First build your house and then accommodate the furniture.
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Inside and Back Out
A forest encircles the lawn,
the lawn encircles sheets of English ivy,
the ivy encircles the walls of a house,
the house encircles its furnishings,
the furniture encircles a family
the family sits on the furniture,
the furniture completes the house,
the house is cuddled by walls,
the walls are warmed by English ivy,
the ivy loathes the horizontal lawn,
the lawn pines to be a forest.
poem by Sonny Rainshine
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The Indifferent Woman
after you build a higher iron grilled fence
round your house
letting the bushes rise
grass untrimmed and letting all the dust
accumulate in your old inherited furniture
after you bought more locks
the house door
and windows all shut
your phone line cut
added another dog to frighten away
possible guests
i said to myself, i don't care anymore
since you don't care anymore too
in anyway in anything
at any time
i guess you'll know the consequences of your acts
when you die you must learn to bury your own corpse.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To Build A House
to build a house, a beautiful one,
i just do not need land and nails
not just wood, and grass
not just beams and roofs, for they
are but necessities, projections of
the house upon a hill
of the mind,
to build a house, one needs the soul
of the home,
the words of memories, the gutters
of our emotions,
unlike you, my house requires the fences
and walls
keeping away the ill winds
of publicity, the rumors of who i was,
a slope, the steep one, inclined
towards no other
than the whiteness of the sky
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Did Not Build This House
I did not build this house alone
Upon foundations of folly
Wood floors have split and groan
Knotty planks creep
Out the front door
Beyond walls stretched
Over mossy stone
I did not build this house alone
The symbiots fed it
As they were nourished
Engorged like an unborn child
Who stretches and kicks it
Then, vacates it for a while
This house whose pathways
Were fed by blood and breath
Humming and pumping
Beating and strumming
Dancing the rhythm of life
and death.
I did not build this house
It has morphed and grown
Then alas, has shrunk again
as now I am alone.
Betsy Schreiber © 2009
poem by Betsy Schreiber
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The Leaking Roof....
there is no use
repairing the leak of the roof
of this
house
it is raining
let it rain
let the water wet this floor
and the furniture
let us wait when will this dark night
end
when this heavy rain shall stop
on the same leak
we shall see the light that falls
on those wet floors
and furniture
it will show us the truth
and shall guide us
what to do next
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Build
Clambering men in big bad boots
Dug up my den, dug up my roots
Treated us like plasticine town
They built us up and knocked us down
From meccano to legoland
Here they come with a brick in their hand
Men with heads filled up with sand
Its build
Its build a house where we can stay
Add a new bit everyday
Its build a road for us to cross
Build us lots and lots and lots and lots and lots
Whistling men in yellow vans
They can and drew us diagrams
Showed us how it all worked it out
And wrote it down in case of doubt
Slow, slow, quick, quick, quick
Its wall to wall and brick to brick
They work so fast it makes you sick
Its build
Its build a house where we can stay
Add a new bit everyday
Its build a road for us to cross
Build us lots and lots and lots and lots and lots
Its build
Down with sticks and up with bricks
In with boots and up with roots
Its in with suits and new recruits
Its build
song performed by by Housemartins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The house is in turmoil with records on every space. In the kitchen and in the dining room is covered with records. I don't have a big enough house to accommodate everything.
quote by Marian McPartland
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Have To Build...
i have to build a tree house,
i have to build a table,
i have to build a new house,
cant i get a break.
i have to fix the tree house,
i have to fix the table,
i have to fix the new house,
seriusly, cant i have a break!
poem by Shaikha Alansari
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The Cities Of White Men
Those men build many houses:
They dig the earth, and they build;
They cut down the trees, and they build;
They work always - building.
From the elevation of the mountainside
I behold the clouds:
The clouds build many beautiful houses in the sky:
They build, and they tear down;
They build, and they dissolve. . . .
The cities of white men,
They are not beautiful like the cloud cities;
They are not vast, like the cloud cities. . . .
