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Best House Poems | Poetry

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New House Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best House poems are below this new poems list.

fun house grain by Slausen, Anthony
In this house by Oosthuizen, Juanita
Hell House - Part - 6 by Raven, Vladislav
The Haunted House by Dust , Pixie
the house by the tree by AWTRY, P.S.
Screwed Up Little House by Regan, Robin
House by Heart, Dear
Gremlins Live In My House by Krutsinger, Caren
the house by heavingham, colin
Trump Put White House Up for Sale by Horn, James

View all new House Poems

The Best House Poems

Details | House Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Where The Sycamore Grew

The sun-yellow house seems smaller somehow,
regarding it now,  with our time-worn eyes...

The street seems narrower, and the trees are taller..
Where once open fields spanned both sides of the road
there are new tract houses, and fences have bloomed
The neighboring orchards have all been removed

But somehow we knew the house would remain....
As if seen from a distance, ...yet, so much is the same

There's a rusty-red tricycle, and a skate left behind
from someone's small child, that tomorrow will find.
They wait near the pavers that wind to the door
It's a path that we laid on a hot summer day...
in front of this house that sits at the bend
near the end of the road, where the sycamore grew...

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
_____ is all captured there, in the small yellow house
Our very first house, with the snow-white shutters

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 snow-white shutters...
that sits 'round the bend, where the sycamore grew...


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2009

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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 
Giorgio’s Contest: Iambic Verse III
Best of 2014  1st place

Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014

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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




Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2011

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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 ~

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011

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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")

Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014

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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!

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010

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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


Copyright © FJ Thomas | Year Posted 2018

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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.

Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013

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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.

Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014

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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

Copyright © Amy Green | Year Posted 2010

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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- 
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.

Copyright © Paul Sylvester | Year Posted 2005

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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

Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2009

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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.

Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2008

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Castle On The Hill

Upon a grassy hill, so long ago,
there stood a lovely 'castle', tall and white;
was built in eighteen eighty-six, aglow
with cozy rooms and firesides burning bright. 
So charming was the winding stairs that flared
'neath grand cathedral ceiling's chandelier.
Outdoors, a rolling lawn and gardens shared
a rippling stony brook, bubbly and clear.

This 'castle' on the hill from long ago
became a more to see.
Now only precious thoughts that come and go
can bring to life my fading memory.

My childhood 'castle' on the hill now gone...
our home, torn down to build a bridge upon.

Sandra M. Haight

~4th Place~
Contest: Any Rhyme Form - An Early Childhood Memory
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Judged: 04/24/2018

~2nd Place~
Contest: Castle On the Hill
Sponsor: Nayda Evette Negron
Judged: 04/27/2016

      This was my childhood home. It was an old Victorian 
      style house that seemed like a 'castle' to me.
      New York State claimed our home via eminent domain and 
      purchased it in 1960 to build the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge
      over the Hudson River to connect the two cities, and it
      opened in 1963. 

Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016

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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.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014

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Halloween Night

Come with us Halloweening.
We’ll frolic in the streets.
We’ll race from house to house to house
Spouting  “Trick-or-Treats.”

And eagerly we’ll each collect 
Confections in a bag.
Fellow ghouls, we’ll abandon you
If you even start to lag!

No slackers in OUR party
As we dash from door to door. 
Unlit locations far removed
Instinctively we ignore.

Our goal: to get all we can hold
This wickedly winsome night,
This “Hallowed Eve” of children’s dreams
For fancy and delight.

A time that kids’ imaginings 
Collectively take flight
In form of costumes of all kinds-
Of whimsy and of  fright.

For Dale and I, that’s part of the fun,
But even better yet
Is what we’ve counted the days off  FOR-
The bounty we’re going to get!

And through the dark we onward dart.
Watch as we trespass
People’s lawns, but yards with dogs
We cleverly bypass. 

And when we need to go back home
To get more paper sacks,
We drop off  treats we’ve got so far,
Then quickly double back. . . 

Until we’ve covered every block
Of every foreknown spot
That  we had ever frequented
And some that we had not!

Then good and late we homeward speed
With just a little dread,
For darkened windows greet us
And most folks have gone to bed.

We throw our candies on the floor,
So much there is to eat!
We count each chewy chocolate bar,
Each popcorn ball and sweet.

