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Best House Poems

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Premium Member Poem | 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...


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


Premium Member Poem | 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.

Iambic Pentameter  
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
10.02.2014
Giorgio’s Contest: Iambic Verse III

Premium Member Poem | 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 ~


Premium Member Poem | 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!

Premium Member Poem | 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 | |

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

Premium Member Poem | 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.


Premium Member Poem | 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.

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