Place Called Home

Another post-release poem in a similar style to the other two. I seem to be recovering some inspiration! Please say you like, if you do. Please subscribe if you would like to improve conditions in prison in the UK.

Place Called Home


I dreamt of these moments before

Through nights of torment when prisoners scream

Negating the noise of metal door

Searching for consciousness beyond bad dream

Lingering on the landings of linoleum

Desperately trying to imagine the sensation

Of the odour of vehicular waste petroleum

And the rush of the commuters’ walk to the station


By an accident of judicial bureaucracy

I report to the police every weekday

“Good morning” announced to this servant of democracy

And such similar words as he feels he must say

We are agreed little purpose to the bracelet on my leg

For I will return to that place called home

This luxury for which any prisoner would beg

Back to our self-made pleasure dome


Having lived in many places

And returned from foreign faraway lands

Where strangers had become familiar faces

Now there are the welcoming hands

Of neighbours too embarrassed to talk

They wave and smile, some ready to forgive

Or comment on my morning walk

Was prison a home or just another place to live?


Home is so much more than a house

It’s a place where we can feel free

Wherein one can comfortably laugh or grouse

Where the person inside us has a place to be

It’s the road outside and the garden fence

Next door’s cat that leaves his trace

All part of liberty’s recompense

Home is a word that defines freedom’s place