Where I Live....you Know It.
a house is built
made of bricks, red as blood
at the center of the island
black as a mole
at the middle of your right
cheek
it is fenced by the locks of
your hair
it is guarded by the cautious
tongue of your face
at the other side
bounded by a big brown river
is a cottage
no living room, no kitchen
not even a restroom
it is just a square cottage
with roof leaking
where i can see the stars
if you know me well enough
for years that i have been with you
and for days that i have left you
you shall know where i live
and if you love me well enough
you'll take nothing with you
to follow me
and i know you will never be lost
until you find
the place where my heart sings
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Repost....
a house is built
made of bricks, red as blood
at the center of the island
black as a mole
at the middle of your right
cheek
it is fenced by the locks of
your hair
it is guarded by the cautious
tongue of your face
at the other side
bounded by a big brown river
is a cottage
no living room, no kitchen
not even a restroom
it is just a square cottage
with roof leaking
where i can see the stars
if you know me well enough
for years that i have been with you
and for days that i have left you
you shall know where i live
and if you love me well enough
you'll take nothing with you
to follow me
and i know you will never be lost
until you find
the place where my heart sings
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Familiarity For M'lady Ann
The river as it flows on by.
Softly sings us a lullaby
Our cottage built of weathered stone
sits by the riverside alone.
Here where we raised our family
we are still living happily
Al though the family have flown
and now have children of their own.
The house was here before we wed
and will be here when we are dead
But until then we’re satisfied
to live beside the riverside
and listen to the lullaby
the river sings as it flows by.
22/04/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Come, Pretty School-Girl!
On this rolling planet ever have you seen
A home so like a palace waiting for its queen? --
A dwelling place so fair,
So fill'd with treasures rare,
As the little white cottage on Evergreen Square?
Come, pretty school girl! lay your books aside;
Yes graduate tomorrow -- tomorrow be my bride;
My fortune share,
And reign queen there,
In the little white cottage on Evergreen Square.
Red as are the roses climbing on its wall,
Your cheeks of richer crimson shall out-bloom them all.
Your eyes (beyond compare)
A brighter gleam shall wear,
In the little white cottage on Everygreen Square.
Flow'rs of rarest fragrance all the year shall bloom,
And singing birds make music in your chosen room.
Come, breathe its balmy air!
Come, charm away my care,
In the little white cottage on Everygreen Square.
poem by Henry Clay Work
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A Little Cottage
A little cottage nestled in the hills,
its roof is thatched
and it windows carry Georgian squares.
In its garden pretty flowers grow;
while in the fields,
seeds of corn are sown.
Snug within its stonewalls
lives a family,
husband, wife and their two sons.
Sadness filled the cottage one day
when the sons were called to war.
Candles were lit; prayers were said
for their safe return.
Years rolled by, paintwork peeled,
but the little cottage was still a home
with its fire warm.
Day after day, year after year
they waited for their sons return.
Then came what they dreaded most,
letters laced with black
to say that their sons had fallen
in fields far away
and would not be coming back.
A wreath of black hangs on the door
for their soldier boys
who will come home no more.
Sorrow again gripped the walls.
As years followed,
the little cottage fell into disrepair.
Within this once happy home
only sadness rang.
The husband and wife
grew old in their years,
but always held the memory
of two young lost lives.
Slowly they too faded away.
Now the little cottage
stands silent for all to see.
Falling down from lack of repair,
but always holding memories
of happiness once there.
poem by David Harris
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Fibber Island
Here on Fibber Island
We strum rubber guitars
Our friends live on Mars
And we sew buttons on our cars
Here on Fibber Island
Our house is made of pie
Our dog is two miles wide
And all he talks about is pie
Here on Fibber Island
We swim on the ground
Wheels are square, not round
We eat chocolate by the pound
Here on Fibber Island (here on Fibber Island)
No one sings along (no one sings along)
We just ride giraffes (we just ride giraffes)
And wear bicycles for hats (bicycles for hats)
To get to Fibber Island (oooooh)
You just close your eyes (oooooh)
Start fibbin' in your mind (oooooh)
And see what you can find (oooooh)
Here on Fibber Island
We hide mittens in our hair
You might need to stare
To see the mittens in our hair
Come to Fibber Island
And strum rubber guitars
Meet our friends from Mars
And sew buttons on our cars
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cottage or Apartment
The roses' and the vines' fragrance,
Mingled with my cottage air.
