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.)
MARIE ELENA’S ATTEMPT
in this house
barren floors drafty doors empty drawers love expressed kindness stressed richly blessed © Copyright Marie Elena Good, 2013
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
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.
Sheryl, you have sketched such a neat picture here in your words!
Yes, economically too. Love that image: “… mpending domestic doom ,,,”
Ohmygosh. I’d say this is one your finest poems, Sheryl.
Marie Elena
Me too, MEG. Great one, Sheryl. Yours, too, Marie, says so much in so few words. Wonderful.
🙂 🙂
I also agree. I almost don’t want to post my poem because I have no chance in hell. Sheryl has rocked this prompt.
Yes Sheryl, this is quite lovely.
Thanks everyone. Now if I could think of a new one. We’ll see.
Love it, Sheryl!
Very nicely done.
I enjoy the tidying of things that matter here! 🙂 Excellent idea for prompt, too, thank you!
I can’t take credit for the prompt. It was used in our Online poetry class, and I cannot find the names of the two teachers right now. I have tried writing a new poem today, but my attempts have been lame. it doesn’t help that I have not slept as much as I should for three nights in a row,
Oh, I’m sorry about the lack of sleep…today I can relate with this especially…lousy night coughing and crowded about by kids suddenly! Well here’s to better sleep. ♥
Love this, Sheryl! Sounds like a writer’s house to me. 😉
Beautiful Sheryl, the image of cobwebs meeting ivy is REALLY gripping to me, and sets the instant mood of desperation.
What lovely language and images in this, Sheryl. Love it.
Marie, simply beautiful!
Aww … thanks Patricia! 🙂
Marie Elena
I’ll second that and also the beauty in the things that last…amen. Thank you Marie.
❤
In This House…
So full of sadness,
A ray of hope shines the
Darkness like sunlight.
© Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013
You always sneak that ray of ‘Hope’ into the bleakest of scenarios. ❤
Marie Elena
That does seem to be the theme of a lot of my poems, doesn’t it? 🙂 Thanks for reading, Marie!
I agree with Marie. You have the perfect last name. What a treasure Erin!
🙂
Thank you, Linda! It is a remarkable last name… 🙂
I’m with these ladies…lovely ray of Hope shining here. 🙂
Thank you, dear Hannah! ❤
♥!!
Hope never fails us.
No, it doesn’t. Thank you, Ben!
Hope again, like silver woven in brief lines of light.
Thanks, Damon. 🙂
nice 🙂
IN THIS HOUSE,
permanence
is
temporary.
copyright 2013, William Preston
You KNOW how much I love saying much with few words. This little gem could be contemplated for many-a-moment. Nicely done!
Marie Elena
Thank you, Marie.
🙂
Nice! 🙂
Worth much thought; a bargain of consideration. Loved this William.
I agree with Marie…I, too, like when much is said in few words. Probably why I also write many Piku and Shadorma poems. Anyway…using far more words than necessary to tell you: I love it!
ON BESTON’S THE OUTERMOST HOUSE
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
Full of imagery, and I admire the way the words are sewn together … as always with your work. I’ve never read The Outermost House, but you make me want to make that purchase.
Marie Elena
I think you’ll not be disappointed.
http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/308220-the-outermost-house-a-year-of-life-on-the-great-beach-of-cape-cod
Thank you Bill!
So picturesque, William. Well stated.
I want to write there!! Well done, William! 🙂
Wonderful.
Beautiful imagery, Will! 🙂
When I saw the prompt, “The Outermost House” came immediately to mind. But I couldnt’ think of how to do a poem about it. You succeeded marvously.
Thank you all. I appreciate it.
I understand that there is a Henry Beston Society in Massachusetts, and one of its goals is to re-build that little house. The original was lost in a great blizzard in 1978.
William,
you prompted a longing for writing in me…for both a place to write and a slow glowing-ember yearning to do it. Thanks.
Vivid image of this particular house, which for some odd reason made think of an old movie called, The Ghost And Mrs. Muir.”
Oh, Meg, your words say it all!!
Thanks so much, Hen. 🙂
meg
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.
Nice idea. Thanks for the tip!
THE BOO-BOO BUNNY
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.
OH MY GOODNESS! Sooooooo endearing!!
