POETIC BLOOMINGS is a Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild site established in May 2011 to nurture and inspire the creative spirit.


Title and/or begin your poem with the phrase, “In this house.”  Where does it naturally lead you?   (Thanks to Sheryl Oder for sharing this idea.)


in this house

barren floors
drafty doors
empty drawers
love expressed
kindness stressed
richly blessed
© Copyright Marie Elena Good, 2013

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378 thoughts on “PROMPT #115 – “IN THIS HOUSE”

  1. sheryl kay oder on said:

    Hopefully, I can come up with something new, but this is the poem I wrote for the Internet poetry class which had this prompt for a poem. By the way, our son asked me why the poet in this poem is a male. Things are not THAT bad at home.

    In This House

    In this house the cobwebs
    creep out the window
    and meet the climbing ivy.
    Books are piled so high
    an avalanche could occur.

    The poet sits in quiet contemplation
    unaware of impending domestic doom
    as he sweeps the extra words
    from his page, cleaning
    up the meter of his lines.

  2. Marie, simply beautiful!

  3. In This House…

    So full of sadness,
    A ray of hope shines the
    Darkness like sunlight.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  4. William Preston on said:



    copyright 2013, William Preston

  5. William Preston on said:


    In this house at the edge of the eastern sea
    he wrote, while waves crashed relentlessly
    to change the shapes of the shifting sand
    and so to change the shape of the land
    that dared to survive in the face of the sea.

    He wrote of the creatures of the land and sea,
    of their grace and tough perspicacity,
    and did it all with a gentle hand
    in this house

    that stood, outermost, overlooking the sea.
    That house is now gone, the theft of the sea,
    but words that he wrote still gleam, like a band
    of sunlight that played, alone and unplanned,
    on the little rough table looking over the sea
    in this house.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  6. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    Oh, Meg, your words say it all!!

    • Thanks so much, Hen. 🙂


      • William Preston on said:

        I’ve been reading your little piece over and over, intrigued by it and yet wanting to add something like “my old Kentucky home” or “the house on the street where I lived” as a final line. I finally figured out that your tercets struck me as the first two parts of a sevenling poem. I’m not suggesting that you add a final line, as I like it as it is, but am throwing out the idea for what it might be worth.

  7. William Preston on said:


    In this house, when I felt funny,
    my mom would get the boo-boo bunny;

    its bent brown nose and cracked grey ears
    could always calm my fears or tears.

    Like many kids, I sought out harm:
    a twisted knee; a broken arm;

    an ache in tooth or head or tummy;
    some punishment upon my bummy;

    a bent psyche because my glasses
    caused laughter in my schoolroom classes;

    but with that bunny on my bed
    my pain would turn to glee instead.

    Those days, of course, were long ago;
    today I’m grown and in the know,

    but still l live within this house.
    My mom is gone, but with my spouse

    I still will get the boo-boo bunny
    when kids of ours feel sick or funny.

  8. Sudden sad revelation: Guess I don’t need to add my name to my comments in order to distinguish mine from Walt’s.


  9. DebiSwim on said:

    Haunted Houses

    “The houses are haunted by white night-gowns” from “Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock” by Wallace Stevens and scenes from “Meet Me in St Louis”

    The row house stands
    on pretty streets
    where once the
    road was cobbled.
    In this house are
    haunting things-
    white nightgowns,
    stocking caps
    and candlelight on stairs.

    Fireplaces long unlit
    flicker at night
    behind smooth walls
    and electric wires.
    In the night when all sleep
    peep through the pane
    see ghostly figures
    in white nightgowns
    and stocking caps
    lowering the gaslights on the stairs.

  10. In this House you Eat before you Drink

    Finish your meal son.
    Don’t drink before you hardly eat

    Don’t fill up quick with them liquids silly.
    Save room for mash potatoes and your meat.


  11. In this House of Chaos

    In this house, the dog leaves muddy prints
    and the kids are even worse.
    Where’s the sensor? Empty dispenser
    for TP?! This house must have a curse.

    In this house, many dust bunnies thrive.
    Wait. What? The washing machine!
    Empty dispenser?! Where’s the sensor?
    Feels like a rock? A hard place? Between?

