The Long Journey Home
I’ve traveled many miles on this long road,
Across cold, barren hills and sweeping plains,
To reach my home and shed my heavy load
And warm my hands where hearthfire’s glow remains.
The wind blew bitterly across my path,
And snowflakes caked my lashes, as the cold
Turned toes to ice cubes in the aftermath
Of winter freezing fast the open wold.
For hours, I tramped along that winding way,
On both sides flanked by frosty underbrush,
And watched each breath rise to the heavens gray,
While all around, there reigned a reverent hush.
Each time I climbed the next white-powdered crest,
I scanned the land for what I hoped to see,
But saw instead, as from an eagle’s nest,
The treeless landscape stretching endlessly.
The pale eye of the setting winter sun
Peered furtively through dimming clouds at eve
Where mingled tones of pink and gray and dun
Enhanced its glory, as it took its leave.
That noble orb shone faintly, like the gleam
That glimmers in the eyes of those who die
In hope, who leave this world in peace and seem
Assured they’ll greet a new day, by and by.
The flakes fell thickly as the night drew near,
And dark clouds crowded out the evening sky.
Alone, exposed, I felt a sense of fear
To have no refuge, safe and warm, nearby.
Just then, I saw far off the farmhouse dear,
Its well-beloved gables raised up high,
Still standing after many a long year,
To welcome me back home as I drew nigh.
Its chimney pots poured out pale wispy plumes
That drifted high above the neighboring hills,
While warm lights spoke of life in all its rooms
And winked at me from many windowsills.
My trek was long and arduous and cold
But “all’s well that ends well,” as people say.
Thus, may my journey end when I grow old
And reach my pilgrim’s rest at end of day.
Martin Rizley grew up in Oklahoma and in Texas, and has served in pastoral ministry both in the United States and in Europe. He is currently serving as the pastor of a small evangelical church in the city of Málaga on the southern coast of Spain, where he lives with his wife and daughter.
A workmanlike journey home poem, whether literal or metaphorical, or a mix of both, with imagery that made me shiver at the memory of a temperate region winter.
Thanks for the read, Martin.
Thank you for your feedback Paul. I didn´t realize that temperate regions can have severe winters, but then I read that Moscow and Minnesota lie in a temperate zone, and they obviously have very cold winters. When I was growing up in Oklahoma, it snowed quite frequently where we lived during the winter months, and I have delightful memories of coming in from the cold and enjoying a cup of hot chocolate by our fireplace as I watched the snow fall through the glass door in our living room. Probably some of the images in my poem have roots in those childhood memories.
Martin, I have thoroughly enjoyed this deeply evocative poem. The scene you paint is so tangible, I can feel the crunch of snow underfoot and the chill of winter nip my cheeks. I love the way you bring a literal and spiritual journey together, quietly and lovingly with the earthly meeting the eternal in poetry that lifts my heart and gives me a warm hug of hope in this cold, harsh world. Martin, thank you!
Thank you, Susan, for your encouraging words! They mean a lot. I am so glad you enjoyed the poem and found it uplifting.
An interesting narrative strategy to start with a fait accompli. To me, the generally calm, even metrical flow underpins the image of a measured, patient (though not comfortable) winter trek. Your care to connect 4trains thrrough rhyme, half-rhyme, and the like (road-cold; hush-crest, also hush-dun, etc. is very noticeable and has something of the effect of slowi g things down, making them more frigid and “stuck together,” so to speak.
One quibble: can you speak of “underbrush” amidst an “open wold,” a “treeless landscape”?
Thanks for a very poetic appreciation of winter conditions (and hopes) that many readers in the north are experiencing already.
Thank you, Julian, for your thoughtful observations. I love the four seasons and always find it a joy to write poetry descriptive of weather conditions! Regarding the word underbrush, I thought I would check out what Google AI has to say about the word by asking if underbrush can be part of a treeless landscape. Here is its response: “Yes, underbrush can be part of a treeless landscape, as it refers to low-lying plants like shrubs and bushes, not just what grows under trees. . .A treeless landscape could consist entirely of underbrush, such as a savanna with no large trees but plenty of bushes and shrubs, or even a landscape that has been cleared of larger trees but retains its underbrush.”
Ok, Martin. I’m impressed you thought to check. Fine poem in any case. You do remind me here of my father’s amazement at an ad that asked “Who says compacts have to be small?”
I love how you connect the ending of the day with the hope of the dying to see a new one. It really invokes the feeling of being out in the Winter cold, feeling a kind of romantic hope in a seemingly-hopeless situation. Your choice of words to describe the journey lend perfectly to the struggle of the speaker, as well. Thank you!
Thank you so much, Scott, for sharing your response to the poem. The idea for the poem came from a painting that I saw on Internet that I found quite beautiful. I wanted to write a poem to go with the painting, which would convey in words a similar mood of “the earthly meeting the eternal,” as Susan puts it in her comment above. Here is a link to view the painting: https://x.com/fraveris/status/1978853989199327683
Martin: A very well-written, evocative, and pleasing poem. The rhythm echoes each trudging step in a measured, hopeful way. The rhymes are lovely and not the least strained. I was moved to deep contentment by this song.
Martin, my personal memories of extended bitter cold are very old ones, but you remind me of nearly forgotten details like snowflakes caking lashes. Your care with descriptive detail is remarkable, but let me add observations of masterful rhythmic detail. In stanza 6, where the setting sun is compared to a dying human eye, you enjamb the two middle lines, so as not to interrupt “die in hope” or “seem assured.” This leaves not a breath for pessimism or complaint in the face of hardship. And in the final stanza, you set “all’s well that ends well” within the meter to accent “ALL’S well that ends WELL” (with a minor regular stress also on “that”). In speech or prose, we would say, “All’s WELL that ENDS well,” but you’re able to change emphasis in the proverb. Nice work overall!
Margaret, Sorry for the long delay in responding to you, but I wanted to express my appreciation for your thoughtful remarks about the “enjambing” of the middle lines in stanza 6. “Enjamb” is a new word for me! One of the things I love about formal poetry is the way it leaves room for “freedom within order,” so that a metric line does not have to represent a complete line of thought. Techniques such as “jambing” lines together can allow for variety in the ebb and flow of sentences and add to the musicality of a spoken poem. Although many criticize formal poetry as hindering creative freedom by placing stiff and rigid strictures on linguistic expression, I find the opposite to be the case. It is the very challenge of expressing oneself freely within the limits of an imposed order that is often the very thing that stimulate linguistic richness and creativity. For me, it is one of the things that makes poetry writing fun!
The journey, considered objectively, is rugged enough, but the ease of the verse and the ease of the poet make it, for the reader, vivid and enjoyable. There is no straining for a big effect but rather a calm and engaging flow of images, so that the final reflection on life’s greater journey seems, when it comes, entirely natural and fitting. It’s well composed and satisfying.
Excellent sense for imagery and style. Love the cold elements
For you, Martin, this poem is fairly compact, and it is probably one of your best. You have nailed down the mood and riveted the attention of all its readers. Great work.
First the mood put in mind of Frost’s, Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening. Then, as the speaker began to worry a bit about whether or not he would make it, I thought of, To Build a Fire by Jack London. I was glad and surprised at the end to find the journey analogous to the journey Home. I also find that walks bring a lot of inspiration for poems. I enjoyed this wintery trek very much. It makes me look forward to the snow and seeing the snowflakes “caked on the eyelashes” of my grandchildren.