The Old House
The old house stood on a corner
With hedges all around,
The fading paint and rusting roof
A testimonial to its ancient origins.
I wondered as we walked around,
Ducking beneath pussy willow branches,
What stories could its walls have told,
What ghosts there lurked within.
The washhouse lay deserted,
Copper and troughs in quiet disarray,
The glassless window staring darkly
At our intrusion on its privacy.
With some hesitation I braced my shoulders
And forced open the old wooden door,
Ignoring its protests, its reluctance,
To admit strangers to its secrets.
We entered almost reverently,
Walking quietly 'cross uneven floors,
Looking at walls and ceilings both
That were black with mildew and mould.
The air though stale was warm and close,
But the feeling continued to prevail
That the spirits of the departed and the dead
Lingered still within these old walls.
I could visualise as I wandered restlessly
From room to room to room,
The lives of people now long gone
And the accoutrements of their times.
Each room seemed to hold impressions
Of tables, chairs or beds,
Wardrobes cluttered with clothes galore,
And personal items that littered the floor.
In reverence to these departed souls
I left, closing each room's door;
And, locking the house the way it had been,
I stepped into sunlight once more.
Breathing more freely I walked away,
Leaving those ghosts in peace,
Leaving them freedom to continue as before
With their lives within the old house.
~Barry William Metcalf~
Used With Permission
http://home.austarnet.com.au/rowdy45/poems.htm
~Memories In Time~
As days go by, we don't realize
Until we look back, how time flies.
Each day, although a different stage,
Reflects on ones of older age.
Once subtle past events are then
Distinctly recognized again.
And even though the past still fades,
Its memories hide in misty shades.
Imagining the future, we
Envision what we wish to see.
And fantasizing days to come
Unknown of what we could become.
The past, the future, all a blur
How can we be exactly sure
Of what we really wish for more:
The things to come, or those before?
And isn't it amazing how
We overlook the future now?
But memories of a distant past
Go on and never cease to last?
Is time eternal, endless and
A neverending thing to stand?
Or will it simply end in vain
With only memories to remain?
Poetry by Silla's Cafe
Used With Permission
http://www.photic.slimemansion.com/sillacafe/
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Lost in memories, my darling Mother
Thinking of you always
With this sadness and lonely feeling
I miss you so. And I love you, Mother dear.
"http://www.graphicsbypennyparker.com"
Grandma's Attic Treasures
MIMI, do you remember—
Don’t get behind your fan—
That morning in September
On the cliffs of Grand Manan,
Where to the shock of Fundy
The topmost harebells sway
On the pastures high and level,
That overlook the sea,
Where I wondered what the devil
Those little things could be
That Mimi stooped to gather,
As she strolled across the down,
And held her dress skirt rather—
Oh, now, you need n’t frown.
For you know the dew was heavy,
And your boots, I know, were thin;
So a little extra brevity in skirts was,
sure, no sin.
Besides, who minds a cousin?
First, second, even third,—
I ’ve kissed ’em by the dozen,
And they never once demurred.
“If one’s allowed to ask it,”
Quoth I, “Ma belle cousine,
What have you in your basket?”
(Those baskets white and green
The brave Passamaquoddies
Weave out of scented grass,
And sell to tourist bodies
Who through Mt. Desert pass.)
You answered, slightly frowning,
“Put down your stupid book—
That everlasting Browning!—
And come and help me look.
Mushroom you spik him English,
I call him champignon:
I ’ll teach you to distinguish
The right kind from the wrong.”
There was no fog on Fundy
That blue September day;
The west wind, for that one day,
Had swept it all away.
The lighthouse glasses twinkled,
The white gulls screamed and flew,
The merry sheep-bells tinkled,
The merry breezes blew.
The bayberry aromatic,
The papery immortelles
(That give our grandma’s attic
That sentimental smell,
Tied up in little brush-brooms)
Were sweet as new-mown hay,
While we went hunting mushrooms
That blue September day.
By Henry Augustin Beers
Henry Augustin Beers
INITIAL STUDIES IN AMERICAN LETTERS.
New York: Chautauqua Press, 1891.
282 pp.
Notes : Other title:
AN OUTLINE SKETCH OF AMERICAN LITERATURE.
Originally published in 1887.
Bibliography at end of each chapter.
Includes Index.
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