    In this house, books are stacked in towers.
    Toys are scattered everywhere.
    Where’s the sensor? Empty dispenser
    of soap?! This house is crazy, I swear.

    In this house, one thing is quite certain:
    ‘though a mess, love flourishes.
    Empty dispenser? Broken sensor?
    Hugs (and clutter) are what nourishes.


  12. In this House of a Mind’s Eye

    In this house, creativity stirs
    the pot, so discovery occurs.
    A thought or kernel, sketched in a journal…
    imagination entrepreneurs.


  13. Evening at the Southertons

    In this house, there will be no carving
    of one’s initials on the dining room table
    no mention of bodily functions
    no swinging from the curtains in the lounge

    There will be no cricket in the front hall
    no tag-team wrestling in the kitchen
    no bobsleds, no skiing, no sliding
    running, hopping. Nothing frivolous. Full stop.

    There will be no scaling of the back fence
    no sampling of blackberries from next door
    no chucking of bramleys into the street
    no torturing of the family pets

    Upstairs is strictly off limits unless you need
    the loo in which case you have five minutes.
    There will be no complaining about the tea
    and absolutely no talking back.

    Now run along and play.

  14. Pingback: The Universe | Metaphors and Smiles

  15. The Universe
    In this house fashioned from stardust,
    I’ll shine with the beauty of their design.
    In this fleshly crucible decanted of cosmos,
    I’ll breathe, be empowered of its invigoration.
    In this container of energy and empty space,
    I’ll leave way for potential and creation.
    In this, I’ll live and move and hold my being,
    knowing that it’s me and that it’s beyond me-
    all at once-collaboration and an agreement
    to create and be created simultaneously.
    Within this body-this canvas stretched of stars,
    I’ll sparkle with the strength of the universe.
    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2013

  16. In this House of Cards

    “Life’s too short not to laugh at the cards you’re dealt.” ~Mark Zupan

    In this house of cards,
    the odds are good the joker
    holds the winning hand.


  17. In this house, I keep all my memories.
    My children grew up here.
    I loved my pets here.
    Important decisions were made here.
    I found refuge from strife here.
    My marriage matured here.
    I entertained friends here.
    I cooked countless meals here.
    I accumulated possessions here.
    Life’s lessons were learned here.
    I grew old here.
    In many ways it contains my life.
    That is the meaning of home.


    In this house, memories
    nestled in every corner,
    comforting mourners
    of a live well loved.
    Rooms, sealed and
    secrets remain concealed
    in hopes a return
    to normalcy will transpire.
    The home fires are doused,
    and this house will be
    devoid of any semblance
    of thoughts in remembrance,
    nestled in every corner.

  19. In this House

    I’m greeted in this house by wagging tail.
    He grabs his latest toy to share with me
    and from his lungs, he makes a sound; a wail
    that sings to tell his happiness and glee.

    I’m greeted in this house with shining eyes:
    He’s Malcolm and he’s happy I have come
    to say hello and speak with him, ‘surprised’:
    the total of our voices now they hum.

    I’m greeted in this house with love too much:
    we sit together, watching dog TV,
    content to be and silently we watch
    untold connection still a mystery.

    Acceptance in this house; his finest hour
    for Malcolm does sustain us with his pow`r.

  20. SORRY! for the double hit! Don’t know why this happened!

    By David De Jong
    August 11, 2013

    We believe
    What we cannot see
    We feel
    What we cannot touch
    We sing
    What we cannot hear

    We have seen
    What we could not believe
    We have touched
    What we could not feel
    We have heard
    What we could not sing

    We walk
    Where we cannot dance
    We cry
    Where we cannot laugh
    We eat
    Where we cannot feast

    We have danced
    Where we could not walk
    We have laughed
    Where we could not cry
    We have feasted
    Where we could not eat

    We Trust
    We Love
    We Live
    We Are


    In this house
    you’ll find some fruit
    and us abiding within the vine.

    But don’t look at me
    to glorify, for ’tis no work of mine.

    He’s in me and I’m in Him.
    He’s the true vine and we’re the limbs.

    He is our life and our reality.
    We now do nothing independently.
    For we’ve been joined from the start you see.

    As his life just flows through me
    we bear much fruit abundantly!

