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Poems On / About HOUSE  10/30/2014 1:11:37 PM
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  237.     

Our house

This is an ancient house
Whose walls are chiefly brown
The building blocks are bones
The windows – the sensory organs

The pipes are the vessels
The waters being the blood
The pump house is a marvelous device
That works for decades without rest.

The wiring net work is par excellent
No electronics engineer can duplicate.
The system is always alert
All the natural laws are finely knit.

The drainage is total,
For us it may all seem casual!
No repair is required
If our stomach is properly cared

A battalion guards the house
No nation has such a vast regiment.
It is very much a silent battle,
We can spend peaceful nights.

The house is our own,
This is a gift of our parents.
We owe a debt to our ancestors,
We are given the house to live in.

This is a fine construction,
Yet we need pay fine attention.
Living in tune with nature, body and heart,
We can play the finest part.

07/04/1991
 
Ravi Panamanna

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  238.     

our house with the rotary phone

I sit in a room that no longer exists
On a chair long since splintered and gone
While I pick at a meal I once would devour
in our house with the rotary phone.

I sit in the room that doesn’t exist
Enjoying my choice of ice creams
Recalling the window in Tiffany glass
Forgive an old man his daydreams

A simple “A” frame with three beds and a bath,
obsolete, yes, but our home.
It stood with its’ sisters on Queens borough Hill,
where the L.I.E. jams are well known.

I had known for some time that her best days were gone
A plywood fence circled our home
Title had passed to a contractor’s hands
Neglected, our house looked forlorn

My past like a picture ripped from its frame
They left not a stone on a stone
Not even the numbers on wood painted green
of our house with the rotary phone.


Our house and its twin have been wrecked and removed
And replaced with a modern brick “home”
So pardon my tear as I stand at the bier
Of our house with the rotary phone
 
John F. McCullagh

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  239.     

O, Son of God!

“Make not my Father’s house
An house of merchandise”…
John- 2: 16

O Son of God!
Ever since thou left us,
We have made this world,
Thy Father’s house,
A house of merchandise!

To appease our weapon interests
We created belligerence
Built distrust fought wars
Sold hatred in exchange
Of doves of peace

When dost thou come down?
Once again amongst us
To demolish this temple this body
Where greed presides,
Just as thou destroyed
Thy body on cross
Along with all our sins!

When dost thou come down?
To rebuild a house of no hate
Just as thou proved thy words that
Thou wilt raise it up in three days
And just as thou resurrected
As thou promised!

18th December 2009
 
Kesav Venkat Easwaran

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  240.     

Whose house is this?

whose house is this?


silence crawls on night slowly like bugs
I stretch my limbs under warm woolen rugs,
a shrill cry of the moth and whistle of house cricket
dueling under my bed to have their accounts set,
The sound of feasting ants from a slit of wall
half sleepy I hear lover flea's invitation call,
two pigeons making love near ventilation hole
my existence feels affiliation with nature's whole,
a spark of the firefly in the black night
reminds a fall of star once shining bright,
a mosquito murmurs a secret in my ears
an expansion of universe my eager heart hears,
a house within the house within the house I live
mine is not mine this foolish mind can't believe
 
Mukesh Raval

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