The Old House
by
Wayne Thomas
(Age: 58)
copyright 04-16-2007
Age Rating: 13 to 127
Little old house
Little brown house
Little tattered house
deserted
ridge-pole hanging
like a sway-back horse,
surrounded by a bright garden
of trees and weeds
All alone little old house
on the rough gravel road
just on the outside of town
And even me
brave, skeptic
felt a delicious fear
creep up
from the center of my back
whenever I was around the old place
and I had friends
that wouldn't go near
But there were rodents
and other small animals come to visit
leaving their animal scents
and their animal souvenirs as they
rattle around
up and down
the flimsy stairs
going about their animal business
Sometimes you can see them yet
through a cracked and dirty window
scurrying about
on the dusty, bare wood floors
Sometimes
on cloudy, misty days
the locals retell old stories--
Some say the old place is haunted
Some say they can prove it
that that's what drove
old Mrs. Kinsolving
to tie an electrical cord around her neck
and jump from the kitchen counter
as I recall about
twenty-some years ago
Even the Rescue team that found her
a couple of days late
testified that there seemed to be a presence
in the old place
something that lifted the hair
on the backs of their necks
and made them--trained professionals--
want to run screaming out the door
I never bought into that
but one thing is true
Mrs. Kinsolving was never herself
after her husband was killed
in a tractor accident
about five years before
They were dirt poor
and the old widow never got
the help and medication
I thought she needed even then
though I'm not trained enough
to prove that sort of thing
But she rattled around
that lonely old house
and kept it spotless
and kept a small vegetable patch besides
and I do believe that what happiness
she summoned
came from puttering around
in that little garden
I remember seeing her out there
from time to time--
before the stories grew--
as I rode my old green bike past that way
on young-boy business--
delivering papers and fliers
and watching her with that little fork
turning the soil over and over
and she was always in that same
faded-blue house-dress
with the matching apron
and a pair of old brown riding boots
Sometimes she wore
a battered straw hat with a bright red ribbon
And then one day she was gone
I go by there now and then
on grown-man business--
I'm an insurance adjuster--
and sometimes I park the car
and look
and note how the old place
could sure use a coat of paint
and remember a little
of what happened there
Then I drive on
ponder for awhile
and all too quickly forget
And the old house stands there
slouching at the shoulders
under its sway-back ridge pole
surrounded by chestnuts and nettles
and ivy and thistles
the front door standing ajar
torn shade drooping from an upstairs window
And it'll all be there
when I'm back again
and the memories for a while
will come flooding back
until I leave again
Until then
there it sits
cloaked in weeds,
little brown house
deserted
all alone
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you recommend or rate the work highly...
I forgot to mention, I wish the character in this story had stayed around to receive her Oscar
(Mrs. Kinsolving). That's the only thing I would have changed in this poem.
Old weathered houses and little old ladies or old men for that matter...make the most enjoyable late night, reading material.
Ah Ha!...Where your love for old houses originates from...the banana seat of the bike, tooling down undiscovered roads.
The old women put a spell on you from under her tipped straw hat, pretending to poke around in her garden... (mind her own affairs). Love this age old story of people falling for old houses, not to mention the crafty old ladies that continue to draw them in with all their drama.
This poem is by far my favorite, from your stack, to date. All I can do is give you a five and offer her a blue ribbon (first place) in exchange for her red (second place) ribbon.
I hope you purchased this place...oh so... I hope you did...or one of your friends from the neighborhood did, so she can continue to school (inspire) another generation of little people, from the seat of their pants, while their in the coasting gear, in the dawn of another golden day... pedaling down the early morning paper trail.
Very nicely writeen. Rythym is a bit akward but ti's not too bad. Great job on the descriptions!! I could almost see the little old house...You almost feel sorry for it...all alone... Please keep up the great work!
To be fair to the piece as a great accomplished work, I do suggest some corrections to the composition. Correct capitalizations and punctuations are a little distracting from the fluidity of the rythym, as well as the ability to capture all readers to the end within the first few lines.
It's a wonderful picture, but think how much more if a little extra care was given.
Debbie
As I began my journey into this piece, I began making mental notes on comments that I may make on such things as grammar and punctuation, capitalizations and the like. But as I read on, I fell under the spell of your memories; my memories. They are one and the same, although of different things. The spell worked it's charm and took me to the 60's and back. To your childhood and mine, then back to my own home and garden... I wonder how it will be reflected on some other child's memories as they pass by my own old house.
Beautiful. Thanks for the journey.
Debbie Thomas
Welcome !