  23. DebiSwim on said:

    In This House

    In this house,
    a holy sanctuary,
    rises the incense
    of worship and laud.

    Hymns, choruses,
    songs and psalms
    spirals upwards,
    hearts awed.

    Blessed Be Your Name,
    Come, Now is the Time,
    Shout to the Lord,
    and the angels applaud…

    and God is pleased,
    accepts, somehow
    the worship of
    the flawed.

  24. In this House you’ll find some fruit

    …And delicious


  25. Marjory MT on said:

    “In this house…” Etheree turn-around 🙂

    this house
    we started,
    just two of us.
    Then, came a baby,

    afterwards, there were more.
    Some room added now and then.
    Loving, growing, learning, living.
    Picket fence, trees, shrubs,
    ……………………….garden added.
    Friends come to visit,
    …………house seams are busting,

    while picture taking, memory making,
    sharing year round fun, BBQ’s.
    Tots growing so fast to teens
    from play-dates to real dates,

    ‘way to school and work,
    weddings in yard,
    moving on,

  26. In this house you’ll find a smile

    In this house you’ll find a smile.
    a heart, spirit, laugh lingering awhile.

    In this house you’ll find my tepid eyes.

    If you look carefully you’ll find a surprise.

    In this house you’ll find a big grin
    in between my ears and above my chin.

    In this house you always leave with a smile.

  27. connielpeters on said:

    I’m writing Alaska poems this month and the next.

    In this House

    Lone star in inky sky
    Tiny cabin, thick snowy roof
    Square yellow lights—
    window and its reflection on snow
    Tall thin pine silhouettes
    Distant edge of white rugged mountain
    Two smoke-like wisps of Aurora Borealis
    Souls kept in comfort and fear
    from grand beauty and adventure.

  28. Interpretation

    In this house, memory plays tricks,
    running rough-shod up flights of stairs,
    hiding in closets, behind tall chairs,
    leaving walls marked from savage kicks.

    We’ve remodeled some truths away—
    see here where once was nothingness,
    book shelves smile out, disguising stress;
    we built that room, where now we stay.

    A scrape, a drill, color, a door—
    a smoke and mirrors magic act—
    what never happened now is fact,
    the story we’ve been searching for.

    This house honors refurbishment
    of memories; now old and set,
    they become what we can’t forget,
    maintaining power that we lent.

    Imagination helps this place
    stand through the worst minds can conceive,
    then calls it home, has us believe
    a brand new memory’s smiling face.

  29. In This House

    The drapes
    stay drawn
    and dust lays
    heavy everywhere
    The dog ambles
    room to room
    but never
    makes a sound.

    At night, the dark
    creeps easily in
    but lamps
    are rarely lit.
    The TV stays
    silent nowadays
    as does the radio,
    the record player,
    and the phone’s
    not rung
    since the afternoon
    when the world
    tilted askew
    then slowed
    finally to a stop.

    In this house,
    the memories
    lay stacked,
    bitter as compost
    rotting, and from
    disuse, shoved
    beneath a lifetime
    of regret.
    They grow
    day by day,
    and promise
    to disappear
    if their owner
    will just let
    them alone.

    And that is
    the plan
    It certainly is,
    she is resolute;
    to forget
    and she will.

    In this house
    where pain
    has ruled
    the roost
    since the day
    when she learned
    he was gone…
    Gone? She laughs
    her mirthless sound,
    as if that was all
    it meant…

    He’s dead,
    she knows it
    and it’s way
    too hard to know
    so she’s determined
    not to.

    In this house
    she knows
    she must be
    the one to
    be in charge
    or she will fly apart
    and in this house
    it just won’t do…
    She must be
    able to cope…
    in this house.

  30. Only Strange

    In this house
    In this house
    I think I can
    I think I can
    Twist and shout
    As loud as Thunder
    And never be a stranger.

  31. Gingerbread House

    In this house, you must
    take care not to gobble up
    the walls of ginger
    cookies, the rugs of ginger
    bread. Be wary of curtains
    frosted white, not to eat
    a single bite, or vanilla
    turkish taffy windows will
    be left bare. Do you care
    that the doorknob is a red
    swedish fish? After all,
    the house was built upon
    a child’s pink wish. In this
    house, you must take care,
    you must beware, of being
    sprinkled with cinnamon
    sugar, shaken by three bears.

