Shared Loneliness
A house is empty if you're alone.
Its rooms are too quiet for it's known
loneliness too, just like you.
It echoes with hollowness
and creaks with despair
for the lone figure it houses
has no one to share
its rooms.
It hears the steps of the solitary one.
It hears the sighs that weigh like a ton
on its floors and walls
where the sadness crawls.
It longs to be filled
with conversational tones
filling up its rooms.
The bedroom is lonely
and the living room too.
The kitchen has a setting for one
and only one cup of coffee to brew.
These rooms can house all of the pain
that lonesomeness brings and still remain
loyal to the one who's alone.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Related quotes
Living House
I saw you in a house of rooms,
It must be saving the bed of contentment,
Feeding the living of people,
Creating contentment as you speak.
My love is fastened to the door
And the window is collapsing.
My violent pages work for the more,
Rooms are rooms meaningful.
The saviour is brought to the houses
And he saves us from slaughter.
I come to you in the middle of town,
As far as the eye keeps, like one hard.
The contentment is just about.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Promises
Your promise is sound like a niece,
Upstairs the rooms are plenty,
The reward compares to Peace,
I and you are lovable and a discovery.
My complaint subdues your walls
As they crumble and thud to the floors,
Risks are many in these rooms of balls,
A craft of heaven lines the corridors.
May promises keep for some elegant time,
With love I guarantee the house no grime.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Chat Room For Lonely People
Thoughts are the very essence
Of human existence
Even though they sometimes create discord
Whether you express them via your vocal cords
Or through your keyboard
When you are bored.
Didn't folks used to have rooms
Called drawing rooms?
But now all that is left
Is our 'privacy' of which we are bereft.
So, instead of drawing rooms
We have chat rooms
For lonely people
Who would like to chat with friendly people.
poem by Lonely People Champion
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And I Lounged and Lay on Their Beds
When I went to that house of pleasure
I didn't stay in the front rooms where they celebrate,
with some decorum, the accepted modes of love.
I went into the secret rooms
and lounged and lay on their beds.
I went into the secret rooms
considered shameful even to name.
But not shameful to me -because if they were,
what kind of poet, what kind of artist would I be?
I'd rather be an ascetic. That would be more in keeping,
much more in keeping with my poetry,
than for me to find pleasure in the commonplace rooms.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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House Of Many Rooms
The sound of the clock ticking
How this old house creeps
Another storm tonight approaches
So restless I can't sleep
Dark filled big long rooms
Portrait of a lady in view
Corridor that never seems to end
From a distance I thought I seen you
House Of Many Rooms
The sound of heavy rain falling
Feelings sourround of another place
An oval mirror hangs on the wall
And there I thought I seen your face
The smell of wild flowers
A gentle breeze blows from outside
Heavy laced dark curtains
A vision of you before my eyes
House Of Many Rooms
poem by Suelynn Walters
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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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New Found Sympathy
The dust is all that's left
To this lonely room
A few boxes remain
But they'll be gone soon
The pictures that formed the wall
Now belong to the trash
And all the pretty fixtures
Have long been detached
The house that held sunlight
Now only emphasizes gray
Rooms are no longer shining
And I wish it weren't that way
Lonely and empty is this house
But it's not the only one
That lost it's cheer and happiness
Where it's brightness has gone
I wish I could go back
To see what would have been
If thing's hadn't have gone wrong
If I'd still be in this house with him
poem by Airda Jones
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Family Homes
everybody's mother is beautiful and brave
but my mother was little bit different
And was at the top of them
she was the bravest...the most beautiful..and the cleverest
we lived in a house
a very very ancient an and old house
ı ts plaster worn out and falling down
once a big and beautiful of our nomad ancestors
the camels of the long caravans used to rest in its garden
now the rooms of the house is rented to families in poverty
the kitchen...and laundry and washing were common for all
there was a in wall cupboard for bath in every room
in one of this rooms upstairs we lived
my mother..my brother and me
hiring it
they called these rooms faqmiliy homes
in turkish
in our homeland in turkey
in one of these rooms
lived shoe maker...rather a cobbler
with his son..daughter and wife
they were our beloved neighbours
he own the the room from his ancestors
the cobbler loved hunting
and had a peculı ar political opinion of his own
at downstairs
ther was a workman
came from his village
a very poor family indeed
wherever he found he worked
if he could
my mother used to help the family
she was found of this very very
one day ı heard the family went to germany
for food and living
my brother and me
were attending to a boarding school in istanbul
we used to come to our family home
in summer vacations
we were very happy in yhose days
with our room neighbours
my brother me and my mother
but theese poor happy did not last long
we grew up
my brother an archaeology professor
me a district governor
but we have never forgotten
those family houses
and the friendship and solı darı ty in them
we remember
those family houses from time to time
they are demolished now
high buildings are erected in their places
and my mother gone heaven in 14th dec ember 1994
her grave near a cross road waiting
ı always pray for her
ı feel she is always near me..guarding me
she was the bravest...most beauı tiful and the cleverest
ı have ever seen
life is not an easy plaything
poem by Metin Sahin
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An Empty House
A house that's always empty
always feels its pain.
