Muckleneuk Ridge
We sat between packed boxes
in a sold house
and I made some tea
and while we drank
the hot liquid
I told you that I
cannot afford the mansion
in Muckleneuk Ridge
near Unisa University
of which the rent included
water and electricity.
The two boys
were playing outside
with the dogs
throwing a tennis ball
for them
and we could hear
their laughter and excitement
coming in.
It was a really grand place,
with five bedrooms, a study,
a very big lounge
and had a great modern kitchen.
It had huge rooms
with private entrances,
yellow wood floors,
pine ceilings,
a braai aria at the back
and sprinklers
in a huge garden.
You didn’t want to take
no for an answer,
started crying
and went on you knees
begging me please
and embraced my legs.
That house had caught
your heart,
spoke to something
in your soul
and made you truly
feel like a lady.
I helped you to your feet
drawing you up
by you hands
and we embraced.
There wasn’t much
that I could do, but to agree
and although we cut the finances,
I had to make a plan.
That house was like palace,
it was near to the highway
to Johannesburg
(where I worked) ,
right for the children’s school
right for your work
and just the place for you.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
That house in Brackenfell
That house in Brackenfell
had new furniture,
a wine red Kameel lounge suite,
a solid wood dining room table,
a big queen size bed with drawers,
a brand new washing machine,
a white Kelvinator stove and refrigerator.
I worked on an old display case there
stripping varnish, rubbing it
with sandpaper and gluing
it together again
into which your mother
put some mirrors at the back
and we gave it to her.
I planted flowers and shrubs
in that small garden
and watered them
and we lived there
in our first dwelling
for just a few months
driving to work
at Tygerberg hospital and back.
Your folks went away on holiday
and we had to look after
the Pomeranian
and you twisted
that orange-brown Wollie’s member
when he lifted his leg
against the lounge suite
and the poor thing
had to go to the vet
to get over its shock.
Everything went really swell
till one night
that you used the bath
and were naked in it
with all the taps closed
when the walls
started to knock
with a sturdy sound
expected on the front door.
At first you didn’t understand
what was happening
but when you realized
you gave a great scream,
and went to the bedroom
to dress.
Later I found out
that students had played
glass-glass with an ouija board
in that house
and had invited some spirits in.
When the lights
started to go on and off
and doors opened and closed
on their own
you had it with the witchery
and with that house
and moved to your parents
huge villa a little way off.
I at first stayed and prayed
and opened the bible
and told the spirits to be gone
and so they did
but you didn’t believe it
and never set your foot
in that place again.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Wrong House
I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has big steps and a great big hall;
But it hasn't got a garden,
A garden,
A garden,
It isn't like a house at all.
I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has a big garden and great high wall;
But it hasn't got a may-tree,
A may-tree,
A may-tree,
It isn't like a house at all.
I went into a house, and it wasn't a house -
Slow white petals from the may-tree fall;
But it hasn't got a blackbird,
A blackbird,
A blackbird,
It isn't like a house at all.
I went into a house, and I thought it was a house,
I could hear from the may-tree the blackbird call…
But nobody listened to it,
Nobody
Liked it,
Nobody wanted it at all.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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My footsteps resounds on the yellow wood floors
My footsteps resound
on yellow wood floors
and around me rooms are empty
as you have left
and have taken most of our possessions along.
Every step feels like into a strange place
and still I have been living here for years
and everything is really well known
and I hear the dogs barking outside
even before my cellular phone rings
and your lover wants to talk to me
and I send him straight to hell,
but he phones again
and says that he is outside at the gate.
I tell him that I am not interested
and to drive off
but still he stays
and the dogs and I
have the inclination
to get hold of him
and when I come out of the house
there is thunder in me
and at the gate he drives away
with screaming tires
ripping the grass out
of the sidewalk
and stripes are left on the tar road.