  32. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    Resume Delivery

    In this house
    where I now rest,
    Sunday paper
    first time read
    Without you.

  33. In This House…

    Ghosts linger;
    Phantoms and shadows
    Whisper and
    Flinging my life in my face,
    And it’s cold…so cold…

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  34. Walls of Wood

    In this house with walls of wood
    Honed from trees in yonder wood
    Built by men with lives long past
    Built for family; built to last

    In this house so long no sounds
    Vacant, empty, no one around
    Weather beaten, proud no more
    Broken windows, padlocked door

    In this house the stench of mold
    Warped and worn from heat and cold
    Peeling paint, outdated style
    Overall this house is vile

    In this house once strong and proud
    The sounds of calling long and loud
    It wants once more a home to be
    A place for love and family

    In this house with walls of wood
    Beyond the filth lies so much good
    Beyond the weather beaten face
    This once again will be home base

    In this house new life will spring
    Revitalized, new sounds will ring
    A place revived, renewed, reborn
    Love gave this house a brand new morn

    © 2013 Earl Parsons

  35. ejparsons on said:

    Thank You, Lord

    In this house the sounds still reverberate
    Of beautiful children growing far too quickly
    Laughter, tears and the sounds of pure love
    The occasional problem, just temporary bumps
    All-in-all it was filled with pure happiness
    If I could go back, I’d do it all again

    So many memories made in this house
    Thank God for each one replayed in my mind
    Thousands of pictures for screensaver moments
    Misty-eyed memories of family so dear
    Throat lumping smiles as each picture passes
    Each with such meaning; each filled with love

    Thank You, Lord, for the blessing of family
    For the unforgettable times we shared in this house
    Thank You, Lord, for the love and the memories
    And even though they’re all grown up and gone
    Lord, protect them and keep their heads filled
    With the good times and love they all shared
    In this house

    © 2013 Earl Parsons

  36. In this House

    “A lady ghost lives here ” neighbor child whispered
    the real estate saleswoman frowned
    Too long this place had been hanging around
    No one believed in haunted houses any more
    But selling them was a long and tiresome chore.

    The lady ghost once had a name
    She had a husband, children, all the same
    As everyone else in this quiet neighborhood
    They were a family, and that was good.

    The years rolled past and everything they gave
    Later, one by one, they left, some things were saved
    Snapshots mostly, her album pages burst
    With all the happy times, oh, she did thirst

    For yesterday and all the times gone by
    (Sometimes she looked forward to the day when she would die)
    and once again would reunite with those she loved
    At night she wandered in her yard to watch the stars above

    Sometimes when nights were soft and warm , she would stay outside
    To where the moon was waiting and all the stars abide
    She would see her house just sitting there, empty and alone
    And she looked forward to the day when God would call her home.

  37. William Preston on said:


    In this house
    a dirty secret
    lies beneath
    my twin bed:
    if it is from dust we come,
    someone’s lurking there.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  38. Iris D on said:

    House Called Home

    Come in this house
    Pull up a chair
    Choose a book
    You’re welcome here
    Relax in peace
    Make yourself at home
    Or on the grounds
    You may freely roam
    View miles of panorama
    Sit in the shade
    Drink a tall glass
    Of fresh lemonade
    Take a nap or a walk
    Or come to the table
    For food and talk
    Stay an hour or a day
    Plenty of beds
    For overnight stay
    Folks say I live alone
    But there are many
    Call this house, “Home.”

  39. I have LOVED the poems from this prompt…have to say, I saw the prompt Sunday in my email, and it pulled me back into the garden.
    I told myself ‘I have to write to this one.’ The first image coming to mind is a picture of myself and my little brother one winter, a black and white photo (the old curly-edged square pictures that live in boxes now on the top shelf of our parent’s closets). I drive by that house often, it’s only a block behind my church. I lived there twelve years. So many memories.

    600 West Eleventh

    At this house
    our first big snow.
    fell heavy and slow
    –at five, I suppose, or maybe I was six—
    my brother four, or three.
    It fell secretly
    at night
    on the neighborhood:
    across yards, streets, and cars.