It's hollow and it's lifeless
and knows that it's insane
to shelter not a single soul
and hear no welcome sounds
because all of its rooms are vacant
and emptiness surrounds
its space.
A house that's always empty
wears a lonely face.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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I used to like to break into other people's houses and sit in their rooms. I found it very comforting to be in someone's empty house.
quote by Jared Leto
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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They told me that the hotels had maybe two rooms set up for people with disabilities, but if they got there too late, and didn't get one of these rooms, they couldn't take a shower. The room wasn't hooked up for them, or maybe the sink was too high.
quote by Gregory Hines
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Smokey Hued
My doors smoky open
ethereal;
right and left corridor
compartmented.
I see patterns
and rooms
to the right and left.
Here my Room of Tears,
weeping walls that caterwaul.
All my sorrows hang here
and Deep Regrets lie on the floor.
All My Loves
are in this room
in hues rosette
most past;
their glow
shimmers
even outside
in the corridor.
My eyes lid as I pass
my rooms of Cardinal Sins;
faces there
I'd wronged or mislead,
I was relieved to see Repentments Rooms next
where Atonements array the walls
and below on tables are
Just Due Parchments properly signed
for deliverance to Justice Hall.
I did make some things right there.
Upstairs are my Best Regards
in alcoves 'round my Heart
very soft
healing arts applied with care there.
I'm now down to Secret Sins,
its door ajar with Gambolments,
Inexcusables-Mindless Hurts-
all Unspeakables.
Oh, each time I make this trip
my energy's spent;
and I vow
next time
to make of it
a more pleasant trip
through this
my Soul's House.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Echoes of Sadness
Outside is a grave yard of leaves,
the trees are skeletal and bare.
My heart is overflowing with sorrow
since you left without a care.
I live in a distressed house of memories,
which once echoed with love throughout,
but now it’s filled with echoes of sadness
and like my happiness it’s moved out.
The rooms have a thick carpet of misery
and the furnishings wreak with despair.
The curtains are depressed and shaded
and unhappiness festers in there.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Empty Nest
Our house this night is full of life,
both kids up in their rooms.
We're safe and warm from the harrowing storm
with its lightening streaks and booms.
Yet soon I know, both have to go,
to school, to work, to life.
Then this will be an empty nest
with just me and my wife.
How do birds feel, when, freshly fledged,
their young depart forever.
Do they sing more somberly
when the chicks are not together?
We're creatures of habit, like those birds
I see when we're in the park.
I'll catch myself gazing up the stairs
when both their rooms are dark.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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This House Is Empty Now
(costello/bacharach)
These rooms play tricks upon you
Remember when they were always filled with laughter
But now theyre quite deserted
They seem to just echo voices raised in anger
Maybe you will see my face
Reflected there on the pane
In the window up above for long
In broken home
Yet this house is empty now
Theres nothing I can do
To make you want to stay
So tell me how am I supposed to live without you
These walls were lined with pictures
Remember the glass we charged in celebration
But now I fill my life up
With all that I can to deaden this sensation
Do you recognize the face
Fixed in that fine silver frame
Were you really so unhappy there
You never said
So this house is empty now
Theres nothing I can do to make you want to stay
So tell me how am I supposed to live without you
Oh, if I could just become forgetful
When night seems endless
Does the extinguished candle care
About the darkness
Its funny how the memory
Will bring you so close then make you disappear
Meanwhile all our friends must choose
Who they will favour, who they will lose
Hang the garland high, or close the door
Or throw away the key
This house is empty now
Theres no one living here
You have to care about
This house is empty now
Theres nothing I can do
To make you want to stay
So tell me how am I supposed to live without you
This house is empty now
This house is empty now
Theres nothing I can do
This house is empty now
This house is empty now
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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a poem for allan jimenez (written in Arvisu House,1981)
If you open my door
Without knocking and
You simply come in
Without myself
What would you say?
It’s been a time
We cleaned rooms
Scrubbed toilet tiles
Into the desired whiteness
Of saints and souls
We designed rooms
Where no rain
Can get in
And surprise us
Of its pouring
About the damp
About the wet
Or the colds we get
We cannot imagine
Accidents do happen
Despite strict precautions
Of the perfect prefect
Of the other sect
We cannot situate
We at wrong hours
Inside wrong rooms
Talking about wrongs
And we talk
All about us and
It talks all about us
The stay
Silent and still
The closed gate
That must by now
Be opened
Or I get
Muriatic and drink it
As my morning milk
Crazy
Now if you happen
To come into my room
Without myself
As I have gone
Far elsewhere
Without myself
Leaving any note
Or sign that I would
Be coming back
To this room
Clean and tidy
What else can you say?
What else would I say?
I cannot promise
I cannot scare you
Elsewhere I go
With another routine
Hi, hello, how are you?
Anyway
The scheduled morning prayers
Of this sad house
Clean and tidy
Shall recite themselves
Perfectly
Without me
Or us
And sure
Everything everything
Would still be all right
All right.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Houses
People who are afraid of themselves
Multiply themselves into families
And so divide themselves
And so become less afraid.
People who might have to go out
Into clanging strangers' laughter,
Crowd under roofs, make compacts
To no more than smile at each other.
People who might meet their own faces
Or surprise their own voices in doorways
Build themselves rooms without mirrors
And live between walls without echoes.
People who might meet other faces
And unknown voices round corners
Build themselves rooms all mirrors
And live between walls all echoes.
People who are afraid to go naked
Clothe themselves in families, houses,
But are still afraid of death
Because death one day will undress them.
Submitted by Stephen Fryer
poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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Twenty years ago, you'd see guys busting rackets in locker rooms. Today they do it in their hotel rooms.
quote by Brad Gilbert
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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House for Sale
I stood in the midst of the empty house,
It was silent, empty, and bare,
gone was the laughter the tears and the life,
and the family that once lived there.
I stood there observing, to try to revive
the memories this house had to share,
the secrets, excitement, unhappiness too,
these feelings so willing to bear.
I heard children playing and lapping up life,
I heard adults talking and scolding,
This house bore it all with its solid repose,
and accepted with wisdom beholding.
I stood in the midst of the empty house,
with a feeling of sadness around,
abandoned and empty, a lonely shell,
for the place never uttered a sound,
it was silent and bare, where the rooms had been stripped
and the furniture taken away,
the paint had been scratched and the floor left unwashed
when the house was abandoned that day.
The ghosts from its past walk through each lonely room,
and I sigh as I button my coat,
I slam the front door with an echoing bang
and a lump seems to lodge in my throat-
for there on the green lawn for all eyes to see
with dark letters outstanding on pale
is a board standing taut in the cold winter sun
with the large, lonely wording- "For Sale"
poem by Margaret Hanning
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0012 The House of Metaphor
After you’ve negotiated that artfully-conceived
sharp elbow bend in the long, grand drive
through the fields of its estate,
and it hoves into view,
you always gasp – this palace
- no, more like a temple with living quarters –
set deep in the countryside, yet as sure
as one in Athens or in Rome;
yet that too is artfully contrived -
the slight mound it’s built on,
the cunning proportion that magnifies,
disguises, with its public face
the aptness of a family home;
its public rooms so grand, just echoing enough
to magnify a public speech; its family rooms
smallish, cosy; love and friendliness
live here. It says to the world,
stability; tradition re-affirmed; yet
this is our familiar family home.
It has its rooms, as rooms should be,
devoted to each family pursuit:
here’s the grand library
but here, with books so evidently, lovingly well read;
you almost missed the little girl, her hair and knees
curled round a book, deep in that leather green armchair;
the study, where your breathing seems to change,
there’s such a still and living silence here;
the nursery that emanates a lifetime’s care;
the children’s bedrooms set around it,
through which you ran and laughed and ran again; the window seats
from which you looked so wistfully
as childhood’s assurance faded into teenage questioning;
a house to leave,
a house to come back to;
a metaphor
as living, haunting, as the poetry it is.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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