En.Citatepedia^®.ro

A True Ghost Story

My grandfather's house at Maypajo
It was built in year nineteen o' five
Of the sturdy wood 'kamagong'
And for ninety long years it survived.

It had delicate capiz- shelled windows
And hard wooden planks for its floors
Wide beams on ceilings that show
Fine architecture and Spanish decor.

In the twenties it held various parties
And its rooms may have held many guests
My aunts and my Mom were real beauties
And I'm sure many gents laid their quests.

But the second World War had been deadly
The Japanese fired many a mortar
Its plastered walls bared testimony
To the ugly devastation of war.

That house witnessed many departures
As its tenants soon married away.
Grandfather, its permanent fixture
He would walk its rooms night and day.

But the years saw him slowly yielding
To the rigors of approaching old age
Like his old house that was depreciating
He was closing and turning Time's page.

At death bed he had wanted to see
(For the house in his will was not clear)
His second daughter, my dear Aunt Nellie
Was summoned for some things she should hear.

But alas, it was rather too late
And the dying man's word left unsaid
For Death was the guest who can't wait
When Aunt Nellie came, he was dead.

Aunt Nellie claimed the property
Said she had the title to her name
Though her four siblings begged to disagree
Her lawyers legalized it all the same

The house boldly stood through the years,
But there were some weird happenings
The neighbors and people had fears,
Some saw an old man at night... walking.

Some said when they looked for my aunt
An old man peered through the window
Informed them that the house was vacant
And to church my aunt with her son did go.

My own brother's nanny had witnessed it
In a story that turned up our hairs
She turned to see an old man without feet
In slow motion descending the stairs!

We showed her Grandfather's old photo
And she point blank said 'That's him! '
The man she saw in white tuxedo
Had been roaming the house at whim.

Though I have never seen a ghost
And consider them just halloween fun
This true story is fearful at the most
In that house, the old man there walks on.

-
This is a true story, and the house, though sold and renovated,
still has its 'permanent tenant' and many have seen him.

Copyright Cynthia Buhain Baello
February 6,2010
Philippines

poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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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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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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House Of Jazz

Humdinger
Bell ringer
Got a nasty stinger
To slow you down
Mud slinger
Gold digger
Who point the finger
And do you down
Kickin' and a fightin' on a TV show
Lightin' blindin' in the middle of the road
Are you comin' in
Are you comin' in

I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz

Ball stripper
Big tipper
Got a slap 'n' tickler
To make you growl
Spitin' and bitin' on a TV show
Tightenin' frightenin' givin' out a load
Are you comin' in
Are you comin' in

I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz

Are you comin' in
Come on in

Are you comin' in
Are you comin' in
I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Are you comin' in
Are you comin' in
I said into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
The house of jazz

song performed by by AC/DC from Stiff Upper Lip
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Feeling Like A Stranger

in this place
this house without furnitures
all floors, this house with nothing but some stairs
and windows
you built it, i was away for years and we meet again
in this house
of acquaintances
devoid of affection, i have a way of telling what is this all about
by merely looking at the ceiling
there are no lights
to clarify me, who am i? in this house where i am not even a tree
or a vine
rootless, leafless
dying,
shall i continue living here?

i feel so unlike everyone else,
i am a total stranger
in this house that you built
this house devoid of affection,
i guess i have no choice
but to leave at once

otherwise, i too shall perish

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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House Of Jazz

(young - young)
Humdinger
Bell ringer
Got a nasty stinger
To slow you down
Mud slinger
Gold digger
Who point the finger
And do you down
Kickin and a fightin on a tv show
Lightin blindin in the middle of the road
Are you comin in
Are you comin in
I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz, yes
Ball stripper
Big tipper
Got a slap n tickler
To make you growl
A spitin and bitin on a tv show
Tightenin frightenin givin out a load
Are you comin in
Are you comin in
I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Are you comin in
Come on in
Are you comin in
Are you comin in
I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Are you comin in
Are you comin in
I said into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
The house of jazz
2000, j. albert & son, pty.

song performed by by AC-DC
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Houses

1898 -- A Song of the Dominions

'Twixt my house and thy house the pathway is broad,
In thy house or my house is half the world's hoard;
By my house and thy house hangs all the world's fate,
On thy house and my house lies half the world's hate.

