The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
Related quotes
Guest House
Lots of people satyed
In the guest house
Of that famous dr. that lives in a greek island
In grece because that is where his house is
Over looking the greek island
yes I also stayed in the dr. guest house
Once because he invite me also
some time ago
poem by Aldo Kraas
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I ended up living at OJ's because Nicole bought a home that no longer had a guest house. OJ offered his guest house to me. Anybody in LA looking for a place knows the best places to live are guest houses.
quote by Kato Kaelin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gone
THE last, late guest
To the gate we followed;
Goodbye -- and the rest
The night-wind swallowed.
House, garden, street,
Lay tenfold gloomy,
Where accents sweet
Had made music to me.
It was but a feast
With the dark coming on;
She was but a guest --
And now, she is gone.
poem by Henrik Johan Ibsen
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My body and my mind
My body and my mind...
My body and my mind are in depression because
You are not with me.
How much I love you and want you in my house!
When I hear people describe me as your bride I look sideways ashamed,
because I know that far inside us we have never met.
Then what is this love of mine?
I don’t really care about food, I don’t really care about sleep,
I am restless indoors and outdoors.
The bride wants her lover as much as a thirsty man wants water.
And how will I find someone who will take a message
to the Guest from me?
How restless Kabir is all the time!
How much he wants to see the Guest!
Treat your guest as a guest for two days; on the third day, give him a hoe.
Treat your guest as a guest for two days -- then on the third day give him a hoe.
The Leaking Roof....
there is no use
repairing the leak of the roof
of this
house
it is raining
let it rain
let the water wet this floor
and the furniture
let us wait when will this dark night
end
when this heavy rain shall stop
on the same leak
we shall see the light that falls
on those wet floors
and furniture
it will show us the truth
and shall guide us
what to do next
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Casa Lima
The house I want to build
with the cement I make,
the stone I carry and I brake, and
the sweat I add to the mixture.
My dream house,
Eileen's house,
my gallery, and her gallery.
It gathers everything
we both like and want
my casa,
my house,
my shelter
my lima.
The sun light,
the space,
the garden,
the bath tab,
the kitchen,
the big table,
the sofa,
the basement staffed with cheese, dry meet, and wine,
the sea is at the horizon,
the mountain,
the river,
the guest room,
a little space for Tango, Salsa, or any new type of dance,
a book shelves
Are added as needed.
we both have dreams
and we will never stop dreaming.
poem by Atef Ayadi
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Sonnet: An Empty House Remembers
The empty house around me ticks and creaks,
A moody end to evening's gentle rains,
A brooding quiet as the daylight wanes,
The secret language empty houses speak.
What stories might this house preserve entire
In rhythmic code composed of click and groan?
Does House recall a sadness with each moan?
Is laughter stored in every plank and wire?
And how might I, a fleeting visitor,
Acquire an ear for stories trapped in time,
And wrap a tale or two in words and rhyme?
How can I tap the House's secret lore?
In silence soft the house slips off to sleep.
Alone I sit, in darkness vast and deep.
poem by Russell Collier
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The House Beside The Road
The house beside the road,
Where people lived
And children played,
Is empty now
And falling down.
The echos of happy feet
Are heard now,
Tapping to the sound
Of Poppy's fiddle,
But the house beside the road
Is empty.
When a gentle voice
Is heard in the house,
It's only a singing breeze
Sifting itself through
The cracks in the roof of
The house beside the road.
poem by Scarlett Treat
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My Room Is Your Room Now
i
my room is your room now
and my arms yours too
my lips are ready for your
warm kiss and you may
have them as yours
ii
for this house is your house
my body is your body
for my love is your love
and my longing is your longing too
iii
this is my heaven and it is yours too
all the angels sing for you
and they also sing for me
iv
you and me in this loneliness
you and me in this hapless mess
v
so i am a tree, a house, arms, lips and body
so i am heaven, room, and window and door
so i am open for you and so you are here with me
you are my guest and i am your host
there is no reason for you to be angry
and if you happen not to like it here
you may leave early the next morning
and please you do not have to say an angry word
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Sitting In An Empty House
Sitting in an emtpy house
Waiting for the phone to ring
Sitting in an empty house
Wanting someone to call about anything
Sitting in an house
Just a cat for company
Sitting in an empty house
Will someone please take time for me?
Sitting in an empty house
No one knows I'm so alone
Sitting in an empty house
The pain I feel remains unknown
04/29/06
Assembly
It was near the end with assemblies to meet
First to arrive was My God and he took his seat.
The sky was filled with color and muted at best
The second to arrive was Our God, as a guest.
The day had ended like those before
The third to arrive called Their God, came through the door.
The fourth to arrive called Your God
The one blest to not come from the sod.
The assembly was to meet and Their God to define
I spoke quickly and said the real God was mine.
No, No, the second spoke for the guest
Our God is as Your God; the very best.
Their God spoke for many with the symbol of the Ram
The God of all the God's was and is, 'the God of I Am.
poem by AHO Speaks
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I came to your shore as a stranger, I lived in your house as a guest, I leave your door as a friend, my earth.
aphorism by Rabindranath Tagore from Stray Birds (1916), translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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First 4 Stanzas of MY VERSION of 'The Raven' by E. A. Poe
Once upon a bright spring morning, while I pondered about the heat,
Over many a splendid and soothing volume of forgotten sound,
While I nodded, nearly speechless, suddenly there came a knocking.
