The Old House Of My Grandfather
sometimes as i walk early morning
when the suns starts to climb up on the hill
i think of grandfather's house
old, and spacious on top of a hill
overlooking his farm where his carabaos graze
his goat and cows and ducks teem,
oh, those were the years of bounty
and there was no worry,
about what to eat what to do
where to go,
times changed, and now we are always on a race
taking much work, and buying lots of things
sometimes we regret, taking and throwing
going and then returning
apparently, for no purpose and without meaning,
we live in a new house now with glass windows
and iron grill and high and thick walls and fences
we speak less, we move more,
we laugh less, we discuss more,
the old house of grandfather was burned in 1968.
this new house burns all day, and there is no fireman coming.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
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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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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To Build A House
to build a house, a beautiful one,
i just do not need land and nails
not just wood, and grass
not just beams and roofs, for they
are but necessities, projections of
the house upon a hill
of the mind,
to build a house, one needs the soul
of the home,
the words of memories, the gutters
of our emotions,
unlike you, my house requires the fences
and walls
keeping away the ill winds
of publicity, the rumors of who i was,
a slope, the steep one, inclined
towards no other
than the whiteness of the sky
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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
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The Houses
1898 -- A Song of the Dominions
'Twixt my house and thy house the pathway is broad,
In thy house or my house is half the world's hoard;
By my house and thy house hangs all the world's fate,
On thy house and my house lies half the world's hate.
For my house and thy house no help shall we find
Save thy house and my house -- kin cleaving to kind;
If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon.
If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon.
'Twixt my house and thy house what talk can there be
Of headship or lordship, or service or fee?
Since my house to thy house no greater can send
Than thy house to my house -- friend comforting friend;
And thy house to my house no meaner can bring
Than my house to thy house -- King counselling King.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Expectedly
houses are strong
and well insulated
in your
hinterland
but mine is on top
of the hill
kissed by the sun
it is open to the
air
they come and go
and come again
this is the house without
doors and stairs
a house deprived of
windows
and peeping holes
and cracks and
slits
this is the house of the
sun
the earth loves it
its body attached
to the grass
it has no pillars
but trees
no roof but clouds
no walls but spaces
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Tonight Something Hot Is Going On
outside the
fence of the house
the dogs
the bitches are
doing it tonight
in heat
they bark at each others'
lust
who can fence
lust?
no one stops
a river
no one can keep
the rain
from falling
look at us
how pitiful have we become
because
of civilization
we are inside this house
with safe windows
with well locked doors
high fences
thick walls
how unhappy
can restraint ever be?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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House Of Jazz
Humdinger
Bell ringer
Got a nasty stinger
To slow you down
Mud slinger
Gold digger
Who point the finger
And do you down
Kickin' and a fightin' on a TV show
Lightin' blindin' in the middle of the road
Are you comin' in
Are you comin' in
I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Ball stripper
Big tipper
Got a slap 'n' tickler
To make you growl
Spitin' and bitin' on a TV show
Tightenin' frightenin' givin' out a load
Are you comin' in
Are you comin' in
I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Are you comin' in
Come on in
Are you comin' in
Are you comin' in
I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Are you comin' in
Are you comin' in
I said into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
The house of jazz
song performed by by AC/DC from Stiff Upper Lip
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In This House
in this house
where you've been
what you've seen
were the windows
in this house
where you've been
what you've seen
were the doors
in this house
where you've sat
what you ate
was your food
in this house
where you've sat
what you ate
was the word
in this house
where you stood
what you could
something say
in this house
you could open
windows doors clapping wings
in this house
you could open
soul that heaven upward sings
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Poetics 9...
beyond this house
where we live
more or less
ten meters away
lies my neighbor's house
painted white
with a blue roof
and magenta windows
some walls are made
of glass
honesty there is peace
among us
who are still on unspeakable
terms
on good fences
higher than ever
we have become
perfect neighbors
there is independence
when fire breaks
we are ready with our own
pails already
filled with stinking water
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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No house should ever be on a hill or on anything. It should be of the hill. Belonging to it. Hill and house should live together each the happier for the other.
quote by Frank Lloyd Wright
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A House for Four
A house for four
What is it? a house for four
A dingy looking thing
Are there windows? none
What is it? a house for four
Such a palace
Are there greetings? none
What is it? a house for four
Why the space is so small
Is there privacy? none
What is it? a house for four
A dozen creeps could be creeping there
Is there any trust? none
Don't judge me for mine
Poor fool i wont
Even give you the time
Are you judging me?
