THIS OLD HOUSE

Presently I am compiling poems I have written since 2010 into a second poetry book, called, This Old House and Other Memories. My first poetry book was entitled, Passion's Evidence and was composed of poetry I had written in the 1980's through 2009. It was self-illustrated as this one will be with pictures I took with my camera. Here is the poem based on the title, written a few years, ago.


THIS OLD HOUSE

She stoops among decayed roofs of Poughkeepsie.
Seventy-five years old
Paint peels from cedar shakes
Cracks glare from bay windows
Rain drools through warped shingles
We lived there thirteen years
when streets echoed with laughter
Seniors walked poodles
Neighbors waved "Hello"
as Rog and I drove to work.

But now, few roses climb her walls
or grapes peer at passers-by through rusted fence
Dandelions threaten tomatoes ready for sauce
Grass grows too high for mowing.

Thanksgiving you'd bake ham and I, apple pie
Sausage blackened the grill
Tabbies crawled by and I would toss them tidbits
  and ravens, crumbs
They gobbled on snow like turkeys fighting for corn

We once lived here, you and I --
Garlanding walks with flaming bulbs at Christmas
and stuffed our wood stove with oak
Musty smoke curls rings above the city.

We abandoned her--
Florida beckoned
while with us she grew,
glowed with fresh coats of blue,
Leaded panes sparkled
Pansies nodded from garden boxes
Tulips, hyacinths and sun flowers waved
in the intermittent breezes which gusted off the Hudson.

Our neighbor, Mrs. Coppola, smiled as she shook out rugs
She's since died or gone to a home for seniors
We have left, too, for another city, another state.

But this old house stands, proud in her decay.
She waits for someone to claim her,
nail her roof, paint her walls, grow bulbs, again.
Her rooms once slept little ones
No morre
They moved away to have kids of their own

We all have moved.
She waits, haunted by ghosts of yesteryears--
the singing of carols around a piano
the musk of embers filling nostrils
and heat warming drafty rooms now barren.

Summer comes, and with it, hot winds which dry soggy beams
In my mind, I heave windows up and allow rays to enter.
We are here, again, you and I, in our noble haven by the river.