Maine's preponderance of pines,
Surrounded my cottage fair.
The heavenly light ray,
Pierced through the fir tree.
It made my life there,
A nature fantasy.
That wooden kyake parked on the Sound,
Spoke to me of learning the sea.
Twittering birds and wild turkeys,
Spoke to me of how life should be.
But the human in me, never quite satisfied,
Yearned for alterations,
Of happiness that could have been,
A still happier life, that could have been.
But I started to focus on tiny details,
Of a flutter of a bird's wing.
Of the way these birds could sing.
Of the way these birds flew.
All these things my heart could not do.
It just could not do.
I now wanted to live in an apartment,
Dissatisfied with my cottage,
Dissatisfied with nature and God's forest,
And trees, and what could be.
Then I realized, how far I had strayed,
From my own childhood happiness,
That spontaneous happy ignition,
Where happiness resided.
But I never opened that shiny door,
Where this happiness was stored.
Well, I now smelled the pine tree needles,
The freshness of that inviting river,
That babbling brook of my Maine,
Where my cottage stood,
Way in the undergrowth,
Where my feet wanted to trod.
Down that way to that awaiting happiness,
Given to each of us, free by God,
That lay deep, so deep in our heart.
That I would never from this cottage part.
To any move to any apartment, anywhere,
To seek some fantasy happiness,
But uncapturable again,
Since once again, depending on outside appearances.
Godly happiness, once more ignored.
So both the cottage and the apartment failed you.
Childhood happiness, once more ignored.
No cottage nor apartment living, could your happiness find.
poem by Vera Sidhwa
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The Past
The Past
I live in a cottage that is 350 years old, wish I could have seen a ghost,
because I believe they exist. When I moved in here part of it had been
a stable and on warm nights I can still smell hey and the mule that lived
in what is now my living room. When I first came here ancient voices
emitted from the walls, people who had lived her before had toiled
the soil and lived in poverty. One cannot erase the history of past
generations where people had lived, even if their physical bodies are
no longer here but their souls remain and speak to us if we care to listen.
The cottage seemed content that someone had moved in, no house likes
to be abandoned. New roof, plastered wall voices subsided and waned
altogether, yet on this hot night I do hear sighs, smell the mules sweat.
Is it my imagination only if I see the contour of the animal and see a man
stroking its head? And talking softly.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Allegory Of Good And Evil
i made a cottage
of nipa and bamboo
and rattan
by the side of the
sea
it is not that
luxurious
any common man of this
village may come and
rest
i put the sign that any
tired man may sleep there
any traveler may use it
for free
i was away for three days
when i visited it
the vandals drew a big penis and
a vagina as big as a platter
poured black paint on the floor
and scattered drift wood
in the center of the floor
how unkind are these unknown
vandals?
but we cannot be outdone
we clean it again
repaint it with green and beige
to cover the obscenity
i guess, what devil destroy
God is never tired repairing
because we have promised
to be instruments of good
then we must all comply
now the cottage stands clean again
welcoming still a tired traveler.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Happened To His Village
He was born just a short distance from Adelaide
And he could see the sea from his back door
And in his young days there were not many houses
But the years have brought great change to Semaphore.
His sea side Village has grown to a coastal suburb
And his old Homeplace has undergone great change
Where once were trees and paddocks now there's houses
A stranger to your old Homeplace seems strange.
What happened to the Village of his childhood
The paddock where he played in years ago
He only can refer now to his memories
Of peaceful place the Homeplace he once did know.
The cottage of his childhood gone forever
A doctor's surgery where once it stood
And not one know him he is now a stranger
In Semaphore the place of his boyhood.
But of the past he still has good old memories
Of his old Village how it used to be
And from the cottage by the wide brown paddock
Six hundred yards off he could see the sea.
poem by Francis Duggan
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House of Love
Our love is so high as the ceilings.
Your love have me catching so many feelings.
I wash your pain away like a bubble bath.
Every problem you had I always solve the math.
Our love is beautiful colors of crafts.
The hallways I see you walk slowly in your path.
To the room where the moon is shining through the blinds of the window.
Me and you never see a tomorrow.
Because everyday I am your hero.
We might have differences because i am a libra and you a leo.
We make chemisty in the kitchen and your sweet love is like a cool aid to my heart.
A sweet feeling that have my heart healing.
Our hearts is filled in a living room full of space.
