House Prose Poems | Examples
These House Prose poems are examples of Prose poems about House. These are the best examples of Prose House poems written by international poets.
Summer’s End
The sun begins to set a little earlier now—
a gentle breeze brushes past my suntanned face and
I walk briskly on the sand which feels cool beneath my feet.
My pace quickens, like the prance of a Cat on the prowl.
Once home, the trees which line the street on which I live
stand majestically tall. No longer still, they begin to
sway to the music of the gentle breeze which softly touches
and fondles the leaves with a caress that only the breeze can give.
The air envelopes me, telling me it’s cooler than before—
and I run to the place that I call home,
Glad to be sheltered from something I feel in the air—
from a sky whose sun, today, will shine no more.
I pause in the house whose windows openly beckon the freshness of the crisp breeze as it quietly enters, gently pushing aside the ruffled curtains, and as it filters through the rooms—
I suddenly realize, it’s Summer’s End!
I’ve sold winter coldness to those who’re huge in their chests oncorners of these abandoned streets, where bars aren’t happy with myfootprints in front of every door. Where I hit myself at close range. Where I pay a price to win no game. However, she’s worked all her lifeto bring up all her children within this magical world of theatre & music.She’s convinced that these children won’t fail to understand & accept opera& early rehearsals. I'm bedridden waiting. Welcome to a pigheaded house. Welcometo your fate that befalls many emigrants you plant like beets beside the beetleto see new growth. Welcome to where you don’t fancy a beer before bier afterthe funeral. Something is bedraggled from the hedgerow & that’s your ex’sspecial brand. However, the twigs are dry & brittle, & cracked beneaththeir feet from the beginning. Her children are looking for more spaciouspremises after that premeditated murder in a blighted area where I prescribe hera daily diet chart.
Am I a foul fellow when the house is longer than this morning? Am I the designer of the living room that doesn’t encourage formality, because we’re associated with rigid boundaries? I’m the next citizen of an affluent hovel. I’ll be the next coastal lowland along any gulf & hearing your voice, pattering on every rooftop, I cover all the island-dotted lakes with your shadow. Somewhere within, a breath produces vapour, making the sauna feel even hotter. Now if my shop doesn’t pay you, it means my family goes hungry. No public property is written off here. You’re the capital of these floating islands, a nice account in the only bank here, you can take my people for a holiday to May Isle. I get a bit of capital, nothing is your own, is it? It’s for her, my daughter in a white mask.
i didn't like living in the house of my parents. i hated the constant stress and worrying that lay on my back as i fulfilled the duties of being their only son. i tried to make myself different from them, to distinguish that i was my own person, i wasn't the same people who judged, the loud persona holding people they were.
but then i looked into the family bathroom mirror. i looked at my hair- thick and curly. my father's bald now, but in his childhood pictures, he had the thickest, curliest hair to exist. i have my mother's temper and her eyes. me and my brother share the same sway back.
i'm just like my family.
The ending of your salvation
Is the ending of your life
Like Lazarus he's very poor
He wear sack cloth, he's sick
He only eat the crumbs under the rich man's table
The rich man has all the things in life
He is famous, he's powerful, he's respected
Death is the equalizer of life
Lazarus died, the rich man also died
Lazarus died angel came and bring Lazarus to heaven
The rich man died, for few seconds
He open his eyes and he's in the torment of hell
The rich man made so much request to Abraham
To send Lazarus to send back to Earth and preach to his 5 brothers
The rich man became an Evangelist this time
Requesting somebody must preach repentance to his house
To know avail his request wasn't granted
No more rewinding of life, no turning back my friends
We have given 70 years on Earth
To find that salvation in our life
If you can't, negotiate to Him, pray to God
If you find that salvation, repent and surrender
Sign the covenant and do His will no matter what.
I don't remember exactly,
but I know... in February
wanting to be March...
In the morning the wind blew,
as if announcing the fact,
a strong sun shone
as on a special day...
But it was the serene moon that
smiled the most when the poet
finally arrived from the farthest reaches...
He came from the immensity of the universe
without much fanfare...
He showed no cold,
nor heat... he arrived, he was born...
He didn't shake the whole world,
but it was a great event
in the house at number 510,
in the inland city...
For him, the offspring,
...it was a great day...
A great appreciator,
lover of poetry was born...
for those who know,
life is the greatest poetry...
When a poet is born,
what vibrates the most is life...
