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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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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Home
(alan jackson)
In a small town down in georgia over forty years ago
Her maiden name was musik til she met that jackson boy
They married young like folks did then, not a penny to their name
But they believe the one you vow to love
Should always stay that same
And on the land his daddy gave him, a foundation under way
For a love to last forever or until their dying day
They built a bond thats strong enough to stand the test of time
And a place for us to turn to when our lives were in a bind
And they made their house from a toolshed
Grandaddy rolled down on two logs
And they builts walls all around it
And they made that house a home
They taught us bout good living
They taught is right and wrong
Lord therell never be another place
In this world Ill call home
My momma raised five children, four girls then there was me
She found her strength with faith in gof and love of family
She never had a social life, home was all she knew
Except the time she took a job, to play a bill or two
My daddy skinned his knuckles on the cars that he repaired
He never earned much money but he gane us all he had
He never made the front page but he did the best he couold
And folks drove their cars from miles around
To let him look underneath the hood
And they made their house from a toolshed
Grandaddy rolled down on two logs
And they builts walls all around it
And they made that house a home
They taught us bout good living
They taught is right and wrong
Lord therell never be another place
In this world Ill call home
No therell never be another place in this world
That Ill call home
song performed by by Alan Jackson
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
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What God Made
God made coffee~
~God made tea~
~God made boy's~
~Just 4 me! ~
~God made flowers~
~God made dirt~
~God made boy's~
~So I can flirt! ~
~God made coke~
~God made Pepsi~
~God made me~
~So So Sexy! ~
~God made the ocean~
~God made the Sea~
~God needed a princess~
~So he created me
poem by Nicole Jackson
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Freezing Steel
Freezing steel
Ive flown the house of freezing, the house of freezing steel
And though my bodys back I know it cant be real
cause Ive been on that house without a guiding wheel
The house of freezing steel
Oh wheres it going, picked me up at seven
When my eyes were weak from the light of the morning
Oh sister wont you tell me what a man might want to know
This madness is fine, yes if youre mad at the time
Back on the house of freezing, the house of freezing steel
The tied my body up, Im forced to eat my meal
A cold plate of lamb and cold potatoes too
Now whats a soul to do
Oh lord above, brother wont you tell me
Is this a eucharistic dove
cause Ive been waiting for the right one to appear
But Ive seen it in your face, and baby this aint the place
Up on the house of freezing, the house of freezing steel.
I made my mind up then to get me to the wheel
I made the cabin door, the pilot turned around
He said were venus bound
Oh please take me home
After all Im only human and the earth is where I belong
I must have looked pitiful to this freak without a face
cause as he touched my head I saw myself back in bed
Ive flown the house of freezing, the house of freezing steel
And though my bodys back I know it cant be real
cause Ive been on that house without a guiding wheel
The house of freezing steel
song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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His Red Dirt Life
So many red dirt roads he’s traveled
Along his long red dirt life
Children born and raised with
His charming red dirt wife
A home was built and furnished
Upon his red dirt land
He’s done the very best he could
Always taking a red dirt stand
Red dirt roads that lead up to
A bridge to the other side
He tries to go right with the flow
Along life’s red dirt ride
And during that ride it seems
There are some pot holes in the road
But he just keep pluggin’ along you see
Just carrying his red dirt load
The streams and valleys continue
Until the end of his red dirt time
And when the sun beats down on him
He loves to see that red dirt shine!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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Raised On Rock
(words & music by mark james)
I remember as a child I used to hear
Music that they played lord with a feel
Some call it folk, some call it soul
People let me tell you it was rock and roll
I was raised on rock, I got rhythm in my soul
Every day when I got home I turned on my radio
Listening to the music that my idols made
I knew every single record the djs played
A honky tonk a hound dog, a johnny b. goode
Chain gang, love is strange, knock on wood
I was raised on rock, I got rhythm in my soul
I was born to love the beat I was made for rock and roll
I thought it was a fad, thought that it would pass
But the younger generation knew it would last
Times gone by, the beat goes on
But every time I hear it lord it takes me home
I was raised on rock, I got rhythm in my soul
Every day when I got home I turned on my radio
Mother played recordings of beethovens fifth
Mozarts sonatas down the classical liszt
My papa loved to listen to his country songs
While I was in the back room rockin on
I was raised on rock, I got rhythm in my soul
I was born to love the beat I was made for rock and roll
I was raised on rock, I got rhythm in my soul
I was born to love the beat I was made for rock and roll
I was raised on rock, I got rhythm in my soul
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All I Need From You Is That You Clean Me, Mama
you lay a mat on the floor
for you to understand dirt and its implications its complications
to the wall
or to the center table and to the rest of the parts of your house,
dirt must be eradicated, that is your rule number one,
so you put lots of mats and rugs, doormats, floormats,
in every door in every corner of the floor
all dirts are not welcome,
it is as though you have studied dirt at length for years,
what is dirt? what are the kinds of dirt? the causes of dirt?