William, you have written another great poem. It gave me a chuckle, too.
Thanks, both of you, very kindly.
Yes…very endearing. This is so sweet…I can see this in a collection for children. 🙂
Thanks. I was wondering…
Adorable!
That broadened my smile, William.
I want one right now. Sweet one, Bill.
Aw… bunny!
Sudden sad revelation: Guess I don’t need to add my name to my comments in order to distinguish mine from Walt’s.
*sigh*
Not meaning to sound glib, but both of your comments almost always seem seamless to me.
Ah, but if you get your Bloomin’ mate, Marie…
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.
Sounds like a nice place to visit.
I think in the second stanza, 5th line it should be “In this house” rather than “In the night”
Debi, I love this. It’s inventive and well written. EXCELLENT.
I echo Marie’s comment. 🙂
Thank you all.
Debi,
my daughter lives in St. Louis in an old row house in Dutchtown. I love the image, and had the context…next time I’m there I’ll have to look for night-gown ghosts in gaslight. Loved the imagery.
Thanks. I loved the movie and the old house in it.
There’s a hominess to these ghosts, as if they’re coming down for Christmas morning.
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.
Benjamin
this poem makes me smile… is “Benjamin” the child repeating, in his mind, what his mother says?
Glad I invoked a smile…no, the name was not intended to be part of the poem. Probably should’ve been
True that! That’s the rule here, too! I love that you went in this direction…that was my initial reaction. 🙂
Yep. That was one of my moms golden rules!
LOL! You crack me up, Benjamin!
Haha, just like my house! I seem to hear my mom’s voice… 😀
Heard it so many times! Great, Benjamin.
Same here! Lol!
One of my father’s perennial drinking rules. Love the humor, Benjamin.
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.
###
So wonderfully playful, yet superb. Might describe some poets’ homes everywhere, though I know engineers’ homes like that, too.
Oh, yes! Wonderfully playful indeed! RJ, you ROCK.
;-D
So sweet, RJ!
RJ, this is a such an honest portrait of a home well-lived-in. Loved it.
Always wonderful to see an RJ poem!
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.
###
Gwawdodynly apropos!
😀
Good one! 🙂
RJ, I want to live there!
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.
On the next block, presumably. Love this; it’s such fun to read.
Just don’t play in the house, huh? Or in the yard?
Oh, what a crackup! Did you cover all the bases? SUCH FUN, Andrew!!
I know this house! A great chuckle, Andrew!
Love this, Andrew! I sometimes feel like saying those things to my younger siblings… 😉
Andrew,
perfect last-line dissonance!
Good one, Andrew. Glad I don’t live there.
[…] PROMPT #115 – “IN THIS HOUSE” […]
I have a lousy summertime cold. Not feeling as sparkly as the stars but that’s okay. I’ll be back to read…I have to be somewhere in less than an hour and I’m far from ready! :O
Smiles to all the poetical peeps in the garden.
Awww! Summertime colds are the worst. 😦 Okay, maybe that would be wintertime colds. But still … get better!
Thank you, Marie! Somehow I think they might be worse…cold and summer does not belong in the same phrase! 😉 and ♥ to you
Whoa! Me too, Hannah! I barely survived church services. Hope you (we) feel better soon.
Well, you were more ambitious than I was…I didn’t even go…I do hope that you’re feeling better today…I’m doing a bit better…a few more days probably will have me almost normal again! ♥ and healing to you, Jane!
Feel better! (Hugs!) ❤
Thank you, Erin, today I can breathe through one nostril…after five days, that’s progress! 😉
Hannah–ah-choo!
Ah-choo–ah-choo!
I hope–that-you
thatch-choo–thatch-choo!
Can write–by noon.
uh-swoon…uh-swoon…
Feel bet-ter soon.
Yes-sooon! Yes-sooon!
This is the best!!! You should see my smile! Today I woke up and could breathe through one nostril!! Improvement…tomorrow it’ll be two!
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
Wow. Gives a renewed insight into stardust.
Yes, that we’re made of the same goodies as star-guts has been impressing on me lately! Thank you, William. 🙂
Drawn into cosmic tourbillion
in spiral flight
descending staircase
a millenia of minds race
in thoughts a trillion
I’m abruptly lost
within myriads of opinion
Inspired by Hannah’s photo
Hannah! I’ve been enjoying your photo too much!