A wind-swept teepee
Is all the house I own. . .
poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Monument Of All Our Wrongs
i build a house
no one likes it.
the house is empty
i put some chairs.
someone comes and
says, this house is
lonely, it needs
a sound
it is boring and needs
a paint
i put a tree beside
its stairs
i grow another
fence
i put a lone bulb
on a post
and leave the house
for good
that is what the
house is made
there is always
missing
something is
always wrong
this is the house
of regret
it is the monument
of all our wrongs.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Because Of The House, There Was Never A Home
because of too much concern for the house
that someone other than yourself may live in there
and steal away what you are keeping there
the furniture and the kettle
the glass and the spoon and the fork
and the spam and sausages and
wheat and bread
because of too much worry for what a house can
be
so much home has been wrecked
so many homes were not even conceived and born
because you want a nice and expensive house
now you don't even have that dream of a home
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If You Need Advice
What is a goal?
How can we have something to which we do not even know the true definition?
Aspiration cannot be much without inspiraton
And inspiration cannot be done without another's persperation
What do we want to do and for whom do we want to do it?
Ourselves? Gays? Blacks? Women? Men? Children? God?
We want to be an inspiration
We want someone or something to look up to us and say:
'I want to be like you and make a true difference.'
It is not envy, nor jealousy, nor pity on another hand
It's work. Everything is work
There is fun work, dull work, but most importantly, hard work
Hard work is the house of our goal
Fun work is the decor
Dull work is the furniture
All is necesary to achieve complete happiness
Without decor, all we have is a house, not a home
Without furniture, we have nothing with which to have fun
Goals require more than just acquiring a plan
poem by Rebecca Roberts
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In order to accommodate to change and to the contrast of phenomena, the intellect does not require any shocks and inner upheavals; it is only through such upheavals that the more conservative mind could accommodate to the metropolitan rhythm of events.
quote by Georg Simmel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Chains On My Neck
Chains On My Neck
I’m black here I sit with chains on my neck
I’m beside other black men with chains on their necks
I’m waiting but while I wait my mind
takes me to my village
There, there is my home
I built it with my hands and my brothers hands
I built it with my sweat and pride
a very, very fine house indeed
But I am here sitting with chains on my neck
Beside other black men with chains on their necks
I see in my minds eye my fine house
I bring in furniture, built by my hands and my father’s hands
Strong furniture made with care from the best trees
But I am here sitting with chains on my neck
Beside other black men with chains on their necks
I see again in my minds eye my fine house
I bring in my spear, ax and shield
Deadly weapons to attack or defend
I mount them on the wall of my fine house
But I am sitting with chains on my neck
Beside me other black men with chains on their necks
I shake my chains and my house is on the other end of my chains.
Copyright 2005
poem by Watchful Steward
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2005/07 A house is not a home
The house we've built
looked so pretty on the outside
now its filled with only my feelings
and now you hardly ever come in
those times when you do
its just a shell
just your body, not your heart
just your peck, not your kiss
just your hug, not your embrace
i need your love
i need you to want me
if you dont want me then why are you in my house
that's right, my house
you've moved your feelings, your furniture out
my home gets chilly at night
imprints of your pictures on the wall
toothbrush still in the holder
toilet seat still up
poem by by unknown author
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Building A Big House
you build a big house
with one thought, a wish
that something may last forever
like love, like the finest wood
like a relationship,
or say
(let me say it this way)
a marriage, like strong stairs
inviting attention to society
that no one is leaving
like a door closing behind
a sigh,
but a house with time falls
pillars collide, and floors go
termite eaten to the ground
doors fall out from the hinges
that hold them it their frames,
nothing lasts forever
i know,
i build a house because i know
what love is
i want to give it shelter and warmth
like those rooms
a glow like those living rooms
a nice dinner
like the kitchen and the dining tables.
i do not think beyond my body
that turns to dust
i know
i do not utter beyond my words, i know,
no words can withstand the
lures of the niceties of a lie.
i know
i build the house because we are here
and there is nothing
worth doing
there is no snow and ski is irrelevant.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ruben's Mansion
it is not a house
in fact, it is a white mansion
placed on a one-hectare lot
surrounded by a well-manicured
garden and flowering shrubs
and fruit trees
one that everyone cannot but
always admire
when they come
and watch
Ruben's mansion
taking 2 years to finish
and 12 million pesos
in expenditures
as you go inside
the glass door opens
leading you
to a living room
twice as large
as my own house
in a remote barrio
the furniture are carved
from molave trees
shining with shellac
and glistening
with opulence
the motif of this
house
the kitchen is huge
four times as wide
as my garage
accommodating only
my second hand car
and the garage
is one that can handle
a party for the night
of ten tables and
fifty chairs and
a hundred people
one wonders
why Ruben has to make
a mansion like this
sheer taste perhaps
or his money
simply searching for something
to buy and spend
looking for some
vents
did he remember
how as a child
the family was shamed
because visitors
from Bohol
in 1970 could not
be accommodated
and they all murmured
how poor they were?
it must be traumatic
for Ruben
as a child
and it must be some
trauma
that molded his dream
to build a mansion
like this?
