[The photograph is posted here with appreciation and due credit to http://www.facebook.com/SinopKuzeyYildizi%5D
the homeland enters the main vein
her incomparable scent penetrates each body cell
one stunning aroma after another
thirsting for her, beyond any measure
in hunger pangs
captive in intense longing
etched in permanence into memory
my childhood in many of her spaces
carefree years of my youth
the magic of my early adulthood
unrivaled,
in the flesh and the blood,
distant memories,
reappearing as experiences
one corner of homeland
distinctive delight
an all-embracing town,
in unison with the sea
unlocks the long forgotten.
There, where it stretches out
onto the cheery harbor
main street peeks into ancient-old tea gardens
and more sea hugs the salt factory:
Right there, Divan café,
as alert as ever before, eyeing the old prison of the inner bay
not bothered by its maturing bent
sated with ancient echoes from devouring local specialties
on a mouth-watering decorative plate
by my childhood eyes and arousing sighs
a huge piece of revani –befitting my sweet-tooth-fame,
topped with ice cream –vanilla beans,
delighting generation after generation after generation
eight in total, the loved ones of mine
farther away lies the artery of the town
extending the slender path to Ada, the famed island
a ribbon bouquet in an April 23rd parade
Çocuk Bayramı, Children’s Festival
flowing, in sync with streets so open, alleys so hidden
sweeping from each home
a memory of mine
making one anew
my eyes locked on the path to Ada again
the town’s highest peak
one short look away to the left and the right
the sea struts its clear blue wealth and might, unabashed
like the beauty of the town’s women, young and old
and there,
a breath away
there, right before me
with its mysteries of my childhood
that spectacular house
its paint ashen hue
wooden bricks, all worn-out
still standing high in aging humility
vies to breathe a little longer
its decades-old glances down upon the sea,
a tenderness on the soil, of a new mother’s hands
on which its roots are spread, soon to finally rest
ornate windows reaching toward the immense blue of the sky
Alas! Dear beings of mine
no longer there to warm its insides
on the entry steps
my mother
ever so young
ever so pretty
cheerful, too
my heart then wanders on to the captive past
a child of very young years on the faded print
her father arrives from work
through one of the colossal front windows
seated next to her mother:
a briefcase in one hand
on his head a wide-brimmed fedora
flattering to his stately height;
the child glued to his leg
a very dear soul of mine
my grandmother, however, remains in the dark
I cannot pick her out – have never known her
for all but one photograph
my mom next to her, her face, in the light
but, the baby on her lap
that must be the other dear being of mine
the one beloved soul in whom none of us could take much delight,
stricken by a fatal disease
bid farewell ever so young
next to me
the unique scent of my mother
the warmest warmth of her heart
hülyaswritings 
Dear Coyote Poetry, since your comment ended with your first signature name, I did not announce your pen name in my re-posting of your comment. My apology, if you felt left out from my repeated thanks: I very much appreciated your comment on the site we share as well as your kind willingness to re-post it here on my blog site!
LikeLike
[From dear Thomas Fitzgerald, a fellow writer from a different site…]
Sometimes, I’m sure you’ll agree, free verse is all to greating on me. However your style of telling a story, both within the wording and imagery outplays this cliche, thank heavens. The one thing that strikes me though, is the fear you seem to display with conviction. It feels like your almost on the cusp of revealing your point of view, then you hide it, with intellect of course, but hidden none the less, a well writte piece, great read.
LikeLike
[From a fellow writer, P.J. Baker, from a different site…]
I can’t believe no one has commented on this yet. I’m not a free verse expert to be honest but I did pick up on the rhythm, ‘flowing, in sync with streets so open, alleys so hidden ‘ – an example of what I liked.
In addition the story is so warming and engaging. The final line one of beauty.
LikeLike
[From a fellow writer from a different site…]
I like the description. Took me on a field trip with you in your words. I like the photo. It looked like a beautiful place. I like the complete poem. I like going on road trip by reading beautiful and powerful poetry.
Coyote
LikeLike