it used to be their home full of laughter
love kindness compassion and intimacy
until the chaos descended and illness took hold
in a few days she will be moving out
vacate the space which is empty already
put geographical distance between the two
the romance of the century is over
walls are mouldy with soggy paint
electrics malfunction next to the leaks
dust everywhere resembles
disorder and pandemonium
powerless over the turmoil it shields
it will take months to upgrade appearance
years to heal and regather momentum
of what could be a life of some freedom
he used to drink on such matters
or default into utter depression
today he is just disappointed and sad
cleaning stuff calls for blisters and callus
elbow grease and compassion of self
above all he needs to be kind to himself
Drawn to a thronged room, less stept
Than flittered.
Of a sound, less spoke
Than twittered.
Am I, that glade's sole eyed greed
Lain 'neath that.
And I, its but one
Soothed hissed brat.
Those who live in glass houses
~ ought not plant rock gardens
A temporary dwelling, built for my family and me
How could I build it, barely able to see
A palm-frond provided with sharp-needled stalks
How could I buy one, I no longer walk
Delicious meals prepared by my wife’s loving hands
How can I help her, I longer stand
Sweet, festive songs sung to melodious tunes
How can I sing, my hearing’s in ruins
I am so grateful, though dependent on others
My caring, devoted Jewish sisters and brothers
________________________________________________________________________
Notes:
In Israel and the world over, Jews eat, recreate, and sleep in tempor-
ary huts called 'sukkot' for seven days during this festival. The holiday
is named 'Sukkot' after these huts.
We wave/shake palm-fronds, myrtle and willow leaves in synagogue,
as part of prayers for rain (in Israel) in its season - i.e., after(!) the festival.
The tree tired leaned
Against the old house
A ladder leaning
Against the massive
Tree front of the house
The ladder looked small
The tree branches dead
All the leaves were gone
It was an old tree
The tree tired
It could not stand tall
So it leaned on the house
It was ready to fall
All the tree needed
Was a guest of wind
To fall to the ground
Written: September 24, 2026
**********
The house grows quiet, voices fade away,
Empty chairs wait guests who won't arrive.
The telephone robotic rings betray,
Silence that surrounds me, makes me strive.
My knuckles built up their own syntax,
Every joint and bone is mapped by ache.
A display of pills on the top of the tacks,
A week of tunnels and no house break.
Friends as stones I've gathered over the years,
Some polished smooth, others jagged, worn.
Doctor's waiting room now calms my fears,
No mantelpiece gatherings, no morn.
Feelings of loneliness are as thick as rain,
Its monotonous, never-ending of night.
I speak to screens, endure the loop again,
For comfort in the artificial light.
Yet dawn comes, the kitchen window stays,
Coffee still holds a flavor, rich and deep.
I'm still here counting on my numbered days,
Still someone's father, still the love to keep.
For children's names I'd memorize, their needs,
Through every darkness, through hardest falls.
The body is tired, but love still intercedes,
And life, though shaking, still recalls.
MEDIA ATTACK
COURT SAYS WHITE HOUSE LET THEM BACK
TRUMP REIGN STARTS TO CRACK
"There is nature, shade-repressed
Shyer expressed".
That wall, beyond, one's face, too, in
Sweet violet's, hid?
"Moss-damp, but of none such crept
Slug, snail-eyed wept".
Which path, to whose doorway as well
Soon, love-gleamed, mid?
Wysocki’s world always feels like a place paused in time,
and here the old house rises with its many angles~
gable stacked upon gable
like thoughts a century deep.
The clapboard walls hold the color of weathered memory,
a soft, seasoned brown
that seems to remember every storm
and every quiet morning after.
Windows watch from every direction,
small square eyes
that have seen too many seasons
to be surprised by anything now.
A cat sits on the fence
as if appointed guardian of the view,
tail curled in the calm certainty
that nothing important escapes its notice.