We are both comfortable and compatible we tie up together like shoe lace.
Your beautiful face I stay focus without losing a trace.
When I look at you, I never see fate or hate.
We always mate when its late.
Our love is never fake.
I hold the keys to your heart and open the door.
I found a house of love.
Together we like a house of love.
Built with emotions that are bonded and constructed as bricks.
Our complications are always fixed.
poem by Anteaus Berryhill
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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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Up On The Roof
When this old world starts a getting me down
And people are just too much for me to face
I climb way up to the top of the stairs
And all my cares just drift right into space
On the roof its peaceful as can be
And there the world below dont bother me
Oh no
So when I come home feeling tired and beat
I go up where the air is fresh and sweet
And get far away from the hustling crowd
And all that rat race noise down in the street
On the roof thats the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Lets go up on the roof
At night the stars they put on a show for free
Yes they do
And darling you can share it all with me
Thats what I said I keep on telling you
That right smack dab in the middle of town
I found a paradise thats trouble free
And if this old world stars getting you down
Theres room enough for two up on the roof
At night the stars they put on a show for free yeah
And darling you can share it all with me
Thats what I said I keep on telling you
That right smack dab in the middle of town
I found a paradise thats trouble free
If this old world stars getting you down
Theres room enough for two up on the roof
Up on the roof oh yeah
Up on the roof
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To The One I've Known When I Was Younger Then
there was something in the past
that burnt me
you were there innocent like someone who does not belong
to earth
you never had he wings of an angel or even that of a bird
the chicken in you shames me
you were telling stories that i had no right to listen
because they hurt me
you did not know, you were a stranger in my heart
i was shattered with the news
you laughed at me, that was my first shame,
i fetched water from the well, repaired the leaking roof of the
house of my father, did not talk to mama for days,
regretting that i was born
with a limp on my leg, a black mark on my face,
a weakness on my heels
i did not change anything, it would be impossible
i must live all my years, and you shut your mouth up
you know very well, that despite everything
i am human and i have the right to be here
and you went your way, and i avoided the cross-crossing of
our paths
i live my life well, and that is your shame.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Its My House
(nickolas ashford/valerie simpson)
Its my house and I live here
(I wanna tell you)
Its my house and I live here
Theres a welcome mat at the door
And if you come on in
Youre gonna get much more
Theres my chair
I put it there
Everything you see
Is with love and care
Its my house and I live here
(I wanna tell you)
Its my house and I live here
On the table, there sits a rose
Through every window
A little light flows
Books of feeling on the shelf above
cause it was built for love
I was built for love
Its my house and I live here
(I wanna tell you)
Its my house and I live here
Theres a candle to light the stairs
Where my dreams await someone to share
Oh, theres music on the radio
And good vibrations wont let me go
I put my name on the ceilin above
cause it was buillt for love
It was built for love, ooh
You say you wanna move in with me
You say you wanna move in with me
Got to follow the rules to get me
Got to follow the rules to get me
You wanna visit my house
Say you wanna drop by
Wanna visit my house, yeah
To see me sometimes
Theres a welcome mat at the door
And if you come on in
Youre gonna get much more
I put my name in the ceilin above
cause it was built for love
It was built for love
Its my house and I live here
(I wanna tell you)
Its my house and I live here
song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As Long As Your Eyes Are Blue
'Will you love me, sweet, when my hair is grey
And my cheeks shall have lost their hue?
When the charms of youth shall have passed away
Will your love as of old prove true?
'For the looks may change, and the heart may range
And the love be no longer fond;
Will you love with truth in the years of youth
And away to the years beyond?'
Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown
And the blush on your cheek that lies,
But I love you most for the kindly heart
That I see in your sweet blue eyes.
For the eyes are the signs of the soul within,
Of the heart that is leal and true,
And, my own sweetheart, I shall love you still,
Just as long as your eyes are blue.
For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach
May be reft of their golden hue;
But, my own sweetheart, I shall love you still,
Just as long as your eyes are blue.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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A Mason's daughter and a Carpenter's son
Each & every muddy brick
And the wooden planks of their house
Whisper about the courageous parents
And the cottage comes up gradually.
The proud sky is bit inquisitive it seems
And the humble river says;
'Do not worry, their innocent roof won't touch and bother you anyhow.'
Big ferries cross the river with huge cranes and building materials
And the proposed 'Toy Factory' build up very soon as per the country bald-headed Mayor's election promise.
