Best Nostalgiahouse Poems
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
The house sits silent.
All but for the creaks and groans
as the house settles on it’s aging foundation.
The arthritic sound of wood.
A faint hum from the refrigerator,
is the backdrop, to the passing of time
from the Grandfather clock in the hall.
A cat sits on the stairwell landing.
A silent witness to the night.
It’s green eyes glowing softly,
within the slash of moonlight.
The gentle sounds of sleep
come from the rooms above.
The slow steady drip of a faucet,
the only sound within the home.
A breeze sweeps through an open
French door, billowing, gauzy curtains.
Carrying with it the scents
of Honey suckle and Rose.
The wood rope swing that hangs
from the gnarled tree, is caught
up in the nighttime breath, to cast about.
The old rope squeaks it’s protest.
The wind in the leaves rustle out
their own soft song. Singing to sleep
the birds and small creatures of the day.
Welcoming the night hunters.
As the night passes and the sun begins to rise,
so too the house awakens.
The cat uncurls to stretch
and head out the open door.
the drip of the faucet,
is now a steady stream,
Washing off a face of sleep.
From the kitchen, comes the smell
of coffee freshly brewing.
So starts the new day.
The sun will ride this day's sky,
to set once again.
The house will settle anew,
welcoming the night time stage.
The kids are in bed, there's dishes to do
Washing, ironing, paperwork too,
Children, office, housework, sometimes I find life hard
But it isn't really, not when it's compared
To my mum's, who rose up early and was never late
Lighting the coal fire that was sitting in the grate,
She then cooked breakfast on a range,
Haaven't things for me now changed.
Over the range for hours mum would slave
Cooking meals, wheras I have a microwave
And a vacuum to clean this house of mine
Mum used to beat rugs on her washing line.
I have central heating to keep the house warm
For my waking up by electric alarm
Straight into the bathroom to have a shower
With instant hot water, mum had to wait hours
For the water to boil, for her dolly tub
With its mangle, her weeks washing to scrub,
A washing machine daily, washes my clothes
What I'd do without it, heaven knows.
And only a larder and pantry had mum
No fridges, or freezers with meals ready done
Between rudding steps and range black leading,
She would always make time, for games and for reading,
My children son't bother to go out to play
They stay in their rooms, on computers all day,
I guess each generation has its 'hard times'
I suppose at the moment, this must be mine,
But, on reflection of the life my mum had
I call myself lucky, my 'hard time's' not so bad!
The house still sleeps,
Coughs, rustles, creaks
scuttle under my closed door.
The truck grumbles into the alley.
It used to be a barmaid
trashing bottles near
the house where I grew up
making pops and clinks.
Now it's trucks collecting bins,
dumping glass in their broad bellies
huffing away down the alley.
Each time my Auntie Rosa went to shop in the High Street,
She’d bring us back a pink-iced bun; it was our special treat.
We’d take them up to Grandad’s (we preferred to eat them there)
We’d scoff them in the kitchen, in his big old Windsor chair.
And Grandad made us thick black tea, as thick as tarmacadam,
And carrots from the garden (if the rabbits hadn’t had ‘em!)
He tried, I guess, but honestly, his cooking was quite ropey,
And since he washed his plates in Daz, it always tasted soapy!
He kept rabbits out behind his house (some of them were tame.)
In the front grew antirrhinums – ‘bunny-rabbits’ once again.
Their soft and furry noses looked exactly like each other:
Each flower a tiny replica of its herbivorous brother.
His house was full of assegais, elephants and gongs.
He’d tell us of his voyages and sing us salty songs …
He always wore a waistcoat and a greasy old flat cap.
He still walked with a sailor’s roll, the nautical old chap!
When Grandad wanted 'baccy, I’d go down Kit-Cat Lane
To the musty shop in a wooden hut - ‘The Cabin’ was its name.
T’was just like in a cowboy film, with barrels and all-sorts;
But best of all was the real stuffed bear, moulting on the porch..
Sometimes we’d go to Gordon’s house. His garden had a swing.
We’d crawl under his veranda, and discuss Lee’s brother’s Thing!
Gordon did love swimming! He went in the sea each day.
He went in once too often, for he drowned out in the bay.
Those summers on the island seem so very long ago.
These days I can’t remember why it is I loved them so …
But sometimes, when a nasty pong comes drifting from a drain,
It smells just like the Canvey dykes, and I am there again …
I’m padding down a sandy path, between two slime-filled ditches,
My hair is wet, my skin tastes salt, my swimsuit rubs and itches.
I turn the corner of the lane; the graveyard smell is gone …
In Grandad’s garden, there’s my Dad! He’s come to take me home!
For the uninitiated (or simply younger!), an assegai is an African Zulu warrior's long spear,
and tarmacadam is the stuff you put on roads - blacktop!
Grandma’s house is gone, part of my childhood too
Leaving only memories and a sense of feeling blue
Progress can’t replace the happiness and joy
That dwelt inside my heart when I was a little boy
Coal stove in the kitchen, keeping the farmhouse warm
Grandma’s arthritis forecasting a pending storm
At night you could hear the crickets and smell the fresh stacked hay
Hear the trucks out on the highway though they were a few miles away
There were grapevines in the back with grapes that tasted so good
And a shed across the front yard, on the side some fire wood
Chipmunks came up on the porch and ate peanuts out of my hand
Grandma’s house was special, the best place in the land
There was no running water, outside we had a well
Grandma’s vegetable soup gave the house a special smell
We had large family gatherings each and every Fourth of July
And all the love and laughter that heaven could supply
I went hiking with my brothers until day turned into night
With potatoes in the campfire, The farmhouse still in sight
Life was so much simpler then, a better way of life it seems
Grandma’s house is gone now, but never from my dreams.
Oft we hear that trite, well-worn phrase,
"Oh! How I long for those good old days!"
I admit at times I pine for those days and reminisce,
Comparing costs then and now and other things I miss.
You could fill your Studebaker's tank for about a dollar.
If gas exceeded nineteen cents a gallon, my how folks would holler!
Fifteen cents would buy a triple crowned ice cream cone,
And you didn't pay outrageous surcharges for a telephone!
Mr. Sears would send stuff to build a house for a thousand bucks,
Or, for about a thousand more, a splendid beauty far more deluxe!
A car cost about six-hundred bucks if bought from Mr. Ford,
Some with a rumble seat and of course a standard running board!
You'd pay ten bucks for weekly grub, more than you could tote,
And for five bucks, provide each of the kids with a winter coat.
For a nickel a Clark or Power House candy bar could be had.
A quarter would get you to a movie, with popcorn, I might add!
Alas, the cost of living will surely rise for each coming generation.
Fellers smarter than I blame it on something called inflation!
Years from now the grandkids will look back and tearfully recall,
That the house we paid twenty-thousand for wasn't bad at all!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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