For my house and thy house no help shall we find
Save thy house and my house -- kin cleaving to kind;
If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon.
If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon.

'Twixt my house and thy house what talk can there be
Of headship or lordship, or service or fee?
Since my house to thy house no greater can send
Than thy house to my house -- friend comforting friend;
And thy house to my house no meaner can bring
Than my house to thy house -- King counselling King.

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Stranger In The House

We dont talk much
We dont make love like we used to
And I stay guarded
Ive got walls and triggers
I never thought I had
And so do you
But this is love
And thats the way we seem content to play it
I touch your clothes when youre gone
I let your scent wash over me
You cry at night and you wish just like a child
That we were how we used to be
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
And she looks like somebody from a lifetime ago
I stonewall you, you stonewall me
But we both know that
Hiding deep inside us
Lives the love that we try hard to lose
And never will
But this is war
And thats the way we seem content to fight it
I get so angry and confused cause
I want out but I want you
You cant decide between moving out or moving in
You dont know what to do
With a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
And she looks like you
And he looks like me
Is this the same girl that, I fought so hard to win
And now I fight to lose her
Now I feel that its just like skin to skin
And nerve to nerve
Strung out like wire
Is that the way we are content to live
We face off in anger
In rooms once filled with love
Looking for a chink in the armour
Where we can stab the blade
What are we thinking of
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
And she looks like somebody from a lifetime ago
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house

song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Old House Of My Grandfather

sometimes as i walk early morning
when the suns starts to climb up on the hill
i think of grandfather's house
old, and spacious on top of a hill
overlooking his farm where his carabaos graze
his goat and cows and ducks teem,
oh, those were the years of bounty
and there was no worry,
about what to eat what to do
where to go,

times changed, and now we are always on a race
taking much work, and buying lots of things
sometimes we regret, taking and throwing
going and then returning
apparently, for no purpose and without meaning,

we live in a new house now with glass windows
and iron grill and high and thick walls and fences
we speak less, we move more,
we laugh less, we discuss more,

the old house of grandfather was burned in 1968.
this new house burns all day, and there is no fireman coming.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At My Aunt's Unveiling

AT MY AUNT’S UNVEILING

At my aunt’s unveiling
There were five of us
Only five
One was a woman
A friend of hers
Not the closest one
But someone who knew her
And wanted to be a friend.

Thousands of people had known my aunt
Hundreds had worked with or for her
She was born into a large family
But all of them were gone
Or out of it.

My sister and I were the relatives
My aunt had been very generous to us
And difficult for my sister
Who cared for her.

I had only been a taker all the years.

My aunt worked so hard for so many years
And she was ‘somebody’ in her world

There were five of us there
And the ceremony short
No minyan.

There was no sign of my aunt’s smile
Or her nervous energy or her superabundant love
‘Moll ‘as my mother called her
was not there.

I see her so clearly in my mind now
‘What does it all mean? ’ my father would ask my mother
after reading of the death of another person they knew

‘What does it all mean’

When my sister and I go
The memory of my aunt
Will be gone forever.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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A House Without Stairs

do not say
that without the stairs
the house is not a house anymore

without the ceiling
the more the house becomes to me

take the roof
if you want

or the beams
or even the floor and window frames

my house will still be a house
the sky its roof
the stretching grassy plain its floor
all the stars become
my magnificent ceiling

whatever is taken
we must imagine that all things are still there
lest we only have a house
that crashes on the floor
with all of us
dead

crushed to the death of
our imaginations

a door without an exit
because you have not seen hope coming

the lock and key
are all in the mind and heart

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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That's Art (Clerihew)

The painter Michaelangelo
Should have done the Sistine al fresco,
Unlike the great Rembrandt
Who worked inside the house of his aunt.

