Porch
Because it was what we thought was meant by family:
Laughter.
A new house.
A party in the garden where the tables were filled with young faces. Who did not want this true and tender accomplishment?
This just reward handed over to the world’s honest men,
its citizens.
Every house rested on its joys.
So when one of the guests nudged a glass when she was telling a joke which fell on the floor and broke,
we laughed.
We were accountable merely for our own mistakes and committed solely.
And everything was part of the good story,
really.
How could we not love what it cost?
Crack on the marble floor just set,
dent on a polished kitchen door.
A small window overlooks the children,
one nimble,
one frail,
balancing
on the far edge of the porch.
*by L.L.Ypil
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Christmas Zen #1
small children with dirty faces
playing on a cold floor;
rags stuffed in cracks,
'round the windowsills
roaches run up the walls,
Christmas music on the radio
cut off notice on the table;
young woman stares, half dreaming,
of stockings with nuts and oranges
(& the remembered scent of hot chocolate!)
crack pipe falls to the floor
as snow begins to fall
small children with dirty faces
playing on a cold floor
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Beautiful Reward
Well I sought gold and diamond rings
My own drug to ease the pain that living brings
Walked from the mountain to the valley floor
Searching for my beautiful reward
Searching for my beautiful reward
From a house on a hill a sacred light shines
I walk through these rooms but none of them are mine
Down empty hallways I went from door to door
Searching for my beautiful reward
Searching for my beautiful reward
Well your hair shone in the sun
I was so high I was the lucky one
Then I came crashing down like a drunk on a barroom floor
Searching for my beautiful reward
Searching for my beautiful reward
Tonight I can feel the cold wind at my back
Im flyin high over gray fields my feathers long and black
Down along the rivers silent edge I soar
Searching for my beautiful reward
Searching for my beautiful reward
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cook Of The House
Ground rice, sugar, vinegar, seco salt, macaroni too,
Cook of the house,
Im the cook of the house.
No matter where I serve my guests,
They seem to like the kitchen best cause Im the cook of the house,
Cook of the house.
The salads in the bowl,
The rice is on the stove.
Green beans in the colander and where the res is heaven only knows.
Cinnamon, garlic, salt, pepper, corn-bread, curry powder, coffee too,
Cook of the house,
Im the cook of the house.
No, matter where I serve my guests,
They seem to like the kitchen best.
cause Im the cook of the house,
Cook of the house.
Where the rest is heaven only knows.
Matter where I serve my guests,
They seem to like the kitchen best cause Im the cook of the house.
Cook of the house,
Cook of the house,
Im the cook of the house.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Just a little poem about a house
A house made out of glass and bricks
That has seen some tricks
A house that has been here for years
This house has witnessed some happiness and some tears
This is house used to be my home,
Used to call it my dome
Now it doesn’t exist anymore
Glass and bricks are swept to the floor
Memories of the past, weren’t meant to last
The only thing that still stands, is the drawing in your hands.
poem by Oopsie Woopsie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Story Behind The Fire This Morning
before the house was razed by fire
the old man visited the house and cried
telling me about a young man who promised
that if he ever loves another woman
the house shall be burned
to strip it of its meaning
at 6: 30 today early morning the firemen
called it a day. The house is gone
The old man gone. The young man gone.
