In the house of a blacksmith the ornaments are made of wood.
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They Are Tearing Down My Grandfather's House
(An NLP Editor's Choice Award Winner in Verdant Lands of Spring) They are tearing down my Grandfather's house,
it's made of wood and brick and stone.
The windows they've removed. To them it's real
estate, to me it's my heart being ripped in two.
The realtors, the bankers, the moneymen don't understand.
A house is more than made of wood, a house is made of man. My Grandfather's house is a memory that will
endure after it's torn down.
He's been gone for near thirty years, but his
house had lived on.
I know the world is made of change, and change
is all that's real. But one thing I cannot change,
that is the way I feel. I wipe a tear in the falling rain,
because they are tearing down my Grandfather's
house, and it gives me pain.
I love him as if it were yesteryear,
his wit and smile as warm as the sun.
The house once stood to remind me, but that too
is gone. They are tearing down my Grandfather's house,
it's made of wood and brick and stone.
Yet a house if more than made of wood,
a house is made of love.
poem by David A. Webb
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Through The Wood
THROUGH the wood, the green wood, the wet wood, the light wood,
Love and I went maying a thousand lives ago;
Shafts of golden sunlight had made a golden bright wood
In my heart reflected, because I loved you so.
Through the wood, the chill wood, the brown wood, the bare wood,
I alone went lonely no later than last year,
What had thinned the branches, and wrecked my dear and fair wood,
Killed the pale wild roses and left the rose-thorns sere?
Through the wood, the dead wood, the sad wood, the lone wood,
Winds of winter shiver through lichens old and grey,
You ride past forgetting the wood that was our own wood
All our own--and withered as ever a flower of May.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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If you're a blacksmith, probably the proudest day of your life is when you get your first anvil. How innocent you are, little blacksmith.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The blacksmith in one village becomes a blacksmith's apprentice in another.
Little House Made Out Of Logs
I was raised in a little house
Made out of logs
Had a dirt chimney
Made from moss
Cut out windows
No glass at all
Little house
Made out of logs
Never swept any floor
Made out of dirt
You don't see any more
Kerosene lamps
Water from the spring
Makes me thirsty again
Raised on potatoes and cornbread
Wood stove was all we had
Never thought much about the holidays
Just a season for another time and place
Can't forget how I was raised
Makes you learn to appreciate
I could do the same in time
Little log house
On my mind
poem by Monette Paul
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Beauty doesn't need ornaments. Softness can't bear the weight of ornaments.
quote by Munshi Premchand
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sea-Saw (more writing fun)
If I saw a wood boat afloat
Upon the sea,
Would what I see possibly be
The wood I cut from a tree?
For when I saw a tree
I would like to think I see,
What the wood I saw
Could be.
If all I saw in wood from a tree
Was all I saw that there was to see,
Would what I did saw
Be the wood that I now see?
And if the wood I once did saw
Was indeed made into that ship on the sea,
Would it even be possible to know that here what I see
Is the wood once sawed by me?
All I here would dare to share is:
I see what I saw, and I saw what I see,
And therefore the wood I do saw could one day be
The boat I may see, afloat upon the sea.
See?
poem by Smoky Hoss
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The First Tooth
There once was a wood, and a very thick wood,
So thick that to walk was as much as you could;
But a sunbeam got in, and the trees understood.
I went to this wood, at the end of the snows,
And as I was walking I saw a primrose;
Only one! Shall I show you the place where it grows?
There once was a house, and a very dark house,
As dark, I believe, as the hole of a mouse,
Or a tree in my wood, at the thick of the boughs.
I went to this house, and I searched it aright,
I opened the chambers, and I found a light;
Only one! Shall I show you this little lamp bright?
There once was a cave, and this very dark cave
One day took a gift from an incoming wave;
And I made up my mind to know what the sea gave.
I took a lit torch, I walked round the ness
When the water was lowest; and in a recess
In my cave was a jewel. Will nobody guess?
O there was a baby, he sat on my knee,
With a pearl in his mouth that was precious to me,
His little dark mouth like my cave of the sea!
I said to my heart, "And my jewel is bright!
He blooms like a primrose! He shines like a light!"
Put your hand in his mouth! Do you feel? He can bite!
poem by William Brighty Rands
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No Place Like Home
My friend's house is perfect,
they lead such perfect lives.
Curtains never out of place
and beds are made by 9.
The bathroom is in cream,
the toilet seat stays down.
There's tiny little ornaments
and soap balls all around.
My friend's house is perfect,
you dare not move a thing
for if you did they'd notice,
a tad embarrassing.
They dine at 6, no later
and then at half past eight
they have a cup of Earl Grey
and slithers of cream cake.
They talk of trivial matters,
the world evaporates.
Inside their house its perfect,
the world outside can wait.
That's why I run for cover,
right back here, alone.
It may not be quite perfect
but there's no place like home.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Sights and Sounds of Christmas
How do I know
Christmas is near
Signs around our house
Make it very clear
Advent paper windows
Get opened each day
Twenty-five to count
Teaching grandkids to pray
They're more excited by
The piece of candy they find
Such a small prize makes big eyes
It's a joy of a special kind
Each window has a little prayer
To remind why we count each day
There's other things that tell me
Santa too is on his way
When the tree goes up
Home-made decorations are best
Ornaments bought for special days
Make up the rest
Special lights for the Manger
Ceramics fired by great-great-great aunt Vie
Ornaments made in pre-school
Thirty years gone by
Then what they've all waited for
A cloth Snowman my wife made
His bulging belly's a pouch
Filled with candy starts a parade
He hangs by Grandma's chair
Right there on the wall
As soon as they can reach
They want to be this tall
One by one day by day
A piece here a piece there
Some too short figutre out
To stand on Grandma's chair
Pretty soon the Snowman's belly
Starts to go flat
No one knows for sure but
Someone always takes care of that
Finally a noise that I hear
A sort of occasional clink
Someone secretly checking for
Christmas cookies in the jar by the sink
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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In the markets of Maibong
I searched so much
for ornaments of raw gold
in the markets of Maibong,
Gold is only in name
You are lovelier than gold
without ornaments
The goldsmith could not make
a single piece of ornament
to your measure
What kind of goldsmith is he
without ornaments
You are lovelier than gold
The door of the moon in the sky
was open
Secretly I peeped
Orange moon
People say
The moon is lovely
The moon is only in name
You are lovelier than the moon.