The yard is tidy in that Wysocki way~
grass trimmed, path swept,
a place where time moves slowly enough
for chores to feel like rituals.
Standing in front of it
I sense a rush of stories
that never needed telling~
a house content to keep its history
folded into wood and windowlight.
The house feels like a pause in time,
a place where the wandering mind
can rest a moment
and imagine the lives still echoing inside.
Secrets remain hidden,
A story stays untold.
Walls grow taller,
And the padlock keeps it closed.
Keys are given
To all who reside within
And to the few who earn my trust.
Because what lies inside
Was meant to be hid.
The outside,
A perfect dreamhouse,
White-picket fence and all.
How ironic,
The same colour of drywall
In which I watched a crater form.
Few visitors ever see
What goes on
Behind closed doors.
Once I give them a spare key,
Nothing is hidden anymore.
The doorknob beckons for your hand
Before it’s too late.
Now you see inside the house,
And I know
What happens next.
Now you know my secrets,
My deepest, darkest fears,
And that shatters your lens,
Because I am now real.
But the windows are now smashed,
The story’s been told,
Walls are still crumbling,
And a new padlock now holds.
In labyrinthine longing,
where my weary spirit
roams,
I seek an effervescent
haven to call my home.
A luminescent refuge where
the anxious heart finds rest,
Where benediction
whisper and the soul is truly
blessed.
Amidst the cacophonous
clamor of this transient
world,
Your peace, oh Lord, is an
opalescent banner unfurled.
A paradisiacal sanctuary,
inviolable and true,
Where tribulations dissipate
in the cerulean blue.
So let me be transfigured in
this hallowed, holy place,
A resplendent
convalescence wrapped in,
Your abounding grace.
There is a school of thought
That says
Marmalade is only for breakfast bread
My mother also had that view.
However,as for myself
I will spread it,unsparing,
Morning ,noon and night.
A yacht would be the cherry on the daiquiri
but a tad too opulent for me
Give this admiral a sturdy old dinghy
let me row my way out to sea
A mansion with all the trimmings
six carports, servants quarters separate
Then again, with my aging Edsels
why invest now; I’m not desperate
Ah, a round-the-world cruise
just the tonic to soothe
Yet relaxing at home on my couch
I peruse the planet on TV, munch and slouch
So, just let me alone and leave me be
bathroom breaks ~ adventure enough for me
**Every House Holds a Story**
Every house conveys a story,
Each narrative unfolds layers of history.
Years of unspoken truths can influence our future,
Regardless of how carefully they are hidden.
Unlike the enigmatic identity of the Mona Lisa,
Some tales may be wiser, left unvoiced.
Within each home, there can linger unhealed heartache.
Every room serves as a subtle reminder of the past.
Once a heart is broken, the healing journey can be arduous.
Misinformation and concealed truths can foster a persistent sense of unease.
We all desire representation in our government,
A voice that advocates for our interests.
However, the onus for change rests with us,
House on the hill barricaded by brick, placed in 1981.
Sheltered by the flood, but bound and bathed
With the anguish of the mourning there.
Mostly by the caretakers of the children,
And then too the children as they grow older.
But they swore never to be like them, and that they would move away.
Across state lines in houses shielded by a sea of forest.
They would stay in touch, but just enough to get away with it.
Just enough to stay out of the mouths of those they ran from.
But close enough to not feel guilt for cutting ties.
One day that house won’t be ours.
It will return to the hill as it was made,
And remain a living relic in the stories we tell, and in our hearts.
Not for the suffering it kept shut inside,
But for the nesting it provided, and the memories that took the shape of us.
House Categories
Read wonderful house poetry on the following sub-topics:
beautiful, childhood, country, dream, family, gingerbread, haunter,
and more.
Definition | What is House in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.
Related Poetry Forms
abode, apartment, building, castle, condo, condominium, crib, dwelling, environment, home, homestead, household, lighthouse, mansion, mortgage, residence, shack