Your quite the choir
With a cracking voice
And
A tall house that falls
To scrutiny
A house for four and
A house for four
A people of choir and
A people of poor
Do you not recognize
The stains are yours?
A house is not a house
Unless there is more
More and more
Sometimes less is more
poem by Deci Hernandez
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Our Little House
Our little house upon the hill
In winter time is strangely still;
The roof tree, bare of leaves, stands high,
A candelabrum for the sky,
And down below the lamplights glow,
And ours makes answer o'er the snow.
Our little house upon the hill
In summer time strange voices fill;
With ceaseless rustle of the leaves,
And birds that twitter in the eaves,
And all the vines entangled so
The village lights no longer show.
Our little house upon the hill
Is just the house of Jack and Jill,
And whether showing or unseen,
Hid behind its leafy screen;
There's a star that points it out
When the lamp lights are in doubt.
poem by Thomas Walsh
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House Of Jazz
(young - young)
Humdinger
Bell ringer
Got a nasty stinger
To slow you down
Mud slinger
Gold digger
Who point the finger
And do you down
Kickin and a fightin on a tv show
Lightin blindin in the middle of the road
Are you comin in
Are you comin in
I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz, yes
Ball stripper
Big tipper
Got a slap n tickler
To make you growl
A spitin and bitin on a tv show
Tightenin frightenin givin out a load
Are you comin in
Are you comin in
I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Are you comin in
Come on in
Are you comin in
Are you comin in
I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Are you comin in
Are you comin in
I said into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
The house of jazz
2000, j. albert & son, pty.
song performed by by AC-DC
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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House Of Lords
The butler henry baker extinguishes the fires
Whilst sir fredrick harold robinson casually retires
Another day tomorrow cries alan crayon steel
All must be up early to have the morning meal
The maid comes with decanter and to the butler there
Said sir heres what you ordered ,
He said no one seems to care
It must be good to live in the house of lords
It must be good to live in the house of lords
The house is now in darkness before the coming day
But at five oclock that morning , the master passed away
The housemaid drew the curtains and the doctors watched the dawn
And the brother bendix sadly watched the gardener mow the lawn
It must be sad to live in the house of lords
It must be sad to live in the house of lords
Grandma mildred marshall was pouring out the tea
When she heard about the news of sir fredericks tragedy
The hall is now in sadness and everybody cried
On the banks of burntley river is where sir frederick lies
It must be sad to live in the house of lords
It must be sad to live in the house of lords
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A True Ghost Story
My grandfather's house at Maypajo
It was built in year nineteen o' five
Of the sturdy wood 'kamagong'
And for ninety long years it survived.
It had delicate capiz- shelled windows
And hard wooden planks for its floors
Wide beams on ceilings that show
Fine architecture and Spanish decor.
In the twenties it held various parties
And its rooms may have held many guests
My aunts and my Mom were real beauties
And I'm sure many gents laid their quests.
But the second World War had been deadly
The Japanese fired many a mortar
Its plastered walls bared testimony
To the ugly devastation of war.
That house witnessed many departures
As its tenants soon married away.
Grandfather, its permanent fixture
He would walk its rooms night and day.
But the years saw him slowly yielding
To the rigors of approaching old age
Like his old house that was depreciating
He was closing and turning Time's page.
At death bed he had wanted to see
(For the house in his will was not clear)
His second daughter, my dear Aunt Nellie
Was summoned for some things she should hear.
