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The World in Present Tense
A Collection of Contemporary Poetry @ The Other Pages   http://theotherpages.org/universe/


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A House I Once Knew

    THERE are mars on the doors and walls.
    Its rooms are empty and wide.
    Here and there is a broken pane
    Where the night wind creeps inside.
    The front porch has fallen to ruin
    With vines in possession there.
    A shed is tumbled and strewn
    And rubbish is everywhere.
    Somehow it softens in moonlight
    And my fancy wanders free.
    That old house is more than a house.
    It once was home to me.


    I can see a place by the window
    Where firelight once played inside.
    I can picture the porch as it used to be
    And grounds so clean and wide.
    Doors with well-oiled hinges
    Let in our willing feet,
    With everything in place as it should
    And everything trim and neat.
    I see it in mellowed reflection
    Until years have changed it to be
    A house with a memory; itís more than a house
    It once was home to me.


    Iíd give so much to live again
    In that house when it was young.
    Then it knew our laughter and tears,
    With its memory only begun.
    I was unwise to have left it, I know.
    All I got for my pains
    Was a heap of things I thought worthwhile
    And desire to be back again.


    It might be made home again, who knows?
    I watch the moonlight slant through a tree,
    And know that old house was more than a house.
    It once was home to me.

       Leo VanMeer, © 2002

Metamorphosis

    It rained all day.
    It really poured down
    To flood the fields
    And woods and town.
    It made the landscape
    All dark and damp
    To bring on many
    A cold and cramp.
    But all storms cease,
    So this one did.
    Along towards evening
    Storm clouds hid.


    Then through the night
    All nature works
    To straighten out
    The little quirks.
    It was bright next morning
    And much the same
    As if there hadnít
    Been a rain.

       Leo VanMeer, © 2002

Soil
    Thereís something in a furrowís length,
    A smell of earth that gives us strength.
    Many look for other things
    But something in the soil still clings
    To dreams and unexpressed desires.
    Thereís a pleasantness like autumn fires.
    Life may be mixed with tears and mirth
    But itís seasoned with the soil of earth.

       Leo VanMeer, © 2002
 
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