Best Houses Poems
you build high your dreams
with these card houses
as you stack them against walls
yet your eyes are closed
to life, so how can you see
what it is you hold?
you think you hold all the aces
in those battered fists of yours?
(be careful of the winds)
they may come tumbling down
care to gamble,
take a chance?
I can tell you
before you place your bet
the deck's not full
it never really is
it's just a game
nothing more
nothing less
and you can never win
go ahead ante up
the stakes are high
when the pots full of fire
just be careful of the winds
they may huff and puff
and blow your house down
it was never balanced anyhow
you just never saw
What is the point? Asked Mrs. Snooty.
The point is I could not make up my mind when we
were building, so I said put all three in.
We are not talking light switches.
We are talking light fixtures, and they are
gorgeous. I love them.
Not in the middle like most small eight by eight
rooms, but marching down the middle of the ceiling
in a proud line.
The point is, I like it this way, and it is my house.
I love color, and they are all colorful.
How did I raise someone this prissy?
I wonder to myself.
sloppy fields carpeted
with golden mellowing wheats
a fevered light
with vibrant sun, trapped in pigment
bleeds across the canvas
the wheat, thousands of tiny swords
with each stalk a silent hum
caressed by a gentle breeze
ever try to reach
the impossible blue
some dark green defiant cypresses
overshadowing the surrounds
stretching towards the sky
spinning their secret story
of sublime strength and resilience
providing shade around them
stand as silent vigils
guarding intruders
a serpentine path
winds its way through the fields
leading to some houses
and beyond to a cobalt stream
the dwellings of familiar shape
not grand, not imposing
stand gazing at the sapphire sky
shrouded with some stretches
of cotton clouds
each window, a rectangle of mystery
holds surreal surprises
one can hardly guess
blooming like whispers
with the chimneys` silhouettes
a smudge of charcoal
breathing quiet sighs
into the vast, indifferent air
in the background
hills shaped in quasi-perfect triangles
reflect the azure blue sky
merging with the horizon
with a sense of infinity
it is not just a scenic scene
of undulating wheat fields
and giant cypresses
but a warmth of feeling
a serenity made tangible
a quietude, that speaks
its own language
Vincent with his passionate brush
made the scene bloom
made it blaze
a place for living in peace
a place for inhaling nature`s bliss
a piece of land fallen
from heaven to earth.
People in glass houses
Shouldn’t throw stones
Fighting feuding spouses
Make unhappy home
Rocky words heavy with hate
Sinking souls as hearts break
Under the wrought iron arch and gateway
crawling with both wild and deep red creepers
complimented by evergreens.
The fall colors are splendid.
Most of the flowers are giving way
to the chill, and the swans are graceful and content
with the breeding season now over
Walking slowly along the narrow drive,
spots of color scatter around the green grass.
What beautiful yards,
each house made of stone,
granite - marble - sandstone.
The foundation of the earth
Dark stone black, pink, white, gray, burnt umber, rose
beautiful houses inviting you closer,
please see my name.
I was here many years ago.
Cholera came to me and took my spirit away.
But I was pretty and young and full of joy.
For a little while.
Old stones to the early 1800's.
Stones with angels guarding a lamb
baby tears fall, in time giving the stone soft edges.
One from yesterday.
Come see me in my house. Mausoleum strong and tall.
Handsome and successful.
Each as individual in death as their homes and places were in life.
Over here, I fought for my country. Me and all my buddies here,
laid out under each of these many white crosses.
Hello, don’t forget my free spirit ... riding high over the houses
touring where ever the wind wishes.
Swirling fine invisible ashes through the trees
sparkling in the late closing sun.
A town’s history. Natural, tragic, sickness, murder ... all here
The history wraps around the casual visitor.
Keening out not to be forgotten.
Calling, we were important pioneers.
The end of day sun setting on their windows
Aglow with the spirit of yesteryear.
light
in fog
breakers crash
help us find home
light
to safe harbor’s
past danger
lights
Burning twisted battered cells
A thousand needles a thousand hell's
Addiction...affliction... crucifixion...
Who cries for their demons...they do
Empty spaces with empty faces a heart is torn
All the while in denial a new crack baby is born
Come inside...my genocide... suicide...
Who cries for their demons...they do
Aged anger with fermenting lies
Abuses... excuses...no compromise
Ugly sorrow...no new tomorrow...beg steal or borrow
Who cries for their demons...they do
Echoing fear through darkened skies
Silent screams...streetwise...sunrise...need more supplies
Rehab no tab...remix a fix... crucifix +
Who pays for their demons...we do
Feb.11.2016
Anticipating
a peace march,
it's easy to get cynical.