That's why when I arrived here,
that day was important!
"A house divided against itself...", Marxist know, cannot stand. The scheme, I believe, to sow as much confusion as possible. The world has gone through many ages: The Iron Age of Iron miracles, the Renaissance, when art reached its pinnacle of spirituality...and now, what we have in America, the Golden Age of Stupid -- hopefully more will soon wake-up and see the Light before it is too late.
The siblings were barefooted, so walking was painful.
Gretel was tiring of this adventure when she saw a light.
I hope it is a castle, she suggested. Hansel squeezed her hand.
Maybe it is a spaceship that will whisk us off to a bakery.
They laughed at their silliness.
At the edge of a clearing they saw a candy house.
It was gorgeously decorated with peppermint candies.
Must be a mirage, Hansel said. Gretel did not know what that meant.
They ran down the hill, their bare feet not as tender now.
Do you think we should taste it? Gretel asked.
No one had answered the door.
As they began to consume the house a voice said
“Come in Children!”
My husband and I have two dogs – Buddy and Beau
Buddy is a gentle giant, one hundred and sixteen pounds
Beau is an exuberant puppy, licking and chewing, chewing and licking
we adore them, they are like giant ponies, galloping through the house
Beau will jump from blue couch to recliner to brown couch
makes no difference that I am sitting in the recliner
This does not slow down his enthusiasm
Sometimes the couch slides three feet into the kitchen
Buddy was calm until Beau arrived
Now they are both like pony tornadoes
dashing around knocking us over
my husband and I will probably both break hips
We do not care; they are worth it.
I brushed my dog Buddy in the driveway today.
It looks like someone discarded a feathered mattress
He has as much fluffy stiff fur as any sheep I have met
the robins will be fighting over it for their nests
which is why I did it there instead of in the house
Everyone has their own story
Some tell theirs a million times a day
To strangers at the grocery store
And a friendly bartender
To anyone in the bar
Because they have no one at home
And they have a need to tell it all
It takes hours and hours
But that is hours they are not home alone
in a house with no one
not even a pet
Others tell no one their story
keeping it to themselves
sometimes physically hurting themselves
because their stories are stressful
killing them from the inside out
Everyone has their own story
whether they share or not
is up to them
Lily’s mama never let her have a pet
unless you count a sad dog who was chained to a dog house
his entire twelve years of non-life
I do not count that and neither did Lily.
Lily had to wait twenty-two years to get her own place
so she could get a pet
but one pet was not enough
she had been deprived a pet for twenty-two years.
She soon had six pets, and was open about getting others
Her mother never came to visit her.
Another perk.
Her father did, but he too had always wanted a pet.
Now he could come to Lily’s house and enjoy hers.
You’ve grown the most beautiful rose
In this garden of delight
Accept a little rhymed prose
From your faithful knight
You can wear it with suitable blouse
In a shape of silver pendant
A miniature silver house
Must be absolutely resplendent
Or in case you won’t be surprised
With what I have to expose
Give me a look most wise
Call my poem a rhymed prose
Maybe it was foretold
In some children’s book, I suppose
That one day I’ll come to this world
With a reason for rhymed prose
You laugh as the chapters go
I smile, and the twilight grows
Over the hills the sun sets low
Leaves dance as the breeze blows.
The antiquated train station in Omaha could make a marvelous house
Are you kidding? My spouse asked. You are kidding, right?
I was not kidding, my mind saw a potential no one else saw.
We bid on it, and began work immediately, it was July.
We got closer and closer as we retiled and rebuffed oak floors.
By the time our Christmas party rolled around, we had appreciation.
Our friends were asking where they could buy a train station.
Friends who had initially made fun of our purchase.
We bid them good-night and saw two or three turn back.
To look at the gorgeous home we had built together.
Or maybe to remember how much love and laughter are inside.
We are the best I said to my husband, and of course, we are.
Everyone loves a new mother.
We give her pampering gifts.
Send her carnations and roses.
Promise her candles, warm baths, chocolates.
Tromp into the hospital bearing onesies with cute sayings.
Pretending the smell of urine is palatable.
Pretending to not hear the cat whines from the new hairless creature.
Lying about the baby’s cuteness, feeling it is more hideous than pretty.
When postpartum blues hit, and the loudest wailing begins.
When deep pain, anguish and depression filter into the house
Who stays to help?
These are the heroes.