Translated by Ajit Barua
poem by Prem Narayan Nath
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The New-England Boy's Song About Thanksgiving Day
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way,
To carry the sleigh,
Through the white and drifted snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather's house away!
We would not stop
For doll or top,
For 't is Thanksgiving Day.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes,
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.
Over the river, and through the wood,
With a clear blue winter sky,
The dogs do bark,
And children hark,
As we go jingling by.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play-
Hear the bells ring
Ting a ling ding,
Hurra for Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river, and through the wood-
No matter for winds that blow;
Or if we get
The sleigh upset,
Into a bank of snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To see little John and Ann;
We will kiss them all,
And play snow-ball,
And stay as long as we can.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple grey!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting hound,
For 't is Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river, and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate;
We seem to go
Extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait.
Over the river, and through the wood-
Old Jowler hears our bells;
He shakes his pow,
With a loud bow wow,
And thus the news he tells.
Over the river, and through the wood-
When grandmother sees us come,
She will say, Oh dear,
The children are here,
Bring a pie for every one.
Over the river, and through the wood-
Now grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurra for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurra for the pumpkin pie!
poem by Lydia Maria Francis Child
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The House In The Woods
At the back of the houses there is the wood.
While there is a leaf of summer left, the wood
Makes sounds I can put somewhere in my song,
Has paths I can walk, when I wake, to good
Or evil: to the cage, to the oven, to the House
In the Wood. It is a part of life, or of the story
We make of life. But after the last leaf,
The last light--for each year is leafless,
Each day lightless, at the last--the wood begins
Its serious existence: it has no path,
No house, no story; it resists comparison...
One clear, repeated, lapping gurgle, like a spoon
Or a glass breathing, is the brook,
The wood's fouled midnight water. If I walk into the wood
As far as I can walk, I come to my own door,
The door of the House in the Wood. It opens silently:
On the bed is something covered, something humped
Asleep there, awake there--but what? I do not know.
I look, I lie there, and yet I do not know.
How far out my great echoing clumsy limbs
Stretch, surrounded only by space! For time has struck,
All the clocks are stuck now, for how many lives,
On the same second. Numbed, wooden, motionless,
We are far under the surface of the night.
Nothing comes down so deep but sound: a car, freight cars,
A high soft droning, drawn out like a wire
Forever and ever--is this the sound that Bunyan heard
So that he thought his bowels would burst within him?--
Drift on, on, into nothing. Then someone screams
A scream like an old knife sharpened into nothing.
It is only a nightmare. No one wakes up, nothing happens,
Except there is gooseflesh over my whole body--
And that too, after a little while, is gone.
I lie here like a cut-off limb, the stump the limb has left...
Here at the bottom of the world, what was before the world
And will be after, holds me to its back
Breasts and rocks me: the oven is cold, the cage is empty,
In the House in the Wood, the witch and her child sleep.
poem by Randall Jarrell
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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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The Old Flame Is Finally Gone
there was this old flame inside the house made of wood
it is alive supported by a wick and a bowl of oil
it is a comfort for blackouts and we all look at it with wonder
we keep it from the wind and the rain and it stands still
one day we find ourselves in great grief
the bowl of glass is shattered and the oil is spilled on the ground
the wick is gone and we searched for it for days
someone so cruel destroyed what we looked up to
then the night comes in without electricity we grappled
the house is silent under a sky without stars
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Letter of
Letters of administration
Required to unluck
Ornaments belongings
Query not further
Everything made public.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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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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The House of Stone
I came, from where?
From the house made of stone...
My aunt Romana -
That whom you do not know,
When she had an accident
She stayed in the house of stone
To get well and recover...
But with a cutting tongue
Against my father,
She said to me,
'T'is a big house made of stone,
But inside here lives an owl! '
Where did I come from?
From that house of stone...
But I cannot fathom,
Was her anger so deep
For the owl on pedestal,
The King of our clan;
Was corrupted and fallen
Weakened by the flesh of men...
My Aunt Romana, she left
And my father is dead;
The house made of stone
Forever ruined...
But the lesson of the owl lives;
And him fondly remembered!
poem by Jane Quijano
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Is Apocalypse Near To End?
'Every thing is good'
The phrase on evergreen wood
But this becomes Evil's food.
God created blackly dark
And moon that lovely spark
Why that's omitted
But depend on lights permitted.
So walk in mellow melting moon light
In full moon day, avoid torch light
Think! Talking aloud about green Revolution
We raise buildings for further generation
We spread the threat
And living behind bars with foolish gut
Seeking rescue through grid
Having keys made of mud.
Why soluble solutions are made?
'One House - One Tree But No House'
Why diluted decisions are taken?
'Rain harvest in each house but there living far worst'
Why beloved brothers are brutal?
'World make them finding shortcut'
Why sentiment situations are censored?
'Many died in Bhopal Gas Leakage'
Is Apocalypse near to end? ? ?
poem by JothiLakshmi Kannan
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