What a wonderful surprise!! I’m so thrilled that you’re having so much fun with it!! 🙂 Love the “spiral flight!”
Enjoyed this mental nudge toward infiinity, Benjamin!
Thx
Oh, my! This is way beyond the mundane things occupying my mind in THIS house.
Well, thank you for your wonderful idea that inspired me to write this, Sheryl!
If anyone sparkles with the strength of the universe, it is our sweet Hannah. No doubt.
Love this.
♥ Thank you so much, Marie…warms my heart.
Beautiful…and you do sparkle, and you do shine, and you inspire us all. Keep being just the way you are. 🙂
Erin, this makes me tear-y…happy tears…thank you so much. ♥
You’re welcome, Hannah! (HUGS)
Ditto. Even sick, you sparkle, Hannah.
Hannah,
what a contrast to RJ’s dust beneath his bed! Loved this, beautiful.
Oh, Hannah. I LOVE this.
Thank you SO much, Linda! I really feel like this one might be a favorite out of what I’ve written so far in the last five years. ♥
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.
###
This pithy little piece makes me think on chaos theory.
Oh my. You are on a role. Or a roll. A wrole? Wroal? Wrowl?
ahem…
Both your poems are smart and funny and fun to read. Great, RJ.
I agree! I like this one especially.
Love the wit in your work this week, RJ.
And yet another!
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.
Superb. Plain and simple.
Our homes tell much about us, don’t they?
This is special, Linda. I can feel that warmth just spilling from what “home,” is to you.
The meaning of home, indeed. Nice.
Simple, and to the point. Very lovely, Linda. ❤
Linda,
a testament to the endearments of place and presence. This was calming and assuring and comforting.
IN THIS HOUSE
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.
I am not Jewish, but I feel like the expression, “L’chaim!” belongs here. I say that because of your phrase, “live well loved.”
Me too, Walt, and I am Jewish!
🙂
Hi Walt, so good to see your words.
What a poignant poem, Walt. The words, “comforting mourners” gets to the heart of what I understand you are saying. How I want those memories to become warm again, not tepid reminders of livlier times. 😦
Sheryl says it well and with heart…just the feeling that I’d try to describe. Warmth of memories…
And I “third” Sheryl’s sentiment.
As always, Walt, your words are just beautiful … sad, but beautiful nonetheless.
Warms my heart to see you out here.
Poignant and touching, Walt.
Very touching… Good to see you, Walt!
Walt,
truly in the corners history lives–quietly, secretly, but alive.
As always, my friend…each word perfectly placed.
good one, Walt.
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.
No worries, I did this last week. Lovely poem. Enjoyed the imagery.
“watching dog TV” is a great line. That wagging tail greeted me as I read this poem.
I love the connection felt. I need to get a dog I think…I’ve had dogs for the last 15 years…this house feels so empty w/o one…coming home always feels hollow. So, your poem was powerful…Malcolm so very real. Thank you, Jackie.
Oh, yes! Malcolm is very real. This is not just a poem about
a dog! And yes! when you find your own, Malcolm asks that you please stop by your local Dog Rescue place to accomplish this!
Word!! That’s is exactly how I feel about the topic…you can pass that message and a bug doggy hug from Hannah on to him for me, kindly! ♥
This is precious, Jackie!
So in the same place with you here, Jacqueline. The greeting of a dog–regardless of my mood or state–puts at rest any angst or fear.
The camaraderie of a pet is one wonderful and mysterious connection. You represent that well here, JC.
Thanks, Jane. Malcolm is my son’s pet so I must go across town to see him. I live in an apartment too small, really, for a pet and he lives, mostly alone, for my son is gone all day and most of the night. So, between the two of us. we lick the platter clean, lol.
SORRY! for the double hit! Don’t know why this happened!
It doesn’t matter; I get it, and I like it. I like Malcolm, too.
Corrected. 🙂
And I love Malcolm. You’ve captured the love.
…. happens for double pleasure. 🙂
IN THIS HOUSE
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
His
Lost the title somewhere in cyber space..
“In tHis House”
Ah, now we understand. Well stated, David.
Fixed.
