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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 | |

The Old House

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

Details | House Poem | |

THE HOUSE OF SPIRITS

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

 

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 | |

Broken

I can't get ahead, I'm always behind
Can't do what I need, I'm being confined
One step forward and two steps back
My whole world seem under attack

Fix this, fix that, nothing where it should be at
Caving in, things go splat, I think I need a hard hat
Another day with something so wrong
It would make a great country song

The dryers broke, the roof has a leak
Lost my job, my brakes do squeak
The rent is due, my wife is late
The well's run dry, I put on weight

Only one thing right and that is you
You keep me sane, you are my glue
When things get tough, you're on my side
All my troubles, to you I can confide

I can count on you, you can count on me
When things are rough, when days are tough
In this life together, we both shall be
I'll take your hand, I'll set you free

So don't you fret, don't get too down
Let's see that smile, let's go to town
Sit right back, I'll be here for you
You will see, we'll get right through

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 | |

The Old Victorian

My great, great Aunt had a lovely old home, with many a wonderful story, hidden within its walls. A Victorian, architectural designers dream; vaulted ceilings, full of ghosts; where spirit voices sang of its splendor. What I remember most, were the sparkly door knobs; prisms reflecting the sunlight; beautiful rainbow colors, adorning her sitting room walls. The animated colors of her crystalline chandelier wove dancing shadows into the fabric. As a small child, I reveled in that light-play; how I loved her magical home.

Details | House Poem | |

Behind These Red Brick Walls

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")



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 | |

Super Fly Spy

On the wall of a house I might be
Owned by *Brangelina Jolie.
There’s no real reason why.
I’m just one nosy fly.
Not to mention, Brad nude I might see!

House to house in each fine neighborhood
I’ll spy like a super fly should.
An “enquiring” mind,
Lots of scandal I’ll find.
As I fly over all Hollywood.

When I tire of the “stars,” I’ll fly to
Any place juicy plots might ensue.
Just beware. Flies like me
Are as sly as can be.
Right now I am looking at you!

*Brangelina refers to the coupleship of Brad & Angelina
I'm assuming they are still together?

For the Contest by Michael J. Falotico:
"A Fly on the Wall"

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,

with a gabled roof clad in green tin,

it had never been a rich person's house.

It was her house. 

And driving up to park outside it,

each time I went there, 

was like the beginning of a new adventure.

I would always enter by the rickety side gate

and walk through that small garden 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 interesting 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 was 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,

that still warms me with it's memories. 

For there was nothing inside that house

that she had not chosen.

Details | House Poem | |

House of the Tragic Poet

Two thousand years, a tragedy is past
Yet it's history still leaves us aghast.

On a night, dreadfully dark
A  volcano erupted, leaving it's historical mark

Mount Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD
The first recorded in all of history

The entire city of Pompeii
Defiled and buried that fateful day

On written account of a man named Pliny
can we view this volcano's ignominy

A city in which artist and poets did reside
Everything was not  lost, the day all died

In centuries after, excavation has commenced
The city of Pompeii, antiquities recovered since

The House of the Tragic Poet, one of many unearthed
I will tell you about, from it's peristyle to hearth

Elaborate mosaic floors, frescoes on the wall
An inscription in Latin, from a dog guarding the hall.

The atrium filled with with Mythic Greek nudes
From the peristyle Achilles to be sacrificed exudes

Art along the east wall are of Achilles and Briseis 
and the tragedy of Helen and Paris, all cherished

About the entire house, a living poem depicted
Along with words, owner, an artist addicted.

Two thousand years ago, this home was owned
Loved and nourished by a Popeiian unknown.

The House of the Tragic Poet
If you saw, you would know it.

A. Green

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.

Details | House Poem | |

Mysterious Ways: A True Christmas Story

A true story, based on family oral tradition
from the oldest part of the city of Bern,
capitol of Switzerland, where my mother was
born and raised, in the Nydegghoff)

He lighted the candle with a quivering hand,
his overcoat seeming to weigh down the old man.
He paused in the aisle to genuflect,
and wondered if God knew his heart was a wreck.