As of someone gently tapping, tapping at my house all around.
' 'Tis some visitor, ' I whispered, 'tapping at my house all around-
Only this, 'twas all I found.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the sparkling April,
And each separate blooming flower circled the room round.
Eagerly, I wished for more- I had to try to find
A dog of some sort that could hunt- maybe something like a hound-
For the rare and radiant maiden so she could have a hound-
Nothing else that I had found.
And the vibrant, vibrating uncertain rustling of each blue curtain
Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic elation never felt before;
So that now, to still the fast beats of my heart, I stood saying
' 'Tis some visitor trying to come in at my door weighing a pound-
Some late visitor trying to come on at my door weighing a pound-
This it is, it was all I found.'
Presently my soul grew in strength; hesitating for a short time,
'Sir, ' said I, 'or Madam, truly you have great reason for being profound;
But the fact that you are here, and so gently you came knocking
And so faintly did I hear you, tapping at my house all around.
That I knew you would be here' - here I opened the door weighing a pound-
An angel there, with beautiful seraph sound.
poem by Rebecca Ryan
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An Overcast Day in June
Speeding along the highway
There's suddenly a bright
Explosion; unruly color
That calls to you from the passing blur:
The unexpected purple house
It's almost gone before you see it-
As if a river of lavender
Once flowed down that street
Left it's mark only on certain
Vulnerable things
One house coated on all sides
The house next to it seeming to sport
Only a single lavender door
I'm certain that if I could follow it closely
Look for the tell-tale lavender shoe tracks
I would note the lavender trace
Gradually wear thinner, house by house
Dwindle to a trellis or a shutter
Until it was just a slight stain
On a solitary front porch-
As if a child had spilled
His single pot of lavender
And had to finish his painting by number
With some garish dark purple
All the while wishing he could pour out
Collect, all that lavender, there preening itself
Under the trees, under the back lit clouds
As if it had been placed there precognitively
Years before, only to meet his need of a moment
On an overcast day in June.
poem by Patti Masterman
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When You treat Me like that
My sweet heart cried out her heart
She said I break her heart
When I treat her like that
She said I made her sad when she caught me on the act
I never knew I could break a heart
Not that of my sweet heart
Now she is parking out of my house.
What can a man do to mend
A broken heart?
I am now alone, all alone in my empty
House, and my empty heart
Or should i say, my broken heart.
It is difficult, very difficult to live
Without her in my heart and my house
These days I drink, day in, day out
I try to forget my sweet heart,
But when I'm sober, there she is, right here in my heart
Her last words to me, 'You break my heart when you treat me lile that, I cant live like that'
She parked and left my house
Now here I am drinking my life out
Here I am crying my heart out.
my sweet heart has broken my heart
When she treat me like that.
poem by Efe Benjamin
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A thief in one's own house
‘To steal’, the sage declares, ‘is to take things
not given consciously with pleasure’.
Several times my eye has skimmed over this,
with thoughtless affirmation; then today
it hit me like a burst of consciousness.. for
yesterday the hairdresser made her regular visit
for which I’m enormously grateful; yet,
I resent her presence in the house:
sharply scorning all my attempts
at friendly small talk (what a payback
for those sessions of ‘Doing anything special
this weekend, Sir? ’ ‘Going away this year? ’
which I in turn, used to resent..)
Last year she was happy to talk about her teenage son,
ice-hockey wizard; now she slaps any such questions
back in my face… “ ‘ee’s at school now innee? ”
But now my resentment has been named:
hoping to treat every visitor as an honoured guest,
I feel instead a thief in my own house..
How different from the weekly visit of
Mr. Organic Fruit and Veg –
product of three different races, so he tells me -
whose smile lights up a week of days in memory..
Just suppose that we could choose to avoid
all those who do no more than exchange
their ‘goods and services’ without a smile..
who do not see their job as
‘giving consciously with pleasure’..
Gone the days of cheeky, chirpy,
cheerful, cocky Cockney ticket collectors
who turned a busload of passengers
into a performance art.. giving
their service consciously with pleasure
and returned by all..
In my first philosophy class,
seeking to position myself as the class joker,
(in the days when ‘waking up’ was our first task)
I smugged this observation about being so ‘asleep’
that in the morning at the tube station,
I said thank you to the ticket machine…
Maybe I was onto something there.
So, a resolution; never now merely to ‘hand over’, but
to give consciously with pleasure..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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We Dont Live Here No More
Make believe your on a boat with no water around.
Picture yourself at a circus, without any clowns.
Pretend that youre on a highway, without any end.
Then empty the ashtray,
Sweep up the floor,
Put a lock on your door.
If somebody calls in the morning,
Just say we dont live here no more.
Draw me a picture of an island without any seas.
Show me a map of the whole world without boundaries.
Build me a home without windows or doors to go in.
Then empty the ashtray,
Sweep up the floor,
Put a lock on your door.
If somebody calls in the morning,
Just say we dont live here no more.
-----
Dream of a time when the tides ebbing now rise again.
Then you will know that to die is not really to end.
Living and dieing are both your most intimate friends.
So empty the ashtray,
Sweep up the floor,
Put a lock on your door.
If somebody calls in the morning,
Just say we dont live here no more.
If somebody calls in the morning,
Just say we dont live here no more.
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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