Uplifting sentiment, and I wish every house held what you express so beautifully here.
Thanks
This is so good, David! ‘Specially love that fourth stanza.
David,
I was glad, when they said unto me, “Let us come into the house of the Lord!”
Loved this.
Thanks everyone – Good prompt for a Sunday.
I thought the same thing. Lovely, David.
IN THIS HOUSE YOU’LL FIND SOME FRUIT
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!
Every house should have such fruit.
Thx Sheryl
Love this!
🙂
Add me to the love fest, Benjamin!
The best kind of fruit to have…what could possibly be sweeter?
Right on.
Hi Marjory
🙂
Beautiful Benjamin.
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.
🙂
Debi, the truth of the last line is an amazement, isn’t it?
Oh my, yes!! So very thankful!
Debi, this is just a wonderful, praise-full, fabulous piece. Thank you!
Oh! That last stanza! So powerful and true and beautiful!
Thanks!
Debi,
great last lines. Grace enables us even though we’re flawed.
Sing it! 🙂
excellent rhyme and rhythm here, Debi. A lovely poem.
In this House you’ll find some fruit
Big.
Red.
…And delicious
Yum!
😀
Yes, and in my house too. I think I could live and thrive on only fruit. 🙂
Sweet!
so much depends upon big red fruit 😉
It’s my favorite apple
“In this house…” Etheree turn-around 🙂
In
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,
quiet
nest.
For me, this is a great example of the form fitting the story.
Thanks, I like form that compliments and adds to the words.
I love the buildup to “house seams are busting.” Even in that empty nest, you can remember it all.
OH, Yes – memories do linger.
I feel your memories with you. Great job. 🙂
Been there- done that. 🙂
This is a sweet story you have spun, M. Well done!
Thanks Erin – the best stories are real. 🙂
As a long time empty-nester this is where my mind flew for this prompt but the several attempts I tried were maudlin or frivolous – thanks for saying what I wanted to say in such a wonderful way.
You are most welcome Debi – glad it came to life for you.
Marjory,
yes…the form is perfect for the story.
(Although our nest has no fledglings, we have yet for it to be empty. One day our lines will shrink.)
Well done, Marjory!
The theme is perfect for the form. Brilliant!
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.
I love that giant grin.
Have I told you how glad I am to have you back home, Benjamin? 😉
🙂 !! I’m glad to have you back as well!
Laughs that linger are evidence of life and love. Great, Benjamin.
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.
The outside description is wonderful.
Especially “Tall thin pine silhouettes.” LOVELY
I love the picture you’ve created, especially the twins: the lone star and the the lone cabin.
Beautiful!!
lovely picture you have painted here…
Connie,
your words took me there.
Lovely, Connie!
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.
Jane, this is a must-read-more-than-once poem. It comes with its own mood. “We’ve remodeled some truths away” sets the tone in a way only you can pen. EXCELLENT WRITE.
I agree that this poem asks to be read over and over. To me it is a chilling piece, summarized best, I think, in your phrase, “… what never happened now is fact …” Such power!
As usual, you are creative in your expression, Jane.
Wonderful poem, friend! You’ve done it again. 🙂
When I read this with my own experiences behind it it does, as William says, becoming “chilling” and yet I feel the unfolding of lives filled with overcoming grace and metamorphosis of ugly to beautiful.
These are important words to me: “memory plays tricks, hiding in closets, behind tall chairs,We’ve remodeled some truths away, we built that room” but the overall, magnificent, telling line for me is “This house honors refurbishment of memories.”
Honest and triumphant, love it.
a difficult remodel, but possible…
Thanks to you all for your comments. What we do to memories can well be chilling…lies to save family honor, reinventing to make a thing palatable. Maybe it was my summer cold speaking up. 😉
Jane,
as usual, you’ve penned a keep-and-read life-affirming poem.
It’s like a sigh that you’ll never forget, a moment you can re-live from time to time, when your heart is in need of the balm of memory.
I believe the re-modeling of our memories don’t deny, but confirm–on hidden but well-known fact–the truths we’ve learned through them.
Thanks, Damon! Where have you been, my friend? I miss you.
Just a crazy summer, Jane. But already starting to change, so with the slowdown I’ll be back more often.
Read this one twice, Jane. It is chilling and wonderfully written.
