The Deserted House
There's no smoke in the chimney,
And the rain beats on the floor;
There's no glass in the window,
There's no wood in the door;
The heather grows behind the house,
And the sand lies before.
No hand hath trained the ivy,
The walls are grey and bare;
The boats upon the sea sail by,
Nor ever tarry there.
No beast of the field comes nigh,
Nor any bird of the air
poem by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
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Finding Peace In A Beast
And the young boy laid down
Down in peace as it abounds
In the field where the peace is found
But this beast this peace it clouds
Today this beast stands amist his peace
But he wont blink in awe of the beast
With closed eyes and racing heart beats
He lies down in peace
And in his dreams the beast was gone out of the field
poem by Yewande Adedokun
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The House Made Of Glass Door That Overlooks The Garden
the house has a huge glass door
that overlooks the garden
i mean it is a house with a glass door
at the ground floor that is overlooking a garden
where the cock feeds on worms with a red hen
that lays eggs on the haystack
near the back window,
oh it is not messy and it is far from what you think
nothing is poetic here
there is simply a day that drags itself to its sunset burial site.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shatterproof
I see those newly weds
Their eyes wide and believing
They bill and coo at the mention of chez nous
Appearances can be deceiving
Its just a door and a window
Four walls and a roof
But a home of your own would be shatterproof
A door and a window
Four walls and a roof
But a home of your own would be shatterproof
We papered over all the cracks
And painted a cats lick and a promise
The landlord was a man of few words
And most of them were ominous
Its just a door and a window
Four walls and a roof
But a home of your own would be shatterproof
A door and a window
Four walls and a roof
But a home of your own would be shatterproof
It was nothing really to write home about
Then one day it all appears too much
Here comes my little hammer and its shatterproof touch
He said, be practical,
These are most unreasonable demands.
Forget about the broken spectacles
And the damage to your hand.
Its just a door and a window
Four walls and a roof
And the doctors say Im almost shatterproof
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Smoke
smoke from the chimney
rises to the sky
and then gone
like us, did you not notice?
we are from here
this heart and then in pain
we rise up
we mix in space
there, do you see still us?
i do not see me anymore
i am fog dissolving in the morning
i am mist dissipating on glass
i am smoke
rising to the sky from the chimney
and then gone....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Visits to St Elizabeths
This is the house of Bedlam.
This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the staring sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round or flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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The Little Sister
The wind knocks at the window,
And my heart is full of fear,
For I know when it is calling
That some evil thing is near.
It whispers in the chimney,
And I strike the log to flame,
Lest it come down and take me
To the land that hath no name.
For once I had a sister,
Who now am left alone,
And here we sat together,
When the wind did sigh and moan.
There came a gentle knocking
Quick and sudden at the door,
And my sister hushed my terror,
Saying, ''Tis the wind, a-stór!'
She took my arms from round her,
She kissed me, cheek and chin,
But I cried, 'Oh, little sister,
Do not let the robber in!'
She rose up from me laughing,
But her face was strange and white,
And she opened wide the window,
Looking long into the night.
And I said, 'Oh, little sister,
There is on your cheek a tear!'
''Tis but the rain,' she whispered;
But my heart was full of fear.
And I said, 'Oh, little sister,
There's a hand upon the door.'
Soft she chid me from my crying,
Saying, ''Tis the wind, a-stór.'
And turning from me smiling,
She took down the bar and chain,
But her cheek was like the lily
As she went into the rain.
And I said, 'Oh, little sister,
Will you then return no more?'
But I only heard the pushing
Of the wind upon the door.
Long I cried, 'Oh, little sister,
Will you soon come back again?'
But I only heard the beating
Of the storm upon the pane.
Now my mother sits in sorrow,
Weeping all the livelong day;
And I think she dreads the robber
Who did take her child away.
So I put up bar and shutter
When the wind goes howling by,
For I know when it comes knocking
That some evil thing is nigh.
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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The House of Secret
Close the door, the window speaks
The glass mirrors, the frame shrieks
Close the window, the wall listens
The picture has eyes, the curtain has shadow
Close the wall, the roof stares
The air chills, the light fogs
Close the roof, the floor swallows
The carpet has void, the stair has trap
Close the floor, the door sneaks
In the house of secret, could you find the escape?
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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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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Glass Rose (Moan Of The Night)
a glass rose
shattered on the bare floor...
tiny pieces glinting
in the late evening light.
an old photograph,
half burned in the ashtray...
hand on fire,
slips down, fingers enter
where faces disappear.
a small crucifix,
the breeze slips through the window,
picking up the scent,
staggers as if drunk.
the cruelty of the door,
the latch, and the shadow...
that laughs as it closes
the book and turns away...
a glass rose,
and the moan of the night!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sea Of Joy
By steve winwood
Following the shadows of the skies,
Or are they only figments of my eyes?
And Im feeling close to when the race is run.
Waiting in our boats to set sail.
Sea of joy.
Once the door swings open into space,
And Im already waiting in disguise.
Is it just a thorn between my eyes?
Waiting in our boats to set sail.
Sea of joy.
Having trouble coming through,
Through this concrete blocks my view
And its all because of you.
Oh, is it just a thorn between my eyes?
Waiting in our boats to set sail.
Sea of joy.
Sea of joy.
Sea of joy.
Sailing free.
