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Poems On / About HOUSE  10/4/2015 2:30:40 AM
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My Humble Abode

My Humble Abode

I awake to the sounds of roosters informing everyone that it’s time to rise and shine. The roosters have just clocked in to start there morning shift. If it’s winter, getting up is very painful. There is no central heating system to maintain the comfort. Daddy had started the fire, but the bedrooms were not yet warm. If it’s summer in Dixie, we went to bed hot. The humidity lingered, and the sweat kept pouring. I, a child, knew that something was gravely missing. There was such dire need to rise from the sting of poverty and taste the pleasure of a ‘merry-go-round, or a swimming pool. Anyway, we were somewhat relieved through the night, because the crickets and the lightning bugs always worked throughout the night. The ever present sound of crickets soothed us through the quiet and dark country nights. The window fans ran all night as our every breath became one with the sound of the fan blades.

My place of birth was a concrete block house of four original large rooms. Envied by none that I am aware of, but greatly loved by me and my siblings. A strong little house, providing warmth and shelter for mom, dad, grandmother, all 12 of us kids, and a dog name jack.

Little complaining; lots of dreaming.
My abode was common and simple, but there was absolutely nothing simple about my dreams. I dreamed of a bigger and better house, warmer and cooler; one of my very own. I, a little boy, imagined more doors, more windows, carpeted floors, and a non leaky roof.

My house had a chimney and a big heater which provided the primary heat in winter. Wood and coal was never lacking, and daddy supplemented two other rooms with small gas heaters. There was no inside bathroom, no hot water heater, and we had one indoor water faucet in the back room next to the kitchen. We had a refrigerator and electricity throughout the house, but no form of air conditioning except window fans. A two room wooded addition was later built, and the six window dwelling then became an eight window house. But windows had there own sense of necessity with nothing to do with scenic views, because there were none to behold. The mid 70’s was the last that I saw my humble abode. I have been informed that it is now long gone, but it shall forever be a fixture in both my heart and mind. My mother needed not to be rushed to the hospital for a doctor to deliver me, because the midwife met us there in the little block house.09022015 Ct, Child's first home
Curtisj Johnson

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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.
Joyce Kilmer

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Read more: house poems, baby poems, money poems, people poems, lonely poems, sad poems, work poems, home poems, alone poems



The City Dead-House

BY the City Dead-House, by the gate,
As idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangor,
I curious pause--for lo! an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute
Her corpse they deposit unclaim'd--it lies on the damp brick
The divine woman, her body--I see the Body--I look on it alone,
That house once full of passion and beauty--all else I notice not;
Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odors
morbific impress me;
But the house alone--that wondrous house--that delicate fair house--
that ruin!
That immortal house, more than all the rows of dwellings ever built!
Or white-domed Capitol itself, with majestic figure surmounted--or
all the old high-spired cathedrals; 10
That little house alone, more than them all--poor, desperate house!
Fair, fearful wreck! tenement of a Soul! itself a Soul!
Unclaim'd, avoided house! take one breath from my tremulous lips;
Take one tear, dropt aside as I go, for thought of you,
Dead house of love! house of madness and sin, crumbled! crush'd!
House of life--erewhile talking and laughing--but ah, poor house!
dead, even then;
Months, years, an echoing, garnish'd house--but dead, dead, dead.
Walt Whitman

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Read more: house poems, alone poems, running poems, city poems, passion poems, woman poems, water poems, beauty poems, women poems



Overseas' People

If you think that those who live overseas have houses made from glass, then you are completely mistaken Simply because they have pretty houses made from the best materials To resist all time's quakes, Overseas' people never throw stones at others' houses Simply because they are nice and pretty people, so Please be informed to know these people very well Anytime, anywhere, and everywhere.... We - as overseas' people- love all people Anywhere and everywhere... We are one family, so Just be happy and don't worry anytime. ________________________________________________________________________

Read more poems from MOHAMMAD SKATI >>>
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Poems On / About HOUSE