOME IS

a blue note poem

This poem was born from an invitation— to write something for the opening of a photography exhibition centered around the theme of “home.”

It took time to gather my thoughts and even longer to align them with what home truly means to me. Not just as a place, but as a feeling, a memory, a shifting space within.

As someone who usually sings when standing in front of an audience, sharing this piece as spoken word at the Vernissage was a new and meaningful experience. I’m grateful it could be received in such a warm and attentive atmosphere.

A heartfelt thank you to my dear friend and co-curator of the exhibition, Gabriele Eder , for the invitation and inspiration. If you’d like to explore more of her work, I highly recommend following her always engaging and thoughtful newsletter.

HOME IS

Born on a motherland morning—

Africa, old days, new dawning.

I speak in my mother’s tongue.

I live in my father’s land,

raised by another father’s hands,

taught I could never belong.

Two cultures within me—

not torn,

but woven—

to be different

makes strong.

“Tell me, girl:

where are you coming from?”

Isn’t every heart divided in two?

Two chambers,

two wings of a lung.

DNA blending, becoming—

out of two,

something unique,

original. ONE

So why must we always choose?

Who is who?

Shouldn’t the real question be:

who are you?

And beyond that—

who do you choose

to be?

Where is home

when you don’t fit in?

Brown skin in pale spaces,

always the other,

of another,

othered again,

a stranger within.

Home is—

where I walk in the dark

and don’t reach for the light.

Where I know which stair to skip at night

so it won’t betray me

with its familiar crack.

God forbid—

I don’t want to wake Mama up.

Home is—

where the meadow meets the forest,

where the elves still know my name,

where childhood secrets sleep

beneath the trees,

and a teenager once learned

how first heartache grieves.

Home is—

the worn keys of my piano,

how it feels to sit and lay down

all my joy and all my sorrows.

It’s in the pages of books

that remember my hands,

in the warmth of a blanket,

in the taste of bread.

Home is—

my pa’s snore,

my mother’s humming,

my brother’s quiet.

My children’s laughter and chaos,

my lover’s storms,

my best friend’s voice.

Home is—

a scent that rewinds time,

a word that softens my heart,

a sound that can hold my pain,

a touch,

a feeling,

a sigh.

Home is—

where trust and faith align

and my spirit touches the divine.

Home is not

heritage alone,

nor race,

nor bloodlines.

Not bound to place,

person,

or time.

Home is—

what I have been searching for.

It took me years

to understand.

Home is—

where I am loved as I am,

unchained,

unlabeled,

free.

Home is not somewhere

I arrive—

home is

within me.