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Poems On / About HOUSE  7/28/2015 12:49:01 AM
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  237.     

Houses Chapter Ix

A mason came forth and said, "Speak to us of Houses."

And he answered and said:

Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls.

For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.

Your house is your larger body.

It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless.

Does not your house dream? And dreaming, leave the city for grove or hilltop?

Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.

Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.

But these things are not yet to be.

In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.

And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?

Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?

Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?

Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?

Tell me, have you these in your houses?

Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and becomes a host, and then a master?

Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.

Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.

It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.

It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.

Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.

But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.

Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.

It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.

You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.

You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.

And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.

For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.
 
Khalil Gibran

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  238.     

The House That Built Jack

Scorched white by the lowly hung sun,
Crouched underneath the low ceiling sky.
Could burn his fingerprints right off,
Could be his last underground loft.
There's trick draws and the walls are too dry,
The stairs don't go up, the roof doesn't tilt,
In the house that Jack built.

An architect of soil and ash,
He buried and burned what wouldn't build.
The house strong with mortar and bricks,
The home strong, strong as straw and sticks.
Warm if he's willing, weak as he's willed,
The bell can't ring and the flowers won't wilt,
In the house that Jack built.

There's phantoms in the furniture,
In the company of his own ghost.
Trade family for plastic house plants,
Trade your heart if the clock enchants.
Never the neighbour, nobody's host,
Watch your head, mind your step, beware the guilt,
In the house that Jack built.

The labyrinth, he burnt it down,
There's a well but he can't choose a wish.
Etched the blueprints onto his skin,
From his own flaws; thereof; therein.
Unsmash the mirrors, face the blemish,
All work and no play, Jack can't find the hilt,
In the house that Jack built.

The house speaks to Jack and moves him.
Along the floorboards beneath the dust.
He's the shadow the bulbs can't touch.
He's the loft filled with far too much.
His house a temple; In jack we trust.
Home is where the heart, like cement, is spilt,
In the house that Jack built.

Home is where your soul must fill in each crack;
Home is what makes up for what you lack;
Home is what's bringing this flashback;
The house that built Jack.
 
Ella Veyes

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  239.     

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
 
Deci Hernandez

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  240.     

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
 
Miroslava Odalovic

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