He found a pew and got to his knees,
hands clasped together, he sent out his pleas.
He is old and he's tired, now he's alone,
his wife died last Spring, now his house wasn't home.

They'd been blessed with one son, he'd died in the war,
and now there was nothing for him to live for.
He prayed until his knee pain was great,
then sat back in the pew and tried not to shake.

The cathedral was beautiful; he loved the stained glass,
but, oh, they brought memories of Sundays past.
How could he make it through Christmas alone
in a house that was empty, no longer a home?

The kitchen was silent and cold as a tomb,
but her scent lingered on in their modest bedroom.
He said one last prayer, then rose to his feet,
genuflecting again, he went out on the street.

He walked home near blindly, not even aware
of the snow that was landing on his shoulders and hair.
He was cold inside, his heart like a stone,
and he felt completely and utterly alone.

He turned down his street, saw his porch light's glow,
and only then realized it had started to snow.
He opened his gate, thought of making some soup,
but froze in his tracks at the sight on the stoop.

On his porch sat a basket, the old wicker kind,
he thought for a moment, he was losing his mind.
Inside the basket that sat on his mat,
were three tiny kittens and one momma cat.

What a pitiful sight, so cold and so thin,
he scooped up the basket and hurried them in.
He found some canned tuna and warmed up some milk,
gently petting the babies, whose fur was like silk.

He never discovered who left those cats there,
but, as his love grew, he no longer cared.
His wife had loved cats and this comforted him,
as they slept on his head, or tucked under his chin.

The kittens grew quickly, as they're wont to do,
amused by their antics, his love grew and grew.
There was laughter and joy 'til the end of his days,
for God works, as you know, in mysterious ways.

Details | House Poem | |

OLD HOUSE

I’m looking at an old house
Called home    by someone

I will look at any old house    new    or    old    but
Home is ALWAYS an old house

Old people open doors
Walk the floors

Old people light the candles
Decorate the mantles

And    the roof ever slants
So young thoughts may go

Sliding down    to settle on ground
In front of home

Seasons come
Seasons go
 
Cloudy    bright
Rain    or    snow

Inside    though
Home is    ever    warmed

By timeless ghosts
Of hearth    reborn

I’m climbing the stairs of an old house
Called home by someone

To open a door
Find stairs     and    climb some more


To follow the footsteps of some vague someone
In an old house called home
...............................................................
For Trudy






Details | House Poem | |

Lighthouse

A festive enchanting luminescence
Dance water reflections transformation

Proud lighthouse inviting, captivated
A beacon persistent, unrelenting.

Ships seeking protection, security,
Trust guided rotating luminary,

Smart placement treacherous geography
Light telling harbingers approachable.


For contest lighthouse
date 09-20-2014
casarah nance

Details | House Poem | |

how do I say good-bye?

I walk in the house you made a home.
Now, it's only a house again.
I try to picture you there, but
it's only a dream within me.
What laughter there was
died years ago,
when God closed your eyes
and took your soul.
Deep inside
I know you're free,
but pity takes over.
You've left me.
How do I get passed
the void you've left ?
When in my heart
your memories are kept.
How do I move on
without leaving you behind?
How do I keep you in my heart
and not constantly on my mind?
When does the darkness go into the light?
When will the grass be green and
the sun be bright?
When will I look at your pictures
and just smile at what we had,
instead of crying
for the loss of my dad?
Will this grieving stop
someday soon?
Perhaps, if there's really 
a man in the moon

Details | House Poem | |

THE HOUSE ON THE DOCK

its big and round
fill with sounds
clean no mouse
has a key and a
lock
its 
THE HOUSE ON THE DOCK

