Best House Poems
_________
The sun-yellow house seems smaller somehow,
viewing it now, after all these years...
The street seems narrower, and the trees have grown tall..
And where once open fields spanned both sides of the road,
there are small tract houses, where fences have bloomed.
Neighboring orchards have all disappeared
But, somehow we knew the house would be there....
As if seen from a distance, edged by seasons, yet clear
There's the path that we laid one hot summer day,
in the yard of this house that sits at the bend
near the end of the road, where the sycamore grew....
Someone else left their footprints that lead to the door
There's a rusty-red bike, and a skate left behind
by the squeaky old gate, that tomorrow will find.
As suddenly as wind will spring from the dust
thirty years fell away, and flew into in the past
And quickly alive, all the memories rise,
like a whirlwind of leaves, in a springtime of lives.....
_____
...Our first Christmas trees, and our first holidays...
Anniversaries we spent with just pizza and wine
The place where I cried long into the night,
as the child in me grieved for a mother who died...
Long, starry nights, I was bathed by the moon
rocking my babes to a lullaby tune
_____
Yes....it is all captured there, in the small yellow house
Our very first house, with the snow-white trim
Strange, it may be, but I'm glad it's still yellow...
Still wearing the face of the warm summer sun
The sun- yellow house, with a flagstone path
Where old slate stones bring the sun to the door
It's a path we laid on a warm summer day
in a place that we knew as our very first home
Just a small yellow house, with its snow-white trim...
that sits 'round the bend, where the sycamore grew...
Feeling nostalgic, I went back home
To a house on Memory Lane
A sentimental trip, through the years that have flown
To a three bedroom, small white, wood frame
Where memories were built on a GI loan
And little boys were forged into young men
Where the little boy in me, is still running free
Through cotton fields up to his chin
The old house was still standing in some disrepair
The gravel roads had all been paved
'neath the cottonwood tree, my daydreams were still there
With the initials my puppy love engraved
There was no father or mother, no sister or brother
No neighbors I used to call friend
No games to be played, no gold to discover
Only memories of way back when
But the love we shared, I saw everywhere
In the garden, in the flowers and the trees
And the life lessons I learned from the spills and the dares
Gave me warmth in the cool winter breeze`
Then sitting in the swing where I first learned to fly
I heard the whistle of the afternoon train
So I packed up my thoughts, said my final goodbye
To the house on Memory Lane.
by Daniel Turner
For Brother Jacob, our fellow poet,
who lives his life
real and true to the call of God:
COME INTO MY HOUSE LORD
Come into my house Lord.
Anoint my house with peace.
Adorn it with jewels of love.
May laughter ring from its walls.
Bring children that call -
that call upon the name
of the living God.
Break the tablets of sin.
Resurrect those ears and chins.
May light flow back into young eyes.
Let them not sleep with unholy light.
May their conversation be
holy and hopeful.
May it spread
like a passionate fire until the end,
for these children are yours;
raised for such a time as this.
Lord, let parents and grandparents
rest on your word, like a comfy-soft pillow.
May they primp and fluff the word of God,
reviving it, making it fresh
for those little ears
and teenagers
and young adults.
Come into my house, Lord.
Let your footsteps be found.
Let every room be blessed
with your oil of gladness.
Overflowing…overflowing -
flood of goodness, your lovingkindness.
Break the habit of sin.
Throw it into the pit.
Raise your arms.
Wait for it!
Wait for it!
Blessings that can’t be contained.
They far outweigh the gods of yesterday.
9/7/2021
I'd married at 21 and moved overseas with my husband's work, so it had been many years since I had visited my gran at Rose Cottage. I was taken by surprise when I received a letter from her solicitor informing me of my inheritance. Her cottage had been vacated when she went into a care home, and sadly she passed away a few years later. Gran had been widowed at an early age so I’d never met grandpa. I was her only grandchild and had such fond memories of spending summer holidays with her.