We toss out raisins, apples,
Tiny suckers, silly fruit,
Or give them to our siblings
Who received too little loot.

Then off to bed, our day complete,
We dream of how we’ll feast
Each day with glee, while savoring
Our treasury of treats.

For the Halloween Night Poetry Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010

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she stands alone incurring her indomitable wrath 4/4/2016

Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2016

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Nobody knows what goes on behind this hotel door ‘Mr Smith’ isn’t with his wife of that I’m pretty sure! He’s with his mistress Sue, they are having an affair But he is a cheating love rat and he doesn’t really care A barrage of fists is flying at number twenty-two Sally covers her bruises, what else can she do Her man is a bully and hits where nobody can see She’s got no one to turn too otherwise she would flee Harry is all alone since his dear wife has died He’s desperately lonely but filled with such pride His family only live on the other side of the city But are so busy with their lives, isn’t that a pity Post builds up in his letter box, there’s milk left at his door Neighbours think they’ve seen him but they aren’t really sure The police arrive; break down his door and Harry’s lying dead He’d fallen down the stairs; dried blood lay round his head Peter is an alcoholic and he suffers from depression He has bouts of violence, he’s known for his aggression Since his wife walked out on him he’s attempted suicide His life has gone downhill since he lost his lovely bride Little Sally wants to hide when she sees Phil the baby sitter He makes her do ‘things’ with him, if she won’t he says he’ll hit her She’s subjected to sexual abuse that no child should endure But her parent’s are oblivious when they walk out that door Nobody really knows what goes on behind closed doors I wonder would you divulge what happens behind yours? Doors Contest Sponsored by Richard Lamoureux 03~23~17

Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2017

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Between the Nightmare and the Dream

In my grandpa’s field I stand midst rows of grain whose gray-green blades stir softly in the moaning wind. A night chill permeates my skin. I look down at my arms and legs and realize I’m a little girl again! How did I get here? Why am I now standing here in the dark of night? Far ahead of me, I see the old worn farmhouse. Moon, big and golden, seems to have left the sky. It’s reappeared at the window of my grandparent’s old house, where it glows with a mesmerizing light eerily beckoning me. I stand transfixed, not knowing what to do. Is this a dream? It has to be! Grandma sold that house when grandpa died. I’d seen it one more time remodeled and repainted and with another owner’s name. The house I’m seeing now is the old one from my childhood. Many things from long ago are coming to my mind: The fields where my sisters and I frolicked in the summers; the long dirt lane we skipped happily along; the berry bushes along many pathways we discovered; the hollyhocks we learned how to make cute dollies from. It was daylight when I knew the farm back then. Sun was high in the sky. Now I’m only seeing the eerie glow emanating from grandpa’s house. . . I awaken to the darkness of a winter morning’s gloom, vaguely remembering a vanished moon which turned up on the face of my grandparents’ old farmhouse as if to beckon me back to my childhood. But somehow I knew (even while asleep) that to near that house and then to go inside it would not be the stuff of happy dreams. There was a reason for the coldness of the night, the moaning of the wind. The summer days have fled. Between the nightmare and the dream, subconsciously I knew you simply cannot go home again. For the Dreams (poems about dreams)Poetry Contest of Royal Ninja

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012

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The Gingerbread Family's Ordeal

I received a beautiful Christmas gift the other day,
it was so quaint and pretty but ate it anyway,
was a gingerbread house with a gingerbread family,
consumed the whole house while the family looked away,

Then they looked up at me with sorrowful icing eyes,
I felt so bad they're now being homeless I started to cry,
so I ended up buying a gingerbread log cabin kit,
made it last night so they wouldn't retaliate and have a fit,

Now Mom, Pop son and daughter are in their new home,
I didn't want them homeless on the street's all alone,
I even baked and gave them a gingerbread dog,
but the temptation was too great and started eating the logs,

Now once again because of me they are homeless,
my gingerbread appetite like an overwhelming furnace,
so I'm asking somebody to please take them all in,
or they too might disappear along with their next of kin.