Details | House Poem | |

A Mouse in the House

A little grey mouse snuck into the house to get himself out of the cold. Then the house cat Who saw where he sat pursued him I am told. The lazy old dog who sleeps like log was startled by the chase, So she woke up her own small pup and they joined in the race. My sister the baby decided that maybe she would give it a try, She started a spat And was scratched by the cat and then she started to cry. That’s when mom called to Uncle Tom to come and lend a hand, With a straw broom mom circled the room knocking plants from off a stand. In came my dad and he was quite mad because the house was in disarray He was vexed with what happened next But it happened just this way. Our two brave bowsers chased the mouse up dad’s trousers He thought he’d be safe in there. Until Dad started to dance with the mouse in his pants Then he jumped up on a kitchen chair. Mom smacked dad’s seat and then came a repeat And the mouse climbed out of his pocket. Unseen by all he started to crawl into the wall through an open socket. Later that night, With no one in sight, I put out a nut for the little mouse. I had no hate toward him, And I tried to reward him. Even if he was trapped inside our house. I told him my name, And he did the same, Then he stuffed the nut into his cheeks. He said thanks for the food, And I don’t mean to be rude, But that was the most fun that I’ve had in weeks.

Details | House Poem | |

My Pencil Runs

                                                My pencil plays in my hand....

                                       Outside a card house that can barely stand...

                                             I sketch a paper train on the wall...

                                        Watch it travel from in a frame to the hall...

                                      It passes through pictures from one to another...
                                   
                                     From black and white scenes to colors that flutter...
                               
                                            The card house falls as the train pulls in...

                                      And the path of my pencil tears a paper not thin...

Details | House Poem | |

A House On the Cliff's Edge

There is a house on the cliff’s edge,
Around a quiet, unmarked shoreline
At night, the tide lifts high against a foggy moon
In the morning, gloomy clouds settle with the sea
At times, not even the birds are seen or heard
The house is left to nature’s caress

Home-crafted seashell chimes sway and sing with the wind
Crushed sand dollars lie together on the back porch
The shells were once whole, collected by the former owners
Long gone are they now, smiling with the moon
The owners are the very sound of the ocean spray,
Striking the rocks, announcing the cool dawn of day
They are not the dark, empty rooms,
The rooms that nobody thinks of as they go about their lives
The quiet owners are long gone—thought of only by one
A stillborn legacy about as tiresome as the sun,
When the clouds crisp out its beams . . .

A seawater puddle is in the middle of the dining room
Nobody knows it sits there, sinking in the floorboards
It used to be a far larger puddle after a storm,
Stealthily leaking into the house
But now it is small—so small—and the boards are moist,
Moist with its only companion amongst the instilled silence

Nobody thinks of empty, abandoned rooms
Nobody remembers the former owners
They were not much for socials and gatherings
They always lived their quiet, happy lives
Without a care of the outside world,
Far from anybody’s thought
Miles from the nearest home
Where the next generation comfortably lives 

He never finished fixing that leak . . .

Sometimes the puddle gets bigger after other storms
And when it does, there is almost life there again
You can see the chandelier reflected on the unperturbed water
As a crystal dangles and falls from on high
The dark silence following the drop is as deep as thought . . .

Nobody thinks of empty, abandoned rooms
Nobody remembers the former owners
There is merely a house on the cliff’s edge
Around a quiet, unmarked shoreline

-March 21, 2013-

Details | House Poem | |

One Christmas Eve

Attempting to await St. Nick, small Ted lay trembling with excitement in his bed, one Christmas Eve while all his siblings slept (their promise to stay up with him unkept). Like smoke that rose above his house that night and drifted to the moon, his thoughts took flight. He wondered (and he couldn't comprehend) how dear old Santa ever could descend the chimney to his house when at its base were sparks that sputtered in the fireplace. So as he pondered what St. Nick might do, he left his room just as the clock struck two. He tiptoed to the stairs where he could see a figure on the rug nearby the tree. . . Midst wrapping paper, boxes and a tangle of ribbons knelt his mother. At an angle, the firelight warmly touched her face. Her hair showed flecks of sugar. Ted stooped on a stair transfixed. . . The sugar looked like angel's dust! And then he understood how long she must have worked because the scent of cooking pies was proof of it. Ted suddenly felt wise. . . He realized how sweet pies could appear like magic every Christmas. All was clear! A single mom, this angel in his sight began to hum the tune to "Silent Night." Unseen, Ted lingered on the stair, content in knowing his St. Nick was heaven sent. (not sure if this is the "epic" you had in mind, Leonora. but this is my submission for your contest! Merry Christmas)