Sea of joy.
song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Making Lvoe With Her Own Bed
you are just near me
but between us is a door
and between that door
is another door, and so
when you say a word
i have to figure out what
you really mean,
when i open the door
there is a glass wall and
i thought it was you
humming,
it is cold tonight
i am closing a window
out there
i see a black bird perched
upon a branch,
it is cold and i am shutting
myself for any
kind of significance like
what if the bird dies?
what if the bird is you
disguised as a bird?
tonight i cannot sleep
something bothers me
all these thoughts bother me
there is no note
that you are coming back
from that long trip
away from home
was it Sarah who said
that she is making love with her bed?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Grey Thrush at the Door
'Swe-e-et! Swe-e-et!' Low at first and flattering,
Full of soft seductiveness on a wheedling note.
Who comes in mercy now, crumbs of comfort scattering
For a grey bird pleading from a cold, cold throat?
Just a thread of tallow-fat, just a scrap of meat!
Grey thrush is at the door. 'Swe-e-et! Swe-e-et!'
Grey bird, friendly bird, merry bird in summer time,
For summer is a merry time, full of tuneful mirth.
Sunny days are singing days. But winter is a glummer time
With lean days of scant fare; frost has locked the earth.
Song goes as sun goes, and harshly drives the sleet.
Where comes the almoner? 'Swe-e-et! Swe-e-et!'
'Sweet! Sweet!' Now it grows imperious:
A short call, a loud call, impatience in its tone.
Why am I left lingering? See, my plight is serious.
A poor bird all forlorn, starving and alone.
Grey Thrush is a-hungering, begging scraps to eat.
It's far beyond my breakfast time! 'Sweet! Sweet!'
Now a footstep on the floor. Now a sudden fluttering,
And Grey Thrush is waiting there beside the open door.
Kookaburra cocks an eye; greedily he's muttering;
But grey bird is first to swoop upon the proffered store,
A scrap of song in gratitude, then up, and off, away.
And the mendicant has vanished till another frosty day.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Longer Boats
Longer boats are coming to win us
Theyre coming to win us, theyre coming to win us
Longer boats are coming to win us
Hold on to the shore, theyll be taking the key from the door.
I dont want no God on my lawn
Just a flower I can help along
cause the soul of no body knows
How a flower grows... oh how a flower grows.
Chorus
Mary dropped her pants by the sand
And let a parson come and take her hand
But the soul of no body knows
Where the parson goes, where does the parson go?
Chorus
song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Until You Were Gone
On this journey
of lifes' secrets
a stain-glass window
cracked.
Dreams were shattered.
I grasped for
your hand, but
it kept slipping away
The winds of
life kept howling
jerking at you until
you were gone.
copyright by heather burns
poem by Heather Burns
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Separated Between Two Walls
between two walls
i find myself in but
i do not tarry, i am,
the resilient wind
and i lift myself up
and see the walls
from a distance.
they say they are
protective of me.
they say they want
to keep me safe
and at bay with what
is right and true.
the walls of fantasy
and the
the walls of reality.
these are not walls
sooner i will make
them myriad openings
exits and entrances
to the house of my
peace and happiness.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Chimney
this morning...this morning..this morning
the chimney of the desolate house in front of mine
is smoking...smoking...smoking
what a lovely sight
who may be there
on the snow
white smoke onthe white snow
the bare plum tree is
grinning...grinning..grinning
the black crow
on the hazel nut tree
crowing...crowing...crowing
as if life is newly beginning...beginning...beginning
guess..who is there...who is there
behind the yellow lignt seen at night
shining from the desolate window
someone...someone....someone
living. ..emerging from the house
ı wish all the chimneys of the lonely poor smoked
in the wilderness of the cold..cold of the snow
what a happy and a lovely sight
the desolate chimney is smoking...smoking...smoking
ı wish ı were in this old house too
with the mystery of the ancients
where they have come
ı never knew
the desolate house is reviving this morn
ı only see the shadows
growing...growing....growing..and moving
poem by Metin Sahin
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Darkness
Im scared of swimming in the sea
Dark shapes moving under me
Every fear I swallow makes me small
Inconsequential things occur
Alarms are triggered
Memories stir
Its not the way it has to be
Im afraid of what I do not know
I hate being undermined
Im afraid I can be devil man
And Im scared to be divine
Dont mess with me my fuse is short
Beneath this skin these fragments caught
When I allow it to be
Theres no control over me
I have my fears
But they do not have me
Walking through the undergrowth, to the house in the woods
The deeper I go, the darker it gets
I peer through the window
Knock at the door
And the monster I was
So afraid of
Lies curled up on the floor
Is curled up on the floor just like a baby boy
I cry until I laugh
Im afraid of being mothered
With my balls shut in the pen
Im afraid of loving women
And Im scared of loving men
Flashbacks coming in every night
Dont tell me everythings alright
When I allow it to be
It has no control over me
I own my fear
So it doesnt own me
Walking through the undergrowth, to the house in the woods
The deeper I go, the darker it gets
I peer through the window
Knock at the door
And the monster I was
So afraid of
Lies curled up on the floor
Is curled up on the floor just like a baby boy
I cry until I laugh
song performed by by Peter Gabriel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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First Anniversary
After you died, strangers from town
Wheeled the black wood you wore
To the big window. It was then
The walls, the ceiling, and the floor
Enlarged. The room was monstrous, overgrown.
Through that long afternoon, all we could share
Was space. All we have known
From that time on is fear. Again
The wheels turn and the silk-lined box is gone.
The room is dwarfed, immutable and bare.
poem by Weldon Kees
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Divided
I joined people on the sidewalk
to watch a house with broken foundation,
cracked glass, separated walls, a house about to fall. It perched
on a hill that was not right, with others
like a row of dominoes. So unlike
my house, facing the Pacific
surrounded by spurge and
sand. A house cannot
stand when divided
against itself.
poem by Walter Durk
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