In This House
The drapes
stay drawn
and dust lays
heavy everywhere
The dog ambles
room to room
searching,
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
fainter
day by day,
and promise
to disappear
completely
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…
Dead.
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.
Oh my, Sharon … First of all, it is so wonderful to see you here again. Second … your poem leaves me with tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. Bless your heart. Please tell me this is not your own experience.
Sharon, your descriptions are sad but amazing. I can picture everything.
Short lines, a long poem; I read them as suggesting the long road back. Very stark and moving work, in my opinion.
Thank you Marie Elena, Sheryl Kay and William – such kind words and much appreciated…and no, it’s not my own experience….
I’m glad of that! This is such a haunting poem, Sharon…but lovely.
Great poem and relieved that it was not you as well
Sharon,
whoa! Your short lines are so powerful. They tell this character’s deliberate, determined, but struggling steps to flee the awful hurt that memory has imprisoned her by in this dark house. Beautiful.
Yes, those short lines stab and trail us to the next jab. This is moving and powerful, Sharon.
Glad to see you here again, Sharon. The hairs on my arm tingled as I read this.
We are on the same wave-length, Sharon. It must be a Baker’s Dozen thing 🙂 This is an excellent poem. One of your best this month.
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.
Aww! 🙂
This is wonderful, even for big kids.
Nice!
Fun freedom!
This should be the test for purchasing a home–buyer’s mantra?
Well expressed, jlynn.
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.
Sarah, this is adorably frightening and clever! 😀
Thanks, Marie!
Ah, I love “built upon a child’s pink wish” The child wished a doorknob of fish? 😉
I loved that line and the idea of a pink wish. So creative and fun.
Thanks, Sheryl!
You had me salivating until those last few words. Wonderful.
Yeah, ain’t I mean?
Too cute! I love gingerbread!
Me too!
Fantastic House. I think I will live there…
I might sneak in for a visit. Beware!
I was there too until I heard a bear’s stomach growling…yikes!
If I’m going to slant any way, it is usually the dark way.
Thanks so much to you all, Marie, Sheryl, Jane, William, Jacqueline, and Seven. I am touched by your words.
Excellent work.
And a strange thing…I suddenly have a sweet tooth.
Beware de bear!
Resume Delivery
In this house
where I now rest,
Sunday paper
first time read
Without you.
😦 Oh, Hen … So much story and so much emotion in so very few words. Goodness …
Ouch! The heart hurts.
Oh, yes.
Sadly sweet, Henrietta dear…heartache… ❤
Hen. I never resumed delivery… That was brave of you.
OM Gosh… I know what you mean… the telemarketer thought it was a good idea, so I am giving it a trial run… Hugs to you, I know your pain…
Thank you, friends <3!!
Hugs to you, friend!!
!! 🙂 !!
View on a tender moment. Great work Hen.
Oh, Thank you, 7!!
Such a stunning and powerful piece, Michael; superb.
Strong writing, purple.
In This House…
Ghosts linger;
Phantoms and shadows
Whisper and
Reecho,
Flinging my life in my face,
And it’s cold…so cold…
© Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013
I got fooled by this, wondering what a “reecho” is. I had to look it up, only then realizing it’s re-echo without the hyphen. Old folks like me still use hyphens, I guess. Aside from that, this poem has power, especially in that last line.
You’re right, there should be a hyphen. I just forgot it. Thank you though, Will! 🙂
Nonetheless, I looked up the Merriam-Webster online dictionary and they defined it without the hyphen. I don’t like that, but that’s what they did. Your use was correct, at least according to that authority.
Me too, William. I am a hyphen addict. And I was about to go to dictionary.com and check out ‘reecho.’
Erin, spooky-sad. Good job.
I agree that it should have a hyphen. That said, it is excellently penned, and brings out much emotion.
Hugs to you, Erin.
Thank you, dear Marie! And hugs right back to you! ❤
Oh no! Sorry to confuse everyone. Thank you for reading, Damon! I always enjoy your wonderful comments.
😦
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
Such depth of feeling in simple couplets. Wonderful work, in my opinion.
“Such depth of feeling in simple couplets” for sure.
What great emotion from the heart of wood and glass and stone. Loved this Earl.
So wel stated, Earl.