(or am i just
jealous
of his ambition)
i need not ask some
more
his lips are sealed
he is dead
and he has no way
explaining
a sensitive matter as building
a mansion
while the rest still
thrives on
mediocre houses and
unfinished makeshifts
and no one lives
in this house anymore
perhaps some dreams
still live here
dreams unfulfilled
and once fulfilled
these dreams now
refuse to die
a mansion is still a house
and when no one lives there
need i say
that it is never a home
and after this party
tendered in the name of Ruben
we all go home
and then think for once
i must build a home
and for the meantime forget about a mansion
or just a house.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ichabod - The Story of Discontent (Narrative)
This story's for the humble
And I'll hide identities
For it may make you stumble
To know the realities.
It's about a nice preacher
Of a known denomination
Who aspired to be richer
Through his good congregation.
In a rented house he lived
With his lovely wife and children
But he wanted to receive
A better blessing from men.
So without much ado
He relayed in his preaching
A new house will do
So increase with your giving.
He said 'We'll build a Center
That will then accommodate
Five thousand new members,
And this church will be great.
But before that you must
Build a nice house for me
I hope you will trust
It's for our testimony.'
So poured the donations
And the gift offerings
For his house construction
With complete furnishings.
After the house, he needed
A new car for his trips,
So in preaching he related
Added needs in the worship.
'A Crosswind is fine'
Said he to the people,
'It's an Isuzu line
And the price reasonable.'
So he got the new wheels
And with peace for a moment,
But the joy that he feels
Soon leads back to discontent.
After a year, a predicament-
Another car he had wanted
Made known his sentiment,
Again the people submitted.
'A Mitsubishi Pajero,
It's the best for our missions
Will you let me know
Your complete contributions.'
When the giving was done
And the money was counted,
'For those who gave none
No prayers will be said.'
What kind of a shepherd
Will say such a prayer?
From heaven God heard
This very selfish preacher.
After that his own son
Brought sin to the church,
A curse that's undone
Took him down from his perch.
Though he preached with full volume
It was empty of Power
For the God Who consumes
Has abandoned the preacher.
Now seven years later
There is still no Center,
Eventually the Rapture
May not carry this preacher.
'Ichabod' - The glory of the Lord has
departed.
'We too often love things and use people, when we should be using things and loving people.'
..................................... .................................................
April 10,2009
Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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The House That Built Jack
Scorched white by the lowly hung sun,
Crouched underneath the low ceiling sky.
Could burn his fingerprints right off,
Could be his last underground loft.
There's trick draws and the walls are too dry,
The stairs don't go up, the roof doesn't tilt,
In the house that Jack built.
An architect of soil and ash,
He buried and burned what wouldn't build.
The house strong with mortar and bricks,
The home strong, strong as straw and sticks.
Warm if he's willing, weak as he's willed,
The bell can't ring and the flowers won't wilt,
In the house that Jack built.
There's phantoms in the furniture,
In the company of his own ghost.
Trade family for plastic house plants,
Trade your heart if the clock enchants.
Never the neighbour, nobody's host,
Watch your head, mind your step, beware the guilt,
In the house that Jack built.
The labyrinth, he burnt it down,
There's a well but he can't choose a wish.
Etched the blueprints onto his skin,
From his own flaws; thereof; therein.
Unsmash the mirrors, face the blemish,
All work and no play, Jack can't find the hilt,
In the house that Jack built.
The house speaks to Jack and moves him.
Along the floorboards beneath the dust.
He's the shadow the bulbs can't touch.
He's the loft filled with far too much.
His house a temple; In jack we trust.
Home is where the heart, like cement, is spilt,
In the house that Jack built.
Home is where your soul must fill in each crack;
Home is what makes up for what you lack;
Home is what's bringing this flashback;
The house that built Jack.
poem by Ella Veyes
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