i like to write the story behind all these
misfortune
but i am afraid that some parts of it
may not be true
or that if true, it may not be fair at all,
or that it be totally unjust
so that there is no use
writing it anymore
The old woman died a year ago
She floated in air
suffered vertigo
she gave up finally
the young man to the world
heard the promise of the old man
who could not do anything
when the house
got burned.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Real Fengshui
his door faced the bend of a bridge
they told him that would bend his luck, so
he had the door torn down and bore through
a wall for a new door, one that faces
the Sun well for the sunshine of life
her door opened to the sharp edge
of a building she thought was the
inauspcious razor that had slashed
her chances in life, so with much incisive
belittlements of her neighbours,
she hung a ba kua mirror to throw back
what she thought should be theirs to keep
another one with the same predicarment
bought a large cannon to aim it at the poison arrow
she thought would overpower the bad influences
one man tore down a whole house
spending a few hundred thousands on
a fengshui expert to plan him a house
with all the good fengshui, a pyramid
he thought would be a panacea of
bad omens, where dreams perpetually come true
but to get the toilet, kitchen and living room in
the right paths of the stars, the house had bore
a hole right through his pocket
fortunately he is well heeled
the forces of wind and water
have like typhoon swept a flurry
of cash into the the coffers of
fengshui masters these days -
they sure had set the lucky winds
blowing in the right places
hopefully fengshui adherents
had had their bad angels swept
into oblivion never to return
perhaps there is another house
that needs all the fengshui care too
our spiritual, emotional and mental growth
needs the fengshui of the mind
to keep them strong - so that those
doors of success, failure, trails, tribulations
we could face with the right canon of faith,
courage and confidence
the house over our shoulders
is where the art of fengshui has to
come first for what we do reflects the
order of the chairs, tables and books
in the library of our heads
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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As You Destroy Me
What you haven't done for me is a longer list than what you have
it hurts so bad but it's the sad truth
so as you destroy me, as you sit up in your 3 story beach house
remember that your home is filled with the anger, remorse, and regret of your mistakes
its insane to say or even explain your favoritism
though you think you don't have it
its a shame to say that because of the way you treated me i cried myself to sleep most nights thinking life isn't worth living
because you called me stupid, i will never graduate
because you never believed in me, i will never succeed
i used to think that deep down you had to love me because you created me
i used to believe you when you said you were teaching me right from wrong
but if you wanted to do that then you should have taught me to love my kids
ALL OF THEM
does it ever cross your mind that the things you say bleed through my eyeballs constantly
do you ever stop to think 'its been 3 years maybe i could say i love you too'
it wont surprise me at all that when i make it big you'll be at my doorstep expecting half
but even after everything you put me through
i still want to buy that house you always wanted
i have to be a good person in order to succeed
and the only difference between you and i is when i said 'i love you' i meant it
as you sit in that lonely room in that lonely house i wonder if you repented
you taught me to never trust, to be afraid of love and be loved
you taught me nothing stays forever
you taught me wrong instead of right
you taught me how to be miserable
and though none of these are good things
What you have taught me is now equal to what you haven't
it hurts so bad but its the sad truth
so as you destroy me, as you sit in that 3 story beach house
remember that your home is filled with the anger, remorse, and regret of your mistakes
i knew from jump either my heart or yours wasn't in the right place
it just so happened that it wasn't mine in the wrong... but yours
and though i forgive you with all my heart and soul
i can never forget
because when you broke me someone else taught me what it felt like to be complete
TRUE, you destroyed me
but i guess now i can never be defeated.
poem by LaTrina Jae LaTrina Jae
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Laughter and Compassion
Laughter and Compassion
Goes hand in hand
Are good medicine for the heart and mind
Not a direct problem solver but reduces stress
For I laughed at one's interpretation of POS
Of another's sarcasm
A cuddling party feels good
Laughter and Compassion
How I laughed and laughed
The laughter relaxed my body
The compassion rested my mind
Follows understanding
Without judgment
My shell broke free
Laughter and Compassion
To have compassion is to be human
During times of despair needed most
A hug
A kind act
Simple gestures
A smile
For a lack of compassion is a pity
Effects the emotional bearing environment
The pleasure of laughter
As without laughter, life is mundane
The human empathy of compassion
As without compassion, one is heartless
Catalysts for deeper problem
Are revelations
It was a small white house
It was a small white house
near to a hillock
with a red painted plate roof
and it felt somehow
as if I had been there before.
The red steps onto the polished porch
shone as if it had just been polished
but there was something
in that glowing sheen
reminding me of a day in childhood gone
when I was cornered on that veranda
and cold water from a hosepipe
splashed all over me
from where my smaller brother
was spraying me
and I didn’t want to go into the house,
much too scared that he would follow me.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A House of Memories
Four generations of my family have lived in that house,
everytime I pass it fresh memories are aroused.