But alas, it was rather too late
And the dying man's word left unsaid
For Death was the guest who can't wait
When Aunt Nellie came, he was dead.
Aunt Nellie claimed the property
Said she had the title to her name
Though her four siblings begged to disagree
Her lawyers legalized it all the same
The house boldly stood through the years,
But there were some weird happenings
The neighbors and people had fears,
Some saw an old man at night... walking.
Some said when they looked for my aunt
An old man peered through the window
Informed them that the house was vacant
And to church my aunt with her son did go.
My own brother's nanny had witnessed it
In a story that turned up our hairs
She turned to see an old man without feet
In slow motion descending the stairs!
We showed her Grandfather's old photo
And she point blank said 'That's him! '
The man she saw in white tuxedo
Had been roaming the house at whim.
Though I have never seen a ghost
And consider them just halloween fun
This true story is fearful at the most
In that house, the old man there walks on.
-
This is a true story, and the house, though sold and renovated,
still has its 'permanent tenant' and many have seen him.
Copyright Cynthia Buhain Baello
February 6,2010
Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Stranger In The House
We dont talk much
We dont make love like we used to
And I stay guarded
Ive got walls and triggers
I never thought I had
And so do you
But this is love
And thats the way we seem content to play it
I touch your clothes when youre gone
I let your scent wash over me
You cry at night and you wish just like a child
That we were how we used to be
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
And she looks like somebody from a lifetime ago
I stonewall you, you stonewall me
But we both know that
Hiding deep inside us
Lives the love that we try hard to lose
And never will
But this is war
And thats the way we seem content to fight it
I get so angry and confused cause
I want out but I want you
You cant decide between moving out or moving in
You dont know what to do
With a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
And she looks like you
And he looks like me
Is this the same girl that, I fought so hard to win
And now I fight to lose her
Now I feel that its just like skin to skin
And nerve to nerve
Strung out like wire
Is that the way we are content to live
We face off in anger
In rooms once filled with love
Looking for a chink in the armour
Where we can stab the blade
What are we thinking of
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
And she looks like somebody from a lifetime ago
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
Theres a stranger in the house
In the house
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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‘To the Slaughter-house’- A Cattle-song!
To the slaughter-house! To the slaughter-house!
Here we cows all go;
We gave men milk and butter, ghee;
They want our beef now;
We’ve no other go.
To the slaughter-house! To the slaughter-house!
Here we oxen go;
We tilled their lands and milled oil-seeds;
They want our hide now;
We’ve no other go.
To the slaughter-house! To the slaughter-house!
Here we sheep all go;
We grazed their meadows, eating grass;
They want our mutton now;
We’ve no other go.
To the slaughter-house! To the slaughter-house!
Here we cattle go;
We served mankind as God said so;
Selfish men want our flesh now;
We’ve no other go.
To the slaughter-house! To the slaughter-house!
Here we animals go;
Jostled, huddled, unfed, crowded;
Men want our lives now;
This is our last ride, we all know;
We’ve no other go.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-20-2008
poem by John Celes
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The House with Nobody in It
Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track
I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.
I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute
And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.
I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;
That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.
I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do;
For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.
This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,
And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.
It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied;
But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.
If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid
I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.
I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be
And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.
Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door,
Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store.
But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone
For the lack of something within it that it has never known.
But a house that has done what a house should do,
a house that has sheltered life,
That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,
A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet,
Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.
So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track
I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,
Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,
For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.
poem by Joyce Kilmer
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The Monument Of All Our Wrongs
i build a house
no one likes it.
the house is empty
i put some chairs.
someone comes and
says, this house is
lonely, it needs
a sound
it is boring and needs
a paint
i put a tree beside
its stairs
i grow another
fence
i put a lone bulb
on a post
and leave the house
for good
that is what the
house is made
there is always
missing
something is
always wrong
this is the house
of regret
it is the monument
of all our wrongs.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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