The old ferryman sings in a sad voice late at midnight;
'Hey! Dear Sons & Daughters
Definitely you all get jobs
And you meet strange faces with a new busy culture.
But don't change your lifestyle and let them burn your halcyon cottages
Those were built by your poor parents hardly.'
*Certainly the rich stormy winds ruin the bourgeoisie Folklore.
-From the poor ferryman's Scrapbook.-
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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My Cottage Home
1.
My home, my home, my cottage home,
Thou fair and lovely spot,
How sad and lonely is my soul,
When I can view thee not;
The vines may blossom in my path,
And flowers I most adore,
But what are all their charm to me,
If not beside my door.
2.
Home is a name ne'er forget,
Like other names of earth;
We never grow old to love
The spot that gave us birth;
And when in dreams of faded years;
Of all our youthful pride,
How sweet to dwell beneath the roof,
Where our dear parents died.
3.
My home, my home, my cottage home,
I'll love thee evermore,
And evry heart that greets me when
I reach thy humble door;
And though my mother's smile be gone;
My mother's watchful care,
I love to dwell beneath the roof,
For home was always there.
poem by Septimus Winner
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Home For Love
Because the earth is vast and dark
And wet and cold;
Because man's heart wants warmth and light
Lest it grow old;
Therefore the house was built--wall, roof
And brick and beam,
By a lost hand following the lost
Delight of a dream,
And room and stair show how that hand
Groped in eager doubt,
With needless weight of teasing timber
Matching his thought--
Such fond superfluousness of strength
In wall and wood
As his half-wise, half-fearful eye
Deemed only good.
His brain he built into the house,
Laboured his bones;
He burnt his heart into the brick
And red hearth-stones.
It is his blood that makes the house
Still warm, safe, bright,
Honest as aim and eye and hand,
As clean, as light.
Because the earth is vast and dark
The house was built--
Now with another heart and fire
To be fulfilled.
poem by John Freeman
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Tearing This House Down (A Song)
Me and this here dozer
Were gonna tear this house down
To many years of memories
Have all let me down
This house is coming down
I'm tearing this house down
To many years of memories
Where love was never found
I'm gonna start with the bed room
Where there's never been no love
And tear right through that living room
Where livings been so rough
You won it in divorce decree
So what is your is yours to keep
You can have whats left of this debree
But this house is coming down
This house is coming down
I've slaved for thirty years
This is the way you repay my love
The blood sweat and tears
So while your out with your honey do
Take your time I have a gift for you
Some modifications all brand new
This house is coming down.
poem by Bill Simmons
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The Water Tower
I sit and stare at this empty page,
The wind howls long at the winter eaves,
The cloud is heavy, and black with rage
As squalls dance in through the myrtle leaves.
While deep inside in the cottage gloom
My love lies weary, cocooned in dreams,
I hear her cry in the darkened room
Call out one name from a nightmare scene.
‘Michelle, ’ she mutters, then groans aloud
I grit my teeth at the open door,
The wind it eddies in dust and leaves
And echoes long at the water tower.
‘Michelle, Michelle, ’ it grumbles and groans,
‘Michelle, ’ it whispers, then skips and howls;
My love rolls over in deepest sleep
While I keep watch through the early hours.
The storm comes in and the rain drives down,
Batters at windows and roof in vain,
The wires whine in a humming frown:
‘Michelle, Michelle, ’ is its one refrain.
And tears roll at my weathered cheek
The clock chimes five at the early hour,
Michelle once crawled from her bed, asleep,
And went to climb at the water tower.
Her hair was black as a raven’s coat
Her eyes set back in that tiny face,
Three winters long was her spell of dreams
Before she crept to that dreadful place.
Three winters long was our fairy child
Who lisped and chattered from heart to heart,
The cottage door had a faulty latch –
I’d always meant to replace that part.
But now, awake from her nest of dreams
I see my love at the open door,
I wait in hope, but her eyes are ice;
She’s staring out at the water tower.
Then I look down, and the page is full,
I’ve scribbled the words of an ancient rhyme,
Over and over and over again –
‘I’ll fix the latch when I get the time.’
And she goes back to her bed to cry
While I sit frozen beside the door,
The latch still rattles, the door’s ajar;
I’ve punched three holes in the water tower.
13 June 1999
poem by David Lewis Paget
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