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
So much timeless life can be contained in a space called home.
“Throat lumping smiles” … I know EXACTLY what you mean. Another great piece.
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.
Heart-wrenching, and heart-warming too.
Marian, I can see your resident still waiting, still waiting. Lovely.
I agree, Damon.
Marian, your story is so poignantly presented. So thankful you choose to share your talent here.
YOU NEVER KNOW
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
William,
I am now wondering just who’s in my house. You nailed it with this one. Perfect.
*gigglegigglegiggle*
Aaaha, ha, ha… Thanks, William, I needed that!! 😀
A ha, ha from me, too, William.
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.”
Marie, a perfectly defined place, home defined.
Iris,
hospitality supreme…I feel welcomed and safe and at peace.
Hmmmm….just how many of us can you accommodate at once! 🙂
5 beds, 2 couches, one air mattress, one roll away bed, and 2 acres to camp on. LOL Glad you enjoyed.
Excellent! I’m on my way. 😉
What a great description of hospitality,Iris!
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–
marveled
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.
Nostalgia with a capital N. Wonderful.
Yes! Nailed it! Thanks for taking us there with you, Damon.
Yes – enjoyed this!
Oh my, oh my, oh my…the dynamic tension between your father’s injury and the beneficence of snow is so powerful. Nice job, Damon!
Wonderful telling of your story, Damon! I was there. And it is so good to have you back in the garden!
absmacking good! WOW words for sure!
What a sense of wonder! You have given some of us “snow-belt” people a different perspective. Really enjoyed seeing it through your boyhood eyes!
For some reason my comment from before didn’t take. Either that or it was out of place. Snow days are so much fun, aren’t they?
”
Little-boys’ ears
–timid, but yearning to hear the sound–
marveled
at the crunch, the icy crunch
we had only heard rumors of
from Dick and Tom and Jane.”
I am so Loving everyone’s work… my little puppies are keeping me runnin’, so no time to comment… Thanks for the pure enjoyment!! :)!!
[…] Written for Poetic Bloomings #115: In This House…” […]
IN THIS HOUSE OF GLASS
Reflecting
on living this life,
my prayer
is that I’ll
be quick to love and forgive;
slow in casting stones.
2013-08-13
P. Wanken
We all need to pray this.
Amen.
Amen, and amen. ❤
P,
loved this…the reflections, the glass…they assimilate the meaning of the prayer.
Excellent.
Damon, I love “the crunch, the icy crunch”
Girl Next Door
In this house
(red brick, blue roof)
there was hope
and home
and apple pie
and one sneaky
tiny
little
lie.
In this house
there was fear
and dread
and doubt.
In this house
there were
17 windows
2 doors
and
no
way
out.
.
Wow. De … this is heart-pounding stuff.
Wow …
De, yes, this left me wanting to know the mystery in this place.
OH, my. This poem is awesome.
The end is chilling.
[…] In this house there were 17 windows 2 doors and no way out. .. Written for Poetic Bloomings. […]
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.
Oh, yay!! You have been SOOOOOO missed!
[…] older poem written in response to an idea she suggested we use for this week’s prompt, “In this house.” I present you Sheryl’s poem of the same […]
THE RATTLE OF LONG ECHOES
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.
Aww! Such nostalgia and heartbreak. Nicely done as always, Misk!
Thanks. 🙂
Misky,
I loved this…can hear the chair creak, can see the long late afternoon shadows, can feel the dog’s longing hope. Beautiful.
Thank you very much!
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
8-11-13
MIRIAM!! Everyone, this is my beautiful sister-in-law, Miriam.
I’m so glad you decided to post it out here. This touches such a sweet chord that I wish every mother felt. WONDERFUL. I hope we get to enjoy more of your poetry, Miriam!
Love you! See you tomorrow!
Miriam,
yes, that clutter is priceless…the reminders, the tokens of memories that flesh out the meaning of ‘home.’ This was lovely.
This is a great perspective, Miriam.
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.
third line should begin “unskilled”, not tunskilled. LOL.
This is a great poem. There is no need to apologize at all. I love” The nurses let her screech emotions.” The whole poem expresses this. There are many means of communication.
Thanks, Sheryl.
[…] Poetic Bloomings prompt #115 “In This House” […]
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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