the consequences of dirt? the historical background of dirt,
and your recommendations finally about
dirt
its control and eradication,
you have talked about dirt and how you disliked it,
how you have driven dirt away from this house
how you called they police when dirt resisted to leave
and of course they all were arrested and jailed
without bond
the judge convicted dirt on the basis of those dirty exhibits
and dirty testimonial evidence,
dirt must be poisoned by lethal injection, hanged, electrocuted,
to make them disappear forever
that is your firm belief
your solid conviction
the sound philosophy of
your society
you are talking to me, and i will now tell you who am i really,
my name, the place where i live, my family and how i am related to you,
mother, i am dirt, my name is dirty, my family is dirty,
i live in a dirty place, i am your son,
i cannot step on your doormat, immediately i must leave now
you will report me to the police and i will be arrested
and jailed and even be hanged dead,
all i need is only that you clean me, mama.
now, please........
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Inscriptions for a Friend's House
THE HOUSE
The cornerstone in Truth is laid,
The guardian walls of Honour made,
The roof of Faith is built above,
The fire upon the hearth is Love:
Though rains descend and loud winds call,
This happy house shall never fall.
THE DOORSTEAD
The lintel low enough to keep out pomp and pride:
The threshold high enough to turn deceit aside:
The doorband strong enough from robbers to defend:
This door will open at a touch to welcome every friend.
THE HEARTHSTONE
When the logs are burning free,
Then the fire is full of glee:
When each heart gives out its best,
Then the talk is full of zest:
Light your fire and never fear,
Life was made for love and cheer.
THE SUN-DIAL
Time can never take
What Time did not give;
When my shadows have all passed,
You shall live.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Backwater Baby
Down past Possum Road
Up towards the crumbling town
You'll find a house with a little lady
Down by the backwater
Of the trickling little stream
There is a house made of logs
And mud, with one little window
And a smoking chimney
Puffing tiny gray clouds into the bright blue sky.
When you step inside the ramshackle house
You'll hear the incessant crying
Of the backwater baby
Dealing with her own little troubles
By the trickling little stream
In the middle of nowhere, USA
As momma tries her hardest to survive
And daddy long gone, looking for a better life
Leaving the baby to cry.
Momma does what she can to live
Washing clothes for the rich people down the street
Keeping little baby going as best as she can
And singing on the weekends in the bar downtown
Leaving baby alone and crying
In her broken crib
Back at the stream down past Possum Road
In the tiny log house with the smoking chimney
Life goes on.
poem by Megan Ayscue
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Ive Got Time
Words and music by bob seger
I was born at the break of dawning
In the last days of the last great war
My father was not in the fighting
And my mother never had to mourn
I was raised, raised and taught to hurry
Ive been hurrying and worrying all my days
But now as Im getting older
I think Im learning how to run the race
And with you by my side, your heart close to mine,
Ive got time
I used to wake up every morning
And lie there far too long
I had no reason for living
Everything I did was wrong
With you, and your faith in me,
Oh, how you made my whole life shine
And Ive got time
You, and your faith in me,
Little girl, you made my whole life shine
And Ive got time
song performed by by Bob Seger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sawmill Road
Me and billy joe and mary beth
Were raised up on the path
Of righteousness
Made a solemn vow that
Wed always be close
And never wander far from
Sawmill road
As the years went by the
World began to change
One by one we outgrew
Those childhood games
Momma cooked and cleaned
And worried bout our souls
We got into beer and cars
And rock n roll
Chorus
We knew jesus was the answer
And elvis was the king
Blue suede shoes and rock of ages
Were the songs we learned to sing
Innocence went out of style
And we just watched it go
Yesterday got left beneath
The dust on sawmill road
Billy joe went to saigon for uncle sam
Now I go to see him, he dont know who I am
One a year I get a card from mary beth
Shes with husband number four somewhere out west
I still live in this old house where we were raised
On this red dirt road the county never paved
Now I watch my kids and worry bout their souls
And pray theyll never wander far from sawmill road
Chorus
Me and billy joe and mary beth
Were raised up on the path of righteousness.
song performed by by Diamond Rio
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The House of Stone
I came, from where?
From the house made of stone...
My aunt Romana -
That whom you do not know,
When she had an accident
She stayed in the house of stone
To get well and recover...