    We woke
    to something rare
    for southern boys.
    Two brothers
    –who usually breathed water with their air—
    had played all year
    with willingly thread-bare
    heads, feet and arms.

    Dad had almost
    died that year
    in the steamy paper mill.
    We were not
    old enough for fear
    –to know an angry machine had mangled him—
    No tears would fall,
    and Mom hid hers well.
    Fears, faith, and fragile smiles.

    Unimaginable, these amazing flakes,
    as delicate as whispers,
    had even a chance to be,
    to fall, where we had played
    –just yesterday or just last week, it seemed—
    in cut-offs,
    shirtless, sweaty, wet.

    In more clothes
    than we had ever worn,
    we opened the front house door
    to see
    –from the tiny square concrete stoop–
    our white-burdened green hollies
    and red-berried nandinas
    droop beneath
    three magical inches
    of frosting from the sky.
    Oh my, oh my, oh my.
    Our world had changed.

    We paused in stiff new rubber boots,
    reluctant to step down.
    Little-boys’ ears
    –timid, but yearning to hear the sound–
    at the crunch, the icy crunch
    we had only heard rumors of
    from Dick and Tom and Jane.

    Oh my, oh my, oh my.
    Our world, our world
    had changed.

  40. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    I am so Loving everyone’s work… my little puppies are keeping me runnin’, so no time to comment… Thanks for the pure enjoyment!! :)!!

  41. Pingback: In This House Of Glass | echoes from the silence

  42. sheryl kay oder on said:

    Damon, I love “the crunch, the icy crunch”

  43. Girl Next Door

    In this house
    (red brick, blue roof)
    there was hope
    and home
    and apple pie
    and one sneaky

    In this house
    there was fear
    and dread
    and doubt.

    In this house
    there were
    17 windows
    2 doors


  44. Pingback: Girl Next Door | Whimsygizmo's Blog

  45. I’m back, I promise, after a long end-of-summer hiatus, spend taking in stimuli, hoping it will all ooze back out in poetry. Right now, I’m waiting on a couple of words and I’ll be back with my “In This House” poem.



    In this house where you once lived
    we’ve closed the door to your room.
    Dusted, tidied, sheets stretched,
    tucked tight, and it waits for your return.

    In this house where memories are kept,
    we sit – his chair, my chair, his reclines,
    mine’s bone-straight, we practise patience,
    a parents’ journey, a passage into age.

    In this house the dog watches the door.
    Waiting, staring into the long distance
    where you now live. We’re still here
    in this house where you once lived,
    tending your memories and baseball cards.

  48. Miriam Hernandez on said:

    In this house

    In this house full of noise and laughter
    I find all those things my heart seeks after
    Love and joy,some tears and sadness
    But overall a blessed gladness

    Corners are dusty, the shelving too
    I prefer spending time with you
    A little clutter will remind
    of choices made, things left behind

    Memories made, dreams shared and nurtured
    Children too soon grown and gone
    In a moment, we are here to carry on
    never a regret of time invested

    In this house

    Miriam S Hernandez

  49. After reading all the exceptionally good work people have posted (and I do thing this week has shown even more awesome-ness than usual) I am almost embarrassed to post this.

    In This House

    Mrs. Cavellette plays the old violin
    each morning, bow oscillating on strings,
    tunskilled, flagitious, a mad chainsaw.
    The nurses let her screech emotions, affrettando,

    since December when her ability to verbalize words
    slipped away. This appalling sound, commencing
    for only a few minutes, lets screams form and escape,
    helps to dull the suffering, liberates her sorrow.

    She then reaches for her morning latte,
    nibbles on a piece of toast with butter and honey,
    pours a second cup of latte which she places
    to the right of hers despite the fact she knows

    he is no longer there to drink it, no longer
    there to wake her with the sweet song of slow,
    sliding movements on his violin, the musical
    morning kiss that made her want to rise each day.

  50. Pingback: When the Last One Leaves | The Chalk Hills Journal

  51. sheryl kay oder on said:

    As I said on your blog,

    “Great poem, Misky.

    We have a basement space full of Michael’s toys. I have thrown some things away, but I will keep his Matchbox® cars. Isn’t it good we can look around to see objects which bring on poems?”

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