It was once filled with laughter, music and conversation,
now there’s only creaking floors and insect habitation.
My younger sister and brother were born in the master bedroom
and their cries are in my memories as they left mum’s womb.
With the midwife shouting for more hot water and towels,
and dad pacing the floor listening for the new baby’s howl.
The happy times ended when sis fell from her bedroom window,
we all blamed ourselves and for years we suffered in sorrow.
Mum and dad spoke as if she was still about the house each day;
to them reality had died and their sadness was hidden away.
Soon after my older brother went to war at the age of eighteen,
he was captured by the enemy and never again seen.
My granddad was killed whilst working underneath his car,
the jack gave way and he wasn’t missed for over an hour.
My young brother was an adventurer and explored the garden well,
the rope snapped and he drowned, it must’ve been hell.
Mum and dad had so much pain and distress locked inside,
they said nothing could stop their misery except suicide.
A week or so later, the morning began unlike any other day,
the master bedroom was quiet in an odd sort of way.
My twin sister and I had this feeling of gloom and despair
we broke down and cried before we got upstairs.
We entered the master bedroom and saw mum and dad,
in each others arms, no longer looking sad.
And now there’s just my darling sister and me,
who daily live with our childhood memories.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What Papa Do Not Like To See...
a jar on an edge that with a slight push
falls and breaks into pieces,
a sparrow's egg on its nest between the twigs
of the guava tree
a coke bottle put inside the freezer (for he
knows that it will crack, and he does not like to
see broken glass and spilled colored water
inside the frozen floor)
a watermelon on the table with all the possibilities
that it will roll and crush itself on the kitchen floor
a little boy in the middle of the road's curve and there
is a high speeding bus coming...
my papa is not weird after all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My House
(Paul Overstreet/Al Gore)
My house is no mansion
But it still holds my treasures
Things that will never be sold
Theres a few things in this world
That just can't be measured
By money, by silver and gold
My house is filled with the things that I love
From her smile in the mornin'
To her soft goodnight hugs
Her whisper, her laughter
Everything that she does
My house is filled with the things that I love
This old bed that we sleep on
Don't have satin covers
But it holds some great memories
No decorations can make better lovers
In her arms I feel like a king
My house is filled with the things that I love
From her smile in the mornin'
To her soft goodnight hugs
Her whisper, her laughter
Everything that she does
My house is filled with the things that l love
Yes, my house is filled with the things that I love
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Christmas (A Sestina)
Christmas is here, Jesus to the world brought peace
Everyone is rested as kids spend time with family
Kitchens are ablaze, wives creating good ol’ soul-food
Leslie and Destra, await their turn, under the mistletoe
Love is burning bright, outshining the fireplace
And playing kids fill the house with laughter
Worries are swept away, sadness replaced by laughter
As love flies through the air, enemies make peace
Whilst sweet carols are sung by the fireplace
We thank God for the greatest gift of family
As grandma and grandpa steal a kiss, under the mistletoe
My tummy just yelled: where is my soul-food?
Memories to the tongue, grandma’s special soul-food
Don’t know how, but to my tongue, it brings laughter.
Grandma and Grandpa are still under the mistletoe
Showing love so ancient, a picture of heaven’s peace
They are the beginning and measure of our family
Captured purely in pictures taken by the fireplace
Love bubbles deep within, and around the fireplace
As its oil fuses with the spice of Grandma’s soul-food.
Moriah, the youngest; four weeks added to the family
Her little eyes sparkle, her little face filled with laughter
Looking at her, so lovely, One is taken into peace
In times coming soon, her place would be the mistletoe
Her's would be lovely and her destiny the mistletoe
And she too, someday would have her own fireplace
As she grows to celebrate and cherish Christmas peace,
She would learn from Grandma, how to craft soul-food
Her kids would fill the house solely with laughter
As one day, she would have her a family
Fresh out the womb, Moriah completes the family
Even as Grandma and her boo are still by the mistletoe
Their love brings to the heart tears and laughter
Treasures of joy. Now we depart from the fireplace
To the table to dive into some soul-food
That the wives had made in love, and peace.