How to prepare,
what to wear,
a uniform to confront
the uniform.
We mobilize
and mobilize
in responce to
mobilization.
Yin and Yang.
We and Them.
Spy vs. Spy.
Frick and Frack,
the march goes on,
a suicidal drumbeat,
sheep to slaughter,
life and death, death and life,
to step out of line
is to aid the enemy.
To join the line
is to aid the enemy.
The real problem is
just the shared
enmity.
Who out there is scared by a haunted house
There are some whom are sacred of a little mouse,
Your imagination can run wild and make you frightened
The haunted castle or house looks normal until at night and there is lightening,
Those sounds and lights make your mind play tricks and you can't see
How big and creepy these places are till night and I agree,
The old bulky furniture and grand stair cases
They are scary enough to make you feel like every step it erases,
Your presence and you begin to wonder
Then all of a sudden you hear the thunder,
As you reach the top of the stairs
You hear loud sounds from every where,
It is so creepy but, I am not in tears
The longer I stay the more I feel fear.
Written By: Unique Poetry 2015
that was worrying
but not surprising
for
who can
really tell who might leave
what in drawers
when
we move
home do we some
times not find strange objects
lurking
we moved
to a
new home
on saturday night
we locked the front door
my
wife
then asked me to check the cupboards
upstairs
"there might
be someone in one"
Where houses sing and dance
Come to my city and see
Houses sing and dance in festivals
Buildings dance Ndobolo*, twisty
Bumping in style and singing reggae
Clapping hands in joyful rhythm
And whistling with the winds
All day and all night
In every hill and valley
Come to my city and see
Houses waking up every morning
Without washing faces and legs
Without brushing their teeth
But enjoying the kiss of pure sewerage
Whenever tears roll from above
And crazily snake to destiny
Yes, here houses wave good bye to the world
As they gallop to work-places
Come to my city and see
Swarms of beetles, tortoises, buffaloes
In a cold war, crawling side by side
Spying suspiciously on one another
For espionage and sabotage
As they trap and get trapped
All day and all night
In this city of many questions
Hearts whisper messages of wonder
The rain that falls sweeps aside hope
Whirlwinds that blow confirms the chaos
Every sunrise the story is the same
Here in this city of many hills
Where houses sing, whistle
And dance Ndobolo
*Ndobolo is a famous Congolese dance
Black Americans in shark
houses
And caravans
Imagine how many black
Americans dying
In strong winters as
They can not afford
To build
or buy proper houses.
The American system pushed
Them to be
Where they are till now.
It is very hard
For them to come out
Of that bad
Situation without
The full support
Of the American government.
My daily song , "
God loves me so much ,
I love people so much. "
Do you think USA government does not have
Enough founds to build houses
for poor Americans ?
If not ...
What make them giant economy country in the World
When they fail to do what
The government of late
Mohammad Kadaffi did?
Huh?
Investing much money in terrorism
And wars in the World
While some Americans
Continue dying
like flies
In Winters
Due to missing
proper houses.
I think Uncle Joe Biden
Will work to change that system
Or Uncle Donald Trump
Will help
If Americans will vote
For him again.
I speak my mind as a poet
Which is reality.
By Alfonso Warally Ngengethe
Mussabwa Chris
In valleys, small towns, and cities alike
lit up with conviction and amplified sound
triumphant trumpets playing in unison
greetings of all to well wishers abound
Painted houses strung and silver spoon fed
no preoccupation with worry or trepidation
seeking pretty pockets filled with gold
outshining the moon and many a nation
Down river where the pavement hits the dirt
no matter the season resources remain thin
but empty hands won't deny full hearts
regardless if it's neighbor, stranger, or kin
Feeding the starving soul makes the man
Hailing of just painted houses never can
We lived in many houses
throughout my childhood
'though some were worse than others
none of them were good
Some had moldy odors
that (at best) were most unpleasing
others had thick coats of dust
that left me coughing, wheezing
One's floor had fallen out
another's ceiling had caved in
you can just imagine
the predicament we were in
We stewed through summer's swelter
shivered, shook through winter's chill
and every time it rained, we
emptied pots and pans that filled
You may wonder how we lived
in such a state, deprived
but it was 'normal' (all I knew)
and somehow I survived!
The covering above where love grows best and roots grow outward Note - Haiqua poem on the Japanese kanji house