ripe red strawberries
boiling in the copper pan
I label jam jars
When I pulled into the driveway I was shocked to see how dilapidated the cottage was. Green shutters were hanging off their hinges and paint was peeling from the window frames. I recalled the perfectly manicured lawns and cottage garden flowers which were gran’s pride and joy, now a forest of dandelions sprouted from the lawn and brambles snaked their way through the honeysuckle arch way. I picked my way through the vegetation which was covering the moss covered path and turned the key in the lock; the heavy oak door creaked like my arthritic joints. Gran’s cosy cottage had always been spick and span, but now every surface was covered with a layer of thick grey dust and lacy cobwebs hung from the black beams on all the ceilings. As I wandered through the empty rooms my footsteps echoed on the old pine floorboards which were littered with strips of wallpaper falling from the damp walls. My heart sank when I saw how much work was needed to restore and modernise the old stone cottage, but with time and effort and help from my family I’m determined to bring it back to its former glory
neglected cottage
in need of renovation
rambling roses bloom
Fiction poem for Thesaurus - Abandon or Abandoned Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart
POEM AWARDED POEM OF THE DAY
06/14/20
~ CALYPSO ~
Odyssey of the open ocean
Eclipsing the performance of Heaven's delight
A beautiful name whispered along the night
Calypso enhanced with enchanted lullabies
Sweet silver streams, dreamy epic diamond dreams
Serendipity falls in like mist, under the majestic marble moonlight
Calypso, you belong to--
--Sunsets of the secret sea.
Mysterious-- many precious places to go,
Calypso --free flowing, floating legend!
Ride the beastliness breeze above the sea
Whisper, Calypso come for me!
Beautiful Comforting, Calypso Carry me!
Reflections easily deliquesce into thin air
Sedating the open waters -Voyage- view
Visionary Vessel above liquid level,
as divine in spirits she sails.
CA-LYP-SOO-- Nymph Nature Name
Aquatic belief-----------------------
CALYPSO, the journey of all journey's
For all eternity----------------------
:)
Seven generations walked through your door,
Which stood so strong and always welcomed in.
You said goodbye when boys headed to war,
Two soldiers lost to battles they can’t win.
Your kitchen always busy as a bee,
With canning, baking apple crumble cake.
Stone hearth, a place for warmth and drink some tea,
The table decked with riches to partake.
The living room a place to sit and chat,
With pictures hanging for one hundred years.
A chair still there where ancestors once sat,
This room for laughter and at times for tears.
Your nursery where many babies grew,
With bassinet where ev’ry child did lie.
The paint would change at times from pink to blue,
A place where time would always quickly fly.
The floors within have felt each child’s first walk,
Their worn out wood drowned many times with stain.
You watched the aging people gently rock,
You’ve heard and felt the tapping of a cane.
I stand and listen in your sacred halls
And feel that you’re a part of everyone.
Each breath we took embedded in your walls,
Of fathers, mothers, daughters and of sons.
Old house of stone your warmth embraces me,
Your children now all scattered far and wide.
You still stand proud for all the world to see,
The thoughts of you, sweet memories inside.
The house my children grew up in.
Iambic Pentameter
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
10.02.2014
Giorgio’s Contest: Iambic Verse III
2nd
Best of 2014 1st place
It looks like a simple brownstone building,
Not much different then any other but it’s residents,
Are of the haunted kind, not made of flesh and bone.
In every window a wind chime stirs, gently caressed by
A chilling winds icy finger tips, after all this is known as
The house of spirits.
Witchery or voodoo’s domain, it is a place of salvation for
Spiritual challenged, listen to the beautiful music they make,
Singing within this their walled cage of brick and mortar, these
Ethereal victims lost.
Here in peace they wait for the light to find them, a waiting chamber,
Of the lords misstep souls, those whom walked off the righteous path,
Yet are not without redemptions wanton of need.
Wanders of limbo’s astral plain, seekers whom roam blindly until
Finding a doorway threshold, then crossing over, into this the house
Of spirits.
A corridors slender passageway, a way stations layover for those tired
And weary travelers to rest until their final journey’s end comes for them,
Sanctuaries power house of the supernatural.
Behind these red doors dare not the mortal flesh clasp the gilded knockers,
For within are things of the unspoken variety, creature protectors waiting at
Bay for the stray intruder to wander forth upon this sacred ground.
Angels kindred brethren whom seek out evil, destroyers patrolling the
Darker shadows for night stalkers whom wish to feast upon the forsaken.
But light’s white power is a mightier force to be reckoned with, and vanquished
Will the devils spawn into the depths from which they came, into the bowels
Of hell shall these demons be thrown into the blackened pit from which they came?
In the twilight’s ethereal hour, a mid-ways breaking point between light and dark,
A shimmering glow strikes this standing watch tower of abandonment’s forgotten,
And heaven’s flood gates are opened unto them, calling these the lost upwards
Towards nirvana and at last know true peace.