Copyright © cheryl hoffman | Year Posted 2016

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The Haunted House

The Haunted House

An aging Victorian graphite three story house sat on a 
promontory, lonely, deserted, weathered and forlorn.
Broken windows showed signs of cruel abuse from
passersby amused by throwing rocks we surmised. 
This skeletal shell of a one-time elegant beauty
became a welcome refuge for my sister and I, wet 
and chilled to the bone on that stormy autumn night.

Our car had broken down about two miles away.
There were no other homes or buildings nearby.
To our amazement the door was open and after 
knocking loudly with no answer, we let ourselves in. 
Cobwebs clung to our faces and hair as we entered
and brushed them away squeeling disdainfully.

I had a small torch on my keychain and with it we looked 
around to try to find something to dry ourselves off.
We moved in unison across the creaking floor, shivering.
It was then that I felt cold fingers grasp my shoulder.
Wide eyed I slowly turned my head but no one was there.
We both heard errie laughter as chills ran down our spines.
We ran to the door but now it was locked and we were 
trapped inside as panic set in with our hearts pounding.

Then all of a sudden two creatures appeared before us 
standing there with matted hair and we both screamed
so loudly we scared each other, but with my little light I
could see we were looking at ourselves in a full length
dusty antique mirror. We laughed hysterically in pure relief.

I tried my cell phone again and miraculously got a signal.
I managed to contact the auto club who estimated 2 hours.
We waited impatiently until the auto club came to rescue 
us and our car. The driver sat outside and honked his horn. 
We screamed to him that we were trapped inside. He came 
up to the front door and to our shock the door flew open.
We hurridly left that haunted house and never looked back 
as the driver quickly drove away in the pouring rain. 


Sponsor-   Dear Heart
Contest-   The Haunted House

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2018

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The Haunted House

The Haunted House

‘Room to Let’ the signage read, 
and though it looked run down,
I’d found no other place to stay
since I was new in town.

When I knocked upon the door,
a voice called out, “Please enter.”
“Hello,” I answered in reply.
“I’d like to be your renter.”

A lovely woman greeted me.
She had a toothy smile.
“It’s nice to have the company.
It’s been dead here for a while.”

Outside a wicked wind blew forth.
The front door slammed with a crash.
Just as quickly every window 
fell down in their sash.

“I guess a storm’s a-brewing,” I said,
covered in bone-chilling sweat.
“Let me show you to your room.”
replied the shapely tall brunette.

“Some steps here may be rotten,” she warned.
“I urge you to beware.”
Moaning fell with every step
as we climbed the creaky stairs.

The room she showed me looked quite sparse.
Inside was just one coffin.
“Please excuse the dust,” she said,
“I don’t come in here often.”

She wiped away the cobwebs
once we got inside the room.
“It really is quite cozy here.”
Then pointed out the tomb.

“If you like the chamber,
I suggest we both get started.
No other soul will bother us,
They have all departed.”

I laid inside the casket.
It was a perfect fit.
“I believe I could be comfy here,”
I hastened to admit.

“No one here will vex you,”
She signaled with a wave.
“You will find this haunted house of mine 
as silent as the grave.”

“I’ll need a small deposit,” she said.
Then, bent and bit my neck.
As she sipped away I asked, 
“Do you take traveler’s checks?”

“I’ll take this as collateral.”
She said after she drank.
“There’s no need for money here,
I have my own blood bank.”

August 17, 2018
Sponsor-   Dear Heart
Contest-   The Haunted House
Title your poem -      The Haunted House 

Copyright © Judy Valko | Year Posted 2018

Details | House Poem | Create an image from this 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.

Copyright © Tony Lane | Year Posted 2011

Details | House Poem | Create an image from this 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...

Copyright © Michael J. Falotico | Year Posted 2012

Details | House Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Our little Haven

When I was just a little girl
With mind as always, in a whirl
Me and my cousin, we would roam
Far, far away from my sweet home

We'd make our way to some rocks we knew
All covered by green moss, we two
Oh it was such a magic place
And left huge smiles upon my face

To us it was a fairyland
With imagination vast and grand
We both saw fairies, little elves too
Dancing daintily as they do

When that time came, we had to leave
Both our little hearts would grieve
We'd leave that haven, her and me
Our minds brim filled with memories

So we went back to normalcy
And though it made us both unhappy
We knew that soon we'd go back there
And see those we folk everywhere

Copyright © Vera Duggan | Year Posted 2014