........ ................................................. ..................
July 7,2009 Tarlac City Philippines

poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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A House for Four

A house for four

What is it? a house for four
A dingy looking thing
Are there windows? none

What is it? a house for four
Such a palace
Are there greetings? none

What is it? a house for four
Why the space is so small
Is there privacy? none

What is it? a house for four
A dozen creeps could be creeping there
Is there any trust? none

Don't judge me for mine
Poor fool i wont
Even give you the time

Are you judging me?
Your quite the choir
With a cracking voice

And
A tall house that falls
To scrutiny

A house for four and
A house for four
A people of choir and
A people of poor

Do you not recognize
The stains are yours?

A house is not a house
Unless there is more

More and more
Sometimes less is more

poem by Deci Hernandez
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Matilda Who told Lies, and was Burned to Death

Matilda told such Dreadful Lies,
It made one Gasp and Stretch one's Eyes;
Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth,
Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth,
Attempted to Believe Matilda:
The effort very nearly killed her,
And would have done so, had not She
Discovered this Infirmity.
For once, towards the Close of Day,
Matilda, growing tired of play,
And finding she was left alone,
Went tiptoe to the Telephone
And summoned the Immediate Aid
Of London's Noble Fire-Brigade.
Within an hour the Gallant Band
Were pouring in on every hand,
From Putney, Hackney Downs, and Bow.
With Courage high and Hearts a-glow,
They galloped, roaring through the Town,
'Matilda's House is Burning Down!'
Inspired by British Cheers and Loud
Proceeding from the Frenzied Crowd,
They ran their ladders through a score
Of windows on the Ball Room Floor;
And took Peculiar Pains to Souse
The Pictures up and down the House,
Until Matilda's Aunt succeeded
In showing them they were not needed;
And even then she had to pay
To get the Men to go away,
It happened that a few Weeks later
Her Aunt was off to the Theatre
To see that Interesting Play
The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.
She had refused to take her Niece
To hear this Entertaining Piece:
A Deprivation Just and Wise
To Punish her for Telling Lies.
That Night a Fire did break out--
You should have heard Matilda Shout!
You should have heard her Scream and Bawl,
And throw the window up and call
To People passing in the Street--
(The rapidly increasing Heat
Encouraging her to obtain
Their confidnce) -- but all in vain!
For every time she shouted 'Fire!'
They only answered 'Little Liar!'
And therefore when her Aunt returned,
Matilda, and the House, were Burned.

poem by Hilaire Belloc
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In This House

in this house
where you've been
what you've seen
were the windows

in this house
where you've been
what you've seen
were the doors

in this house
where you've sat
what you ate
was your food

in this house
where you've sat
what you ate
was the word

in this house
where you stood
what you could
something say

in this house
you could open
windows doors clapping wings
in this house
you could open
soul that heaven upward sings

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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In Your House

I play at night in your house
I live another life
Pretending to swim
In your house
I change the time in your house
The hours i take
Go so slow ...
I hear no sound in your house
Silence
In the empty rooms
I drown at night in your house
Pretending to swim
Pretending to swim

song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Squatters

The house had been vacant for just a day
When the Corpie arrived to earn their pay
What job had to be done; had to be done today
As the Squatters would hear and be on their way
So in no time at all
The house was bordered and barbed
And with no one inside, was left to starve
But the Squatters weren't far
And they did hear
The story of that house in Hamilton Square
And the very next day
Borders and barbs removed
The house had a smile
And occupants too!

poem by Tom Allport
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The City Dead-House