I make some tea
while my blood is boiling
and want to phone you, but what the hell
and whatever you want
can go and lie with your lap dog
and I have nothing more to say to you
and the house is empty without you
and without your children’s voices,
but there a serenity folding over me
and I am without you
and it’s a blessing
the value of that I note much later.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The House On Centerville Road
We stopped beside the highway
And gazed at the old house
I told my wife, “That’s where I lived”
When I was just a little sprout
It looked smaller than it once did
Back so many years ago
Even then it was old and creaky
But, as a kid, I didn’t know
Weathered boards were loose and falling
Saplings grew up through the porch
The old tin roof was rusted orange
And the yard looked like a forest
Here dwells my oldest memories
From so many years ago
When our young family lived here
In the house on Centerville road
Those walls once rang with laughter
And the energy of two young lads
Riding stick horses all around the place
Trying to “herd” our collie, Pat
But, Pat knew more than we did
When she’d hear Mama shout
She’d turn us back from the road
And herd two boys toward the house
Dad got a job and we moved to town
Well before I started school
So, my memories are short and sketchy
But, I’ve found there are quite a few
My wife retrieved her camera
And as I turned the key to go
Snapped a picture from her window
Of the house on Centerville road
10/07/07
poem by C.R. Clark
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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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Armed Reaction in Muckleneuk Ridge
While we lived in the mansion
in Muckleneuk Ridge
our maid Rose called me at work,
about some people
with two vans at the gate
that said that they were from Telkom
to install telephone lines
and she could not comprehend
what they were doing there
as the telephone was already working.
I told her to let the two dogs loose
in the yard,
to lock the house
and to press the emergency
alarm button
and that trustworthy maid
did just that,
as she was scared
of being raped by the robbers.
Those men were in
for a big surprise
and although they didn’t
enter the premises
they were blocked of
in the pipe-stem driveway
and left their vans
(which were stolen)
just there
and tried to outrun
the armed reaction
jumping some garden fences
rather than shooting it out.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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God Was Right
God was right when he made the women
Because men built house for the women to live in with their families
And he included a kitchen
But God knew that if the house had a kitchen the women would be better The whole night cooking for her family
And God knew that the kitchen was the perfect place for women
God was right when he made women so that they can have babies
And feed the babies milk from her breasts and change all the babies Diapers everyday
Because the only way babies communicate is by crying
And all the babies needs their naps
God was right when he made the women
So she could be there to do the family laundry also
And women's job is never done at home
Because as long as she lives she will be the slave of home
poem by Aldo Kraas
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House Arrest
Well there's gonna be a party gonna make some noise
Yeah we're invitin' all the girls - invitin' all the boys
There'll be dancin' on the tables dancin' on the chairs
Ya there'll be dancin' in the parkin' lots
And up and down the stairs - alright
Close the windows - lock the doors
Turn it up now - pack the floors
Cops are on the outside - landlord's on the phone
Quick turn out all the lights
Pretend there ain't nobody home!
It's a house arrest - everybody run
I gotta plead guilty havin' - too much fun
This is a house arrest - up against the wall
We can't stop rockin' justa havin' a ball - One and all
Won't you come around to my place
Don't cha know it's overdue
You gotta bring your little lady wear your dancin' shoes
Get a Yellow Taxi - take a limousine
You gotta get there - it's gonna be a scene
it's too late can't wait - get out while you can
It was fun while it lasted let's do it all again
It's a house arrest - everybody run
I gotta plead guilty havin' - too much fun
This is a house arrest - up against the wall
We can't stop rockin' justa havin' a ball
One and all
We bin wakin' up the neighbours
Bouncin' off the walls
Hangin' off the ceilings
We'll be dancin' in and out of the halls!
This is a house arrest everybody move
Gotta plead guilty gonna raise the roof
This is a house arrest...!
song performed by by Bryan Adams from Waking Up The Neighbours
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Little White School House
As I drove from the city
With one thing in mind
Was to see my old school
Where I spent most of my time.
I could barely see it
Coming fresh into view
Somewhat strained in the distance
The place that contribted to what I knew.
There stood the ole school house
Up the road just a piece.
As I drove through the woods
My heart thumped with anxiety.
As I heard so faintly
The laughter of children playing
It was a bit distorted
I couldn't make out what they were saying.
I saw the old Merry Go Round
In my imagination going around and around.
Seeing old school mates
Pushing and pushing hard
To make it go faster
Just running not making a sound.
Sometimes slipping and falling
Sometimes even dragging the ground.
Recess and fun wasn't going to last.
Fun time so quickly slipped away
Even work time seemed to pass.
But I could hear our schoolmarm
Gently ringing her bell
Then she would so calmly say
Children, lunchtime is over
As we'd all let go of the rail.
As I drove a little farther
I could see childen wave.