It looks like a simple brownstone building,
Not much different then any other but it’s residents.
Are of the haunted kind, not made of flesh and bone.
In every window a wind chime stirs, gently caressed by
A chilling winds icy finger tips, after all this is known as
The house of spirits.
BY; CHERYL ANNA DUNN
There is a lady all dressed in light,
who stands above the jagged shore at night.
To guide the sailing ships to safer seas
and beg the wicked storms for calmer breeze.
She ever shines her light across the bay,
in hopeful search for love that sailed away.
He left the land with plans to bring back gold,
to ask her hand to wed, the story's told.
When his ship met with tempest gales,
the waves ripped the hull, wind stripped the sails.
The lady waits at night for him on shore,
as he still lays with gold on ocean floor.
Sometimes you see her lonely light afar,
it shines in the sky like a distant star.
12/16/18
It stands on a hill overlooking the bay drenched in ocean spray
That cedar shake house where I used to live high above the Fundy bay
A well trodden path leads from its door on to a winding road
Flanked by ditches where Morning Glories and Sea Salt roses grow
That winding road comes to an end at the shore of ‘Evermore’
A magical place where seagulls soar above the ocean’s roar
Lavender walls rise high in the sky through a veil of silver mist
Where the ocean shatters and falls in pieces against those lofty cliffs
And those footprints I pressed so long ago still lead me to this day
To that old house high on a hill overlooking the Fundy Bay
It is a place where the land bows down to kiss the misty tide
Where rolling waves bring memories of the place my heart resides
~~~
I remember living quietly inside these red brick walls,
a soul, wandering alone through those dark, empty halls,
this is the place where I used to rest my weary head,
now you, another poetic heart, are dreaming here instead.
I was just a poet, a soul like you, so do not be afraid,
this is where I once lived, and this is where I stayed,
I want to whisper my secrets to you, late after midnight,
just hear my faded words, and I will remain out of sight.
There was a lonesome time when I wrote poetry, too,
now I am here, to be your muse and inspire you,
100 years ago, I lived on the other side, only now,
I dwell just behind these red brick walls, somehow.
(A sequel to my poem, "These Red Brick Walls")
*Note: A 60-year annual tradition that involved a mysterious visitor leaving three
roses at the grave of writer Edgar Allan Poe on the anniversary of his birthday
ended in January 2010. Curators of the Poe House and Museum are at a loss to
explain who left these gifts and why they stopped. On many occasions people kept
vigils near Poe’s grave during this period that began in 1949, but no one ever saw
someone leaving the roses. In the morning, however, they were always on his
grave. Poe is considered the father of the American short story and
his poem The Raven is one of his best known works.
Once upon a midnight dreary, Poe heard a tapping at his window
While grieving the loss of his young bride, a maiden “angels named Lenore,”
A radiant teen whose long, black hair in gentle breezes would billow,
Tapping at the window ceased, but suddenly it was heard at his door
Upon opening it, a Raven flew in repeating, “Nevermore”
At first he welcomed this odd visitor until Poe whispered, “Lenore”
When he heard his word echo, the strange Raven he began to abhor
He asked if he’d see his bride again and the bird replied, “Nevermore”
Though Poe died in eighteen forty-nine, a mystery evolved much later
A century after his death, his grave had an annual visitor
Roses were left on his birthday by someone whose love appeared greater
Who had left these floral gifts forever stumped the Poe House curator
Perhaps the answer can only be explained by reincarnation
Did the Raven embody the spirit of Poe’s beloved Lenore
If so, perhaps the Raven returned again in a life rotation
In human form she visited to lay roses on the earthen floor
And upon her death in two-thousand nine, she took to the skies once more
A Raven who now joins the flock circling above her late husband’s grave \/
Could it be her spirit remains with Poe, as it did in life before \/ \/ \/
Bringing him in the afterlife all the roses a poet could crave \/ \/ \/ \/
For those who consider this possibility totally absurd
Just consider the fantasies Poe created with the written word
By Carolyn Devonshire
Contest Title: “Among the Dead,” sponsored by Constance LaFrance ~ A Rambling
Poet ~
Once driving home, I did defy
A deluge from the darkened sky.
The bluster lent a tinge of fright.
But God is good, and all is right.
When soon my house came into view,
Southward was cerulean blue.
And to the west an orb shone bright.
Oh, God is good, and all is right.
Voluminous the sun did rest
Upon a mountain gleaming lest
I look away; miss more delight!
But God is good, and all is right.
For where the azure sky met gray,
A rainbow over my house lay.
With peaks to east it did unite.
Oh, God is good, and all is right.
This finite sight I need to store
Inside my mind; when troubles pour,
I'll think on it. And so I write
My God is good, and all is right
For Giorgio Veneto's Beloved Poem Contest
By Andrea Dietrich in Rhyme form. I suppose
you could say Couplets but they are couplets
inside quatrain type stanzas, so I am just calling
it rhyme.
*This is a beloved poem of mine for the simple reason that it
was one of those rare poems truly inspired by reality. A lot
of my poems are based on pictures or challenges or things
I see in movies or simply from my playing with words. This actually
happened to me. I had just begun writing poetry in my life, and these
words were going through my head as I beheld the beautiful
rainbow that signaled the end of the frightening storm! When
I reached my home, I immediately began jotting down the words!
Thanksgiving fast approaches
and the bustling has begun
in an enchanting house,
the House of Cinnamon.
With children home for holiday,
the voices that you hear
are sunny as the curtains hung
inside this home of cheer.
As words elatedly resound
through rooms and down the hall,
a glow of kinship grows to warm
each nook of every wall.
Two little ones on father’s knee
now listen to him read
while mother in the kitchen
mixes dough and starts to knead.
The daughters don their aprons,
glad to help their mother bake
while older sons outside leap into
heaps of leaves they rake.
And then the kitchen fills with song
as mother hums a tune.
Her daughters sing the lyrics
as the wee one licks a spoon.
Now the dough with sugar, nuts
and raisins all is rolled
and cut into as many pieces
as each pan will hold.
Inside the oven, butter-drizzled
rolls now ooze and swell,
and soon the habitat absorbs
a most delightful smell.
Outside in chill of autumn’s wind
the boys having fun
can smell sweet scent of cinnamon.
Into the house they run!
Now day has turned to evening.
From a chimney curls grey smoke
as round the hearth inside there sit
the first-arrived of kinfolk.
The children of the house are sleeping,
but when they awake,
they’ll greet the ones they’re thankful for.
Of love will all partake.
For in the House of Cinnamon
a way of life remains
untouched by what the world’s forgot.
Here harmony still reigns.
for The Enchanted House Poetry Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron
The Haunted House
Driving with my date at midnight, looking at the August moonlight,
lonely road, no one in eyesight, searching for a place to park.
Off the road a mansion ‘pearing, in the woods, back in a clearing,
all alone this mansion fearing, stands deserted in the dark…
the mansion stands there in the dark.
Vacant now for many ages, rotting as her time turns pages,
legend of her haunting rages, haunting ghosts that oversee.
Eerie winds around are blowing, in the window soft light glowing,
curiosity is growing, soft light beckons us to see…
the soft light calls for us to see.
Feel like we are strangers poaching, on this haunted house encroaching,
front porch creaks as we’re approaching, and the front door open wide.
Through the door now we are heading, on the inside odor shedding,
musty air with dust is spreading, leaving us red blurry eyed…
the dust makes us red blurry eyed.
In our ears there is a droning, down the hall we hear a moaning,
sounding like an old man groaning, leaving us to wonder why.
Down the hallway we go searching, knowing not what evil lurching,
through the door we see there perching, skeleton from days gone by…
bones sitting there from days gone by.
On the floor there is blood pooling, ‘neath the ashen bones so grueling,
such an eerie sight befooling, tell my date to turn and run.
Chasing close behind I follow, for this fear I cannot swallow,
felling like my life is hollow, thinking that my time is done…
I’m feeling like my days are done.
Wake up in a forest clearing, in the sky, sunlight appearing,
from the night my mind is veering, how I got here I don’t know.
Leaving now my gut is churning, don’t think I will be returning,
evil place my mind discerning, wrought with spirits from below…
the evil spirits from below…..
this haunted house has got to go.
August 18, 2018
Buried Alive
These walls....
they laugh at me but no one else hears
They steal the very breath of me
...but no one seems to notice
They blare a suffocating silence
Leave invisible abrasions from unseen restraints
These walls I once called home
These walls have become my coffin
~FJ Thomas
Most of us run through varying emotions at times. It helps to jot them down and get them out ;) These walls can be emotional or very literal. Usually the one causes the other to collapse in along with it.
The important thing is to remember that there are others who very much understand how you feel; you are not alone. So never give up!