November 8, 2011

you are where you live

Why do I love
The peeling paint
Of aged walls
Every square inch
Witnessing history
He reveals to me
Little at a time
Yellowed clippings
And butchered papers
The more I see
I can't look away
Wanting to run my fingers
Under colored furls
Down his neck
Along the graceful curls
Of exposed extremities
This house holds
Secret paths
Behind sealed closets
His coat of primer
Slips a little in the light


theborgpoet said...

I thought it was just me that loved old paint. The stories they could tell, the drama, the laughter...

Brian Miller said...

ha nice sensuality in the discovery of the home and all its wonderful textures...

Anonymous said...

I get the feeling this is more than just the discovery of an old house...

Jerry said...

Wow, this was layered in every sense of the word. Nice.

Pat Hatt said...

I don't want to be where I live..haha...wonderful verse.

Shashi said...

Great sense of being there in your words.. i enjoyed reading this... thanks

ॐ नमः शिवाय
Om Namah Shivaya

jackiedick said...

...and I thought I was crazy anthropomorphizing where I live. I love to give houses, apartments, flats a life! The history, the quiet laughter and tears of the walls under the paint. Nice work, Heather! Cheers!

Yousei Hime said...

I know that feeling, wanting to find out what rests under the exterior, be it house or human. Nicely done.

Seek The Sun said...

Nice poem!Yellowed clippings and butchered papers, the sense of your voice speaking about the house as it were your lover. Beautiful!

The Orange Tree said...

very enjoyable. said...

I love this poem, because it was a beatiful sound when I read it I could really tell that the author's voice came right away

Promising Poets Parking Lot said...

love the title,
amazing expression. smiles.

Promising Poets Parking Lot said...

How is your day?

Glad to land here,
Amazing poetic muses shared,

Welcome joining us for poets rally week 57,
A random poem or a free verse is okay.
Hope to see you in.

Happy Thursday.