We'll see you tomorrow
And for no apparent reason
I believed what they would say.
And sure enough the next morning
We were all back at school
Joking and teasing but obeying the rule.
I backed up my car looking once again
Seeing where many of us spent our days
At the Little White School House on the hill
Just to sing, laugh or play.
But long are the days gone
When you would hear
The principal 'Mrs. Kennedy'
So kindly sing and say.
Good Morning to you
Good Morning to you.
We're all in our places
With sun shiny faces.
Oh this is the way
To start a new day.
At work or at play
At school everday.
poem by Cecelia Weir
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Stranger In My Own House
(a capella: she said: boy, your luck is running out...she make me feel like a stranger...in my own house)
I come stumbling in at a quarter to three
To the sound of my own dog growlin at me
Im scared to move or turn on a light
Youve got me creepin around in the dark
Like a thief in the night
Ive got no excuse, I should have known
Ive got no place to live
I never feel at home
I walk into the kitchen to see whats there
Im tired and Im hungry but the cupboards bare
Ive been working all day and all night too
I cant believe this is all I have to come back to
I guess Ill take a look upstairs, in the danger zone
I wonder what Im doing here
When I never feel at home
Im a stranger in my own house
Ive got the keys to the door
But Im still locked out
Im a stranger in my own house
Ill huff and Ill puff and Ill blow this house down
Cant be a stranger in my own house
I see the do not disturb sign on my bedroom door
What is this sheet and pillow laying on the floor
I wore out my welcome
I hear you loud and clear
Its time to get a few things straight around here
Ive got no excuse, I should have known
Ive got a place to live but I never feel at home
Im just a stranger in my own house
Ive got the keys to the door
But Im still locked out
Stranger in my own house
Ill huff and Ill puff and Ill blow this house down
Cant be a stranger in my own house
Ive got no excuse, I should have known
With a woman like you Im better off alone
Im a stranger in my own house
Ive got the keys to the door
But Im still locked out
Im just a stranger in my own house
Oh, honey Im home
Im just a stranger in my own house
Im just a stranger in my own house
You got a lion on your hands girl, not a mouse!
Im just a stranger in my own house
Im just a stranger in my own house
Well, somebodys got to go...
Stranger
Stranger
song performed by by Foreigner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love Hate Relationship
i see you, seated on the staircase, the old one
left by your parents long dead, and
you are crying there, some tears falling on the
carpeted floors, so your sorrow is invisible
to his eyes, when he comes home, you put on a smile,
like a light that you switch on when it is dark,
it has always been that everyday with you,
and him, and he tells you every instruction to keep that love
burning, you listen, but as soon as he goes
to another place, far, and you sit again on that old staircase
counting the rails and the chairs of the house
you begin to think honestly, that this affair is nothing but a
fraud. It is only him. But to him that should not be, as you he goes
away for days, and you keep on staying put
with all his instructions. You worry about the electricity of the house.
and the gas that keeps the oven hot for the bread
and the muffins
but for how long. The tank of gas will be empty soon.
and what he will find in this house, when you decide to end it all
is just the muffin that the ants of the house
are still eating. There is always a season to end what was started.
soon. It will be. You sit on the stair, looking out the door.
You will know how to make the dust. Soon, It will be.
He will never know.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Carpenter's Song
My lot grew lighter day by day;
The children grew apace;
I built a little house last May--
No palace like that place.
And--"Father," said she, "sure you know
That once we ate dry bread?
Into our own house now we go!"--
The mother, she is dead!
Her house the undertaker made,
And not the carpenter;
My grace unsaid, the pastor prayed
In loud tones over her.
The day that's spent with merriment,
'Mid blossoms blue and red,
No music lent--my heart was rent!--
The mother, she is dead.
We pulled together many a year;
Like old bird-mates were we;
But who e'er thinks of dying here
While both together be?