BY the City Dead-House, by the gate,
As idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangor,
I curious pause--for lo! an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute
brought;
Her corpse they deposit unclaim'd--it lies on the damp brick
pavement;
The divine woman, her body--I see the Body--I look on it alone,
That house once full of passion and beauty--all else I notice not;
Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odors
morbific impress me;
But the house alone--that wondrous house--that delicate fair house--
that ruin!
That immortal house, more than all the rows of dwellings ever built!
Or white-domed Capitol itself, with majestic figure surmounted--or
all the old high-spired cathedrals; 10
That little house alone, more than them all--poor, desperate house!
Fair, fearful wreck! tenement of a Soul! itself a Soul!
Unclaim'd, avoided house! take one breath from my tremulous lips;
Take one tear, dropt aside as I go, for thought of you,
Dead house of love! house of madness and sin, crumbled! crush'd!
House of life--erewhile talking and laughing--but ah, poor house!
dead, even then;
Months, years, an echoing, garnish'd house--but dead, dead, dead.

poem by Walt Whitman
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House 155

Once upon a midnight dreary
Where light was
Weak and weary

Ghost and goblins Run to
House 155 in Mary
Trick or treat
Was there story

Until their
End was gory

The thunder clapped, lightening flashed.
they heard an evil cackle
A ruby liquid filled the house of 155

House 155
Go in but
not out alive
say trick our treat
a sure way to not survive

on all hollows eve
the house Zombies revive

A diabolical plan
They will contrive

To wait for the
Ghost and goblins to connive

Parent of ghost asking
'What happens to my seeds
tell me all me more'

Will the goblins live?
Qouth the physician nevermore

On Halloween
The goblins perish
And nothing more

Goblin that real name
Is john smith
Is now gone
For evermore

A trick or treater of
House 155
Is no more

Do you dare go to
House 155 on Halloween
I hope no one nevermore!

poem by Jose Duran
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The House

They are building a house
half a block down
and I sit up here
with the shades down
listening to the sounds,
the hammers pounding in nails,
thack thack thack thack,
and then I hear birds,
and thack thack thack,
and I go to bed,
I pull the covers to my throat;
they have been building this house
for a month, and soon it will have
its people...sleeping, eating,
loving, moving around,
but somehow
now
it is not right,
there seems a madness,
men walk on top with nails
in their mouths
and I read about Castro and Cuba,
and at night I walk by
and the ribs of the house show
and inside I can see cats walking
the way cats walk,
and then a boy rides by on a bicycle
and still the house is not done
and in the morning the men
will be back
walking around on the house
with their hammers,
and it seems people should not build houses
anymore,
it seems people should not get married
anymore,
it seems people should stop working
and sit in small rooms
on 2nd floors
under electric lights without shades;
it seems there is a lot to forget
and a lot not to do,
and in drugstores, markets, bars,
the people are tired, they do not want
to move, and I stand there at night
and look through this house and the
house does not want to be built;
through its sides I can see the purple hills
and the first lights of evening,
and it is cold
and I button my coat
and I stand there looking through the house
and the cats stop and look at me
until I am embarrased
and move North up the sidewalk
where I will buy
cigarettes and beer
and return to my room.

poem by Charles Bukowski
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The Yellow House on Tucker Avenue

Saturday mornings brought promises,
of starting over,
beginning anew.
Trying to make the week over
and re-invent my life,
a life that I wanted with you.

The house sat high against a slope,
far enough away from the road to make it seem inaccessible
Painted a cheerful yellow, the colour
of happiness
And there in the yellow house on Tucker Avenue
I imagined my life with you.

Loving you in rooms filled
with laughter,
days and nights turning into years
In a house painted the colour of sunshine
and happy children that looked like you,
There in that yellow house on Tucker Avenue
I created a life spent with you.

The weekends gave way to reality
And the house sits deserted still
Steadily fading into memory, alone against the sturdy hill.
Abandoned to the fantasy and the careless dreams that I knew,
When I pass by the house that a love built
That yellow house on Tucker Avenue

poem by Karen Touzalin
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