"homeowner" poems
The love that a son has for his father..
The love that a father has for his son
A trust in another man to lead you and get it done
Showed me things gave me knowledge That on my own
I wouldn't have known
Something that can't be taught in college
Met you when I was in 7th grade I have grown
Can you see the seed you have sewed
Can you see where my work ethic comes from
Blood, sweat, and tears
Callus thumbs
Your the reason why I know that I can be a homeowner
Cause I seen you do it first
Held me up when times got rough
Fatherhood
When I wasn't ready you assisted like a crunch
When my heart was crushed
You open your doors help with my direction
When we kick it, manly admiration and love is what's reflected
Just want to let you know you are respected
My father died then God blessed me with you to prove I wasn't neglected
Fatherhood
Helped me stand when I couldn't
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
i want you to imagine standing in the middle of an already collapsing house, and having everything suddenly flip upside down; or after years of homelessness, picture yourself being told you had somewhere you could stay for good, only to wake up just before being handed the keys. these are some of dangers of making places out of people.
1. don't ever turn a human being into a home unless you are prepared to be evicted without warning.
2. when you start to notice their arms taking the shape of a roof over your head, you have two choices: run, or wait for it to cave.
3. if they ask you to stay and burn with them, you have the right to say no.
4. it is not your responsibility to save anyone, and it is not your fault when you can't.
5. salvaging the photos from a house fire will only re-break your heart every time you pull them out to look at them.
6. when the basement floods, hold their hand.
7. if you are not a strong swimmer, remember that the difference between love and codependence is that one of then will drown you.
8. love will never drown you.
9. i knew this from the start but let you hold me beneath the waves in spite of it, just so you could stay afloat. i can't do that anymore.
10. i don't think i'll ever set foot on your hardwood floors again, but i'll pray that someone new moves in soon.
- m.f.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
Shadow of the past,
echo of the future;
dedicated Musician,
a Phonomancer;
and inspired Philosopher,
a Philosomancer.
A Mystic and a Metalhead,
a lifetime Scholar and a self-Teacher;
a determined and self-guided mythic Artist,
a psychologist and an Observer;
I am a Lover, a Father, and a Son,
a homeowner and a Dishwasher,
a Friend and a bit of a stoner,
a social drinker and a fan of quality Spirits;
I am a self-contained Universe
contained within another Universe;
so fractal-esque.
There is much to this being I call "me"
and so little of it is visible
from the surface of my awareness;
so much of it falls within-
within the limitless void;
to be revealed only in Time,
and, to be unraveled by Time.
Discerning, yet reckless,
a wise man and a fool;
I find myself within,
and within myself,
a beautifully chaotic dance
of chaotically diverse energies.
Within:
the Spirit of a Renaissance Man;
Music, Geometry, Cosmology,
Mathematics, Statistics, Physics,
Mythology, Musicology, Psychology,
Masculine, Feminine, Canine, Feline,
Light, Dark, Day, Night, Sun, Moon,
Anthropology, Cooking, Dreams,
*** Love, Lust, and Suffering,
Spirituality, Science, Language,
Contrast, Respect, Individualist,
Intuition, Feeling, Understanding,
Action, Non-Action, Elation,
a bit of a Goth and a Hippie,
a Rocker and a Composer,
Haphazard Attention to Detail,
Conscious, Shadow, Subconscious,
Id, Ego, Super-Ego,
Animal, Human Being.
Alive.
Mortal.
Mortal,
and grateful for it.
An aspiring,
amateur Shaman
who "shows promise";
dabbling in Feng Shui,
the Occult,
T'ai Chi,
the Tao, Zen,
Music,
Art,
and Life;
a dilettante Poet;
I am an ephemeral expression,
a temporary microcosm,
of both the Human Spirit
and the very Universe
in which we occur,
if for but a brief,
beautiful,
fleeting,
moment.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
hammock and a stack of playboys.
first emerged,
boy.
feature trees and teens and punch drunk lovers.
chalk murals,
girl.
into the quiet density of love.
quiet city.
dance party, usa.
we end up making movies about our fathers
whether we know it or not.
home videos.
we double down on arