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Best House Poems

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Details | House Poem |

Where The Sycamore Grew

The house seemed smaller, now seen with older eyes...
The street seemed narrower, the trees taller..
Where once were open fields across the road
New construction had bloomed
The small fruit orchard had disappeared

But somehow we knew it would still be there....
Strangely different, ...yet much the same

There was an unfamiliar young child's tricycle
On the flagstone path that we laid...
In front of this little house that lies
Beyond the curve, where the old sycamore grew...

Suddenly, thirty years faded into that autumn day
And quickly had become a springtime of our lives..... 
...of first Christmas trees,..of first anniversaries...
            ...a place where I cried night after night when mother died...
                       ...and spent long, starry nights holding newborn babes....
Yes....it is all still there, in the little yellow house

Funny, but I'm glad they kept the yellow...
It has the same white shutters...
The little yellow house, with a flagstone pathway that we laid
That sits beyond the curve, where the old sycamore grew...


                                         ++++++++++++++++++


Details | House Poem |

Nevermore Will Raven Return

 *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 ~


Details | House Poem |

One Evening in July

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!


Details | House Poem |

THE CONFESSIONS OF THE WORLD'S WORST HOUSEWIFE

I’m the world’s worst housewife, this I’m confessing The state of this place is more than depressing When I try to tidy I just add to the cess pool of messing If you did a white glove test, a foot of grime you’d be caressing Visitors gasp, drop their jaws and then their gag reflexes require suppressing No, really, it’s so bad that our parish priest refused to do a house blessing Even a snake in the grass with itchy, loose skin would fear undressing Every dish in my kitchen sink soaks in slimy misery, like it is convalescing Clutter increases and my teeny floor space continues regressing There is so much hair in the grey tub you could make a wig with clumps of tress-ing And my bathwater holds mysteries so deep that a Scot would say I am Loch Ness-ing Something in my fridge has been there for so long that its now phosphoresc-ing And that carton of milk? Ew, its contents need no second guessing My family stoops to avoid cobwebs so thick that each droop is oppressing The dust on shelves grows like the love for me that the fluff is now daily professing But that crud in the corner that is starting to smell? I admit, it needs addressing My looking glass is so crusty that all I can see is Alice and those queens a-chess-ing The laundry weighs so much that our concrete floor has started compressing But, frankly, my husband likes it that I’m wearing somewhat less and less-ing I’ve tried to ignore that bag over there, but it’s seeping puss and might be abscessing Once upon a time I answered phones, organized chaos and did word processing Now I’m mom to a girl who gets most of my attention and its she that I’m princess-ing Some of you may think I’m just idleless-ing But we spend most of our days playing, our affection expressing Her sweetness blossoms, though her temperament needs a wee bit of finessing Oh, but she’s cute and funny! How my darling, the world is impressing And at night when she’s asleep- instead of dusting- I prefer letter pressing Does it really matter that my home isn't a palace of some ancienne noblesse-ing? And in MHO an immaculate house is just silly window dressing So come on over, my friends, believe me, my place is in no way stressing In fact, laughter floats in my muddle like bubbles effervesce-ing We dance all day long with dust motes ~ my definition of joy and true success-ing.


Details | House Poem |

These Red Brick Walls

These red brick walls have stood for nearly 100 years,
they have seen and absorbed happiness and tears,
if these walls could talk, just imagine what they could say,
a lifetime of cherished memories have not faded away.

I wonder, if 100 years from now, will I still be around,
maybe a part of my secrets will be waiting to be found,
my written words are embedded in the room where I slept,
all of those midnight thoughts and dreams will be here kept.

The window that brought new inspirations into my soul,
and the closed door that opened to my heart's empty hole,
from the wooden boards of the floor and up to the ceiling,
these walls of red bricks hold secrets that need revealing.


Details | House Poem |

That Old House at the End of the Road

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

                                          ~~~

                                  Author:  Elaine George


  


Details | House Poem |

Nana's Garden

You won't find a yard like this anymore. You'd think it would seem smaller now that I'm an adult, but it doesn't. It's still enormous, stretching far beyond the house like a grassy sea. The hills roll like the tide, dotted with patches of melting snow that remind me of cresting waves. All around me, the gardens wake from a wintry slumber.


tiny buds cling to naked branches-- a robin sings
Time stands still here in Nana's garden; the ghosts of childhood haunt every inch of the yard. There's my brother, climbing the ancient apple tree, throwing crab apples at my sister as she plucks daisies. Even as she dodges apples, she plucks away - asking no one in particular if she's loved or not, leaving a trail of petals in her wake. And there I am in my grass-stained skirt, twirling and twirling, falling dizzily to the ground, oblivious to my sister's shrieks of protest and my brother's triumphant laugh. I shake my head and the vision clears. Now the garden is empty - still overflowing with trees and shrubs and flowers, but lacking in laughter, mischief, and innocence. Innocence has been replaced by wistfulness.
two robins glide across the sky-- a door creaks
"Tea's ready, dear." I glance over my shoulder at Nana. She stands on the back porch wearing her favourite apron and my favourite smile. Like her garden, she hasn't changed. A few more silver strands in her hair, a few more lines around her eyes - but she is still the same woman who took care of us, tending to us just as she tended to her gardens. She smiles at me now, as if she knows that garden has cast a spell over me. With another glance at the apple tree, I follow Nana inside the house - and I swear I can hear echoes of laughter behind me.


Details | House Poem |

A Little House of Memories

It was a lovely little house.

Built of white painted timber

and with a gabled roof clad in green tin,

it had never been a rich person's house.

It was her house. 

Driving up to park outside it,

was, each time I went there, 

like the beginning of a new adventure.

I would always enter by the rickety side gate

and walk through that small garden

that she tended to on weekends, 

in the hope that one day,

it might become beautiful.

The back door gave entry to her tiny kitchen

where sometimes she would be,

baking scones or some other treat

for her and me to have later

with some coffee or cheap red wine.

It wasn't a well designed house.

The bathroom and lavatory and laundry

weren't where you might expect.

And most rooms were very small. 

But for the living cum dining room.

And her bedroom. 

I never counted all the rooms in that house,

I'm not certain I even saw all of them,

but all of those I did see 

were furnished and decorated 

with pieces that she had shopped for 

at garage sales

and in second hand shops.

Except for those things she'd made herself.

There were pictures she had painted,

and other hand crafted knick-knacks

and some bottles filled

with colourful vegetable matter

embalmed in colourful oils and such.

It was a small house and a little quaint.

But beautiful.

And warm 

Her bedroom was of a good size 

and her bed large and sumptuous,

with a profusion of richly coloured

cushions and pillows.

We'd discovered one another in that large bed

in that good sized bedroom

in that warm little house.

And it still warms me with it's memories. 

For there was nothing inside that house

that she had not chosen.


Details | House Poem |

Thanksgiving Eve in the House of Cinnamon

Thanksgiving fast approaches and the bustling has begun inside a rural cottage home, 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.


Details | House Poem |

The Private Lives of Those I've Loved

The hutch 
like everything else in this house is
crooked.  A slanting hardwood floor 
and the burnished ends 
of an ancient table. 

An ever rounding table 
"a table with history" she says, 
a lineage with the cut 
and lineaments 
of the eight-score man who built it. 

The eerie, beautiful portrait 
of some great-  great-  great- 
someone-or-other 
hangs so solemnly with Victorian grace 
the nail has begun to bend, 
but she will never fall. 

One cabinet for the silver 
and wine glasses 
has been painted triple-white 
and sunk into the wall like a safe. 
Its shelves boiled clean 
to hide their ignoble wood
(probably pine).

Not like the Oak left bare-  
the smell and musk 
of those dark hand-hewn ceiling beams 
and the redolence  
from somewhere behind the house 
of deep-purple lilacs 
growing fat like grapes. 

Outside, the painted gardens swirl together 
in a dizzying carousel of color and light
with short, fat brush strokes
and heavy, bold shadows;
the flowers burn from the healthy soil 
replacing sand from ten years ago.
200 bags of fertilizer and now: 

A nightgowned woman plays firefighter 
every morning with a green hose, 
keeping up with the investment.


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