But with a cutting tongue
Against my father,
She said to me,
'T'is a big house made of stone,
But inside here lives an owl! '
Where did I come from?
From that house of stone...
But I cannot fathom,
Was her anger so deep
For the owl on pedestal,
The King of our clan;
Was corrupted and fallen
Weakened by the flesh of men...
My Aunt Romana, she left
And my father is dead;
The house made of stone
Forever ruined...
But the lesson of the owl lives;
And him fondly remembered!
poem by Jane Quijano
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I became thirsty as well
I became thirsty as well
I became greedy! ! ! ! and thirsty, and I made it all about me, didn't worried how it would effected you! because I just thought about my needs.
I played it off and stuck to the regular routine but in my mind I just couldn't Waite to leave and feed the greedy person that's on thee inside of me.
I thought I was invincible, and focus on my infidelity like I'm king! Took great care of my house whole, and took care of my queen. But I wasn't happy and I didn't really want to leave my family even tho I was gone mentally, because I became thirsty.
Thinking about spending money on treats, taking them on trips with me, it was so very exciting that it made me smile each and every time. Yes I protected my self each and every time but I'll was cheating on my queen who just loved me, so I one day I decide to come home early I opened the door went to my bedroom and my wife cheating on me then turn her head around and opened her mouth and said I became thirsty as well! ! ! ! ! !
poem by Clarence Williams
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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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My new house.......
Oh, my God, this is our new house
A house is made with love and dream
My God, let it should be a place where You can reign
and let us carry all the precious memories while we live here
My God, your love is what makes my house
where everyone can live here with serenity and peace
My God, you have shown us the foundation of life
where my house will be a testimony of what you have done
My God, your love radiates a cycle of love
where its ready to meet every soul demand
My God, bless us all your days
and always keep us and my house in your safe hands
Ravi Sathasivam / Sri Lanka
Copyright @2009 Ravi Sathasivam
poem by Ravi Sathasivam
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The Ballad Of Buckethead
Whos this guitar-playing sonsa bitch? , is a question common asked.
On his head a bucket of chicken bones, on his face a plaster mask.
Hes the bastard son of a preacher man, on the town he left a stain.
They made him live in a chicken house to try to and hide the shame.
He was born in a coop, raised in a cage. children fear him, critics rage.
Hes half alive, hes half dead. folks just call him buckethead.
Farmers would torment him as he snuggled with the hens.
Theyd hose him down with water, and steal his little friends.
Now late at night hed sneak off to the graveyard all alone,
And play a soapbox guitar to the faces made of stone.
Buckethead found his freedom at the age of 17,
When he burned the chicked house down with a quart of gasoline.
He did puppet shows on corners and bought a real guitar,
And with the help of colonel sanders, hes bound to be a star.
He was born in a coop, raised in a cage. children fear him, critics rage.
Hes half alive, hes half dead. folks just call him buckethead.
song performed by by Primus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Cooking Pot
our cooking pot is not made of porcelain
or silver or gold but it is made of the mud
of this earth
hardened by time and fire and too much
waiting
our patience consumed
our waiting had been too long about this cooking
pot, earthen
where we put all our dreams and cook them
like rice
porridge, all of our dreams
fired by the woods of our reminiscence
our longings our loneliness our daily concerns
our future wishes
and then when the time comes to open
and see and smell what rice porridge is
we say we like it we say we love it
only to be repulsed by this visitor in the house
'this is not cooking! This is not good! ' and he stares at us
and says, we need more fire, more wood, more time
to have the perfect porridge
i went out unable to stand this hunger
unable to see what this visitor says
it is our fault we allowed him in
we open our doors and windows and let him sleep in our room
as we lay on the floors and keep ourselves on the stairs.
'this is too much' i said.
'he must leave this house at once' i told you.
this is our pot. this is our porridge. this is our cooking.
and we must eat. we must love what we have.
'get out of my house' i said.
and then i am relieved from an opression.
i am happier now. My pot is earthen. Its bottom is sooty black.
i am blue. And i do not really mind.
This is my porridge. You may take it, if you like.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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The Affection Of The Wives On The Joo
Along the raised banks of the Joo,
To hew slim stem and branch I wrought,
My lord away, my husband true,
Like hunger-pang my troubled thought!
Along the raised banks of the Joo,
Branch and fresh shoot confessed my art.
I've seen my lord, my husband true,
And still he folds me in his heart.
As the toiled bream makes red its tail,
Toil you, Sir, for the Royal House;
Amidst its blazing fires, nor quail:--
Your parents see you pay your vows.