11-13-2015, 09:51 AM
Edit 1
Yes it’s true that materials play their part,
bricks and mortar, wood and glass,
a colour you found for the front door
that makes the Maple burn its brightest,
but they are all just pieces of a collective,
It’s formed in layers not specific places.
It’s the wet nose of a dog that comes
to greet you at the front door,
a strip of morning sunlight that makes
the dust dance and finds the cat curled,
a coffee mug and its coaster rings
that briefly fog the glass from the windowsill.
Sits beside us all for family TV,
stretches out when someone leaves the settee,
It's kisses in the kitchen waiting for the kettle
and echoes round a Sunday table leaving
laughter on dried up peas and gravy drips.
You can see it breathe as curtains lift,
Its heart is found on the mantel piece,
tracking life in time-checked glances.
It’s in that box with all the bits
the drawer with batteries and paper clips
the photographs with aging styles
the turning pages that make you smile
the garage cobwebs and fluorescent light
the tins of screws and moths at night
it’s under the sink at the back of a cupboard
a vessel of life to be discovered.
Original
Yes it’s true that materials play their part,
bricks and mortar wood and glass,
a colour you found for the front door
that makes the Acer burn its brightest,
but they are all just a pieces of a collective.
It’s formed in layers not specific places
or any given lock and key.
It’s the wet nose of a dog that comes
to greet you at the front door,
a strip of morning sunlight that makes
the dust dance and finds the cat curled,
a coffee mug and its coaster rings
that briefly fog the glass from the windowsill.
It’s that left behind warm spot on the settee
you put your face to when the adverts come on.
It opens with each new novel in the threadbare
chair you can’t throw away, quiet in the corner
under the skylight as the rain runs its rhythm.
It kisses in the kitchen waiting for the kettle
and echoes round a Sunday table leaving
laughter on dried up peas and gravy drips.
You can see it breathe as curtains lift
moving air from front to back
Its heart is found on the mantel piece,
tracking life in time-checked glances,
hair and hats fixed in the hall mirror.
It’s in that box with all the bits
the drawer with batteries and paper clips
the photographs with aging styles
the turning pages that make you smile
the garage cobwebs and fluorescent light
the tins of screws and moths at night
it’s under the sink at the back of a cupboard
a vessel for life to be discovered.
They all exits in layers
that form the essence of a home
and are only truly gone when
the last person that remembers
them has passed.
Yes it’s true that materials play their part,
bricks and mortar, wood and glass,
a colour you found for the front door
that makes the Maple burn its brightest,
but they are all just pieces of a collective,
It’s formed in layers not specific places.
It’s the wet nose of a dog that comes
to greet you at the front door,
a strip of morning sunlight that makes
the dust dance and finds the cat curled,
a coffee mug and its coaster rings
that briefly fog the glass from the windowsill.
Sits beside us all for family TV,
stretches out when someone leaves the settee,
It's kisses in the kitchen waiting for the kettle
and echoes round a Sunday table leaving
laughter on dried up peas and gravy drips.
You can see it breathe as curtains lift,
Its heart is found on the mantel piece,
tracking life in time-checked glances.
It’s in that box with all the bits
the drawer with batteries and paper clips
the photographs with aging styles
the turning pages that make you smile
the garage cobwebs and fluorescent light
the tins of screws and moths at night
it’s under the sink at the back of a cupboard
a vessel of life to be discovered.
Original
Yes it’s true that materials play their part,
bricks and mortar wood and glass,
a colour you found for the front door
that makes the Acer burn its brightest,
but they are all just a pieces of a collective.
It’s formed in layers not specific places
or any given lock and key.
It’s the wet nose of a dog that comes
to greet you at the front door,
a strip of morning sunlight that makes
the dust dance and finds the cat curled,
a coffee mug and its coaster rings
that briefly fog the glass from the windowsill.
It’s that left behind warm spot on the settee
you put your face to when the adverts come on.
It opens with each new novel in the threadbare
chair you can’t throw away, quiet in the corner
under the skylight as the rain runs its rhythm.
It kisses in the kitchen waiting for the kettle
and echoes round a Sunday table leaving
laughter on dried up peas and gravy drips.
You can see it breathe as curtains lift
moving air from front to back
Its heart is found on the mantel piece,
tracking life in time-checked glances,
hair and hats fixed in the hall mirror.
It’s in that box with all the bits
the drawer with batteries and paper clips
the photographs with aging styles
the turning pages that make you smile
the garage cobwebs and fluorescent light
the tins of screws and moths at night
it’s under the sink at the back of a cupboard
a vessel for life to be discovered.
They all exits in layers
that form the essence of a home
and are only truly gone when
the last person that remembers
them has passed.
If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out