Thank God for family! Gazing at the fireplace
And the mistletoe, loving me some soul-food
That sets my tongue on laughter, I thank God for peace.
Copyright © 2009 Leslie Alexis
poem by Leslie Alexis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ruben's Mansion
it is not a house
in fact, it is a white mansion
placed on a one-hectare lot
surrounded by a well-manicured
garden and flowering shrubs
and fruit trees
one that everyone cannot but
always admire
when they come
and watch
Ruben's mansion
taking 2 years to finish
and 12 million pesos
in expenditures
as you go inside
the glass door opens
leading you
to a living room
twice as large
as my own house
in a remote barrio
the furniture are carved
from molave trees
shining with shellac
and glistening
with opulence
the motif of this
house
the kitchen is huge
four times as wide
as my garage
accommodating only
my second hand car
and the garage
is one that can handle
a party for the night
of ten tables and
fifty chairs and
a hundred people
one wonders
why Ruben has to make
a mansion like this
sheer taste perhaps
or his money
simply searching for something
to buy and spend
looking for some
vents
did he remember
how as a child
the family was shamed
because visitors
from Bohol
in 1970 could not
be accommodated
and they all murmured
how poor they were?
it must be traumatic
for Ruben
as a child
and it must be some
trauma
that molded his dream
to build a mansion
like this?
(or am i just
jealous
of his ambition)
i need not ask some
more
his lips are sealed
he is dead
and he has no way
explaining
a sensitive matter as building
a mansion
while the rest still
thrives on
mediocre houses and
unfinished makeshifts
and no one lives
in this house anymore
perhaps some dreams
still live here
dreams unfulfilled
and once fulfilled
these dreams now
refuse to die
a mansion is still a house
and when no one lives there
need i say
that it is never a home
and after this party
tendered in the name of Ruben
we all go home
and then think for once
i must build a home
and for the meantime forget about a mansion
or just a house.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Men Cleaning Women Cannot Abide
My wife said she was going out to shop,
I knew she'd be gone for hours,
So I cleaned the house from bottom to top,
Then went out and bought her some flowers.
On arriving home she asked what's that smell,
I boasted I had just cleaned the house,
With what she said it's like something from Hell,
It stinks like a hundred dead grouse.
By doing the cleaning I thought you'd be flattered,
She said exactly what have you cleaned,
That really left my giant ego shattered,
How dare she leave me feeling demeaned?
The house is filthy what did you use,
I replied the same stuff as you,
She said it's my intelligence you're trying to abuse,
I'll now have to start cleaning anew.
What have you done to my kitchen floor?
You've got it full of stellar streaks,
The worktops are scratched like an old barn door,
My mop bucket's now full of leaks.
The toilet is filthy I said no it's not,
She said look at the state of the pan,
You've left enough stains to play dot to dot,
As for cleaning you're now on a ban.
She'll be so impressed she'll be singing,
That's what I honestly thought,
Now she's saying I've got the house minging,
Remember good cleaners cannot be bought.
I walked away totally deluded and sad,
It's moan if we don't then moan if we do,
If they had a self- cleaning house they'd still go mad,
I'm going down to the pub for a brew.
The moral of my story affects far more than me,
It's a problem that is truly worldwide,
It's a sexist thing I'm sure all males would agree,
‘' Men Cleaning, Women Cannot Abide ‘'
‘' They think we do it deliberately''
The Writer
In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.
I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.
But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which
The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.
I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash
And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark
And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,
And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,
It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.
It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.
poem by Richard Wilbur
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Spy
The spy in the house thought he'd seen
A boy playing football in the house with me
The spy in the house thought he'd seen
A ghost scaring people out of the window with me
The spy in the garden thought he'd seen
A trampoline eating people including me
The spy in the garden thought he'd seen
Apples falling into mouths to be eaten
poem by Matthew Smi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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