Fast barred is every window-blind--
I care not what is said;
Yes, sell the house! I do not mind--
The mother, she is dead!
poem by Carmen Sylva
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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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Moving
There’s confusion to find things,
to prepare the kitchen, the rooms
when the hallway and lounge,
the garage is standing full of boxes
and we are like nomads,
as if every thing is ready
for the next removal
while we find small treasures,
precisely plan how to arrange our house,
our new life.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Sonnets of home
I
I dream of building
a mansion, villa
or big white house
with a lot of space,
or maybe a Tuscan place
or two set on a terrace
on a mountain
with a wonderful view
overlooking the ocean
with a ivory white beach
that runs as far
as the eye can see
and to make it home
just for you and me
II
The birds will be our companions
and whales and dolphins
will pass in the bay
and a garden
as big as a park
will run all the way
down to the sea
and every plant and tree
that you like will be there
and vegetables will grow in patches
against the hill and there will be orchards
with juicy red, yellow and orange fruit
and plantations with big green pines
will cover the rest.
III
The house will be a white pillar
that towers like a castle above it all
and a place where any wary traveller
will be welcome to visit and rest
and there will be steps coming down
to the bay and a lift or two or three
next to an azure lagoon
where a cool river splashes down
in a big pronged waterfall
and we will be able
to lie in the bright sun
and run with the dogs
on the white beach
like children having fun.
IV
l’Envoi
Let others live in big crowded cities
and be packed into matchboxes
reaching up into the sky
and have more neighbours
than they care to know
but you and I
will be able to watch
blue waves twist and break
and hear the melody
of the rushing sea
and your studio and our home
will stretch from the hill
down to the aquamarine ocean
and touch the big sapphire sky.
poem by Gert Strydom
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House Of The Heart
So many people live in the house of the heart
And all the people that lives in the house of the heart
Are very at the house of the heart
Because they don't live alone
The house of the heart is a very big house
With 10 bedrooms,1 kitchen, a dining room,1 large living room, and 5
Bathrooms
At the house of the heart everybody sleeps in their own bedroom
poem by Aldo Kraas
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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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A haunted house
it stands on multiple wooden poles
and right between them a flight of stairs
that goes up straight to the back or kitchen
so that when somebody walks down you see
his feet, shins and thighs before you see the person
the house faces a huge raintree
that divides two roads
car lamps therefore shine directly onto
the poles of the house and cast shadows
that flash and lift themselves up over the
compound
the house they say is haunted
at night bus uses to stop just outside
to let passengers down
their shadows invariably running all
over the house when a car comes
in the opposite direction
everything then seems to be moving
except its unrelenting quietness
and forboding menacing atmosphere
i once was let down here
one last passenger in the dead of night
all the nooks and corners of the
abandoned house all of a sudden
became eyes that stared at me
like eager and lonely ghosts
longing for friends
my heart beat faster than my legs
could carry me
the house stood solemnly quiet
like an old, cold, lonely woman in despair
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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After School Tea.
Mother said
you were to go back
to Mrs Clark's house
for tea after school
and she would pick
you up later
after work
and so when
the bell went
for the end
of the school day
you went with Mrs Clark
and her daughter Helen
for tea and Mrs Clark
talked all the way
to her house
her words rough
as hewn stones
going over your head
to which you just nodded
or shook your head
and when you arrived
at the house
which smelt
of past dinners
and washing drying
and the baby's nappies
she said
What would you like for tea?
Bread and butter
bread jam
bread and Bovril
or dripping?
and how about
a large mug of tea?
Helen said
I'm having bread and jam
and a mug of tea
why don't you too?
you said
Yes that will be fine
and shyly sat in a chair
by the window
looking out
at the backyard
where washing hung
on a clothesline
and an old doll's pram
sat rusting by a wall
and Helen came
and sat next to you
in her grey skirt
and off white blouse
and swung her legs
back and forth
under the chair
her white ankle socks
and black scuffed shoes
coming in
and going out
of view
and she said
After tea
I'll show you my dolls
and the doll's house
my daddy made
out of orange boxes
and as Mrs Clark
made the tea
you sensed Helen's small hand
run along your arm
which set alarm bells ringing
in your head
and a sweating in your palm.
poem by Terry Collett
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At Home With Our Dogs
four dogs since the latest one
died hit by a truck when it tries to cross the street
without us watching,
four playful dogs in the house
the only animals who miss us when we are away
the same ones who welcome us
when we are back at home
they say that it is expensive to raise and feed
and give shelter to four dogs in the house
no, no, not at all
they do not go to school
neither do we pay them their salaries for pleasing us
they do not harm at all
and demand holiday pay and other allowances
nothing about retirement schemes
and SSS premiums
there is no problem about betrayal either
these four dogs in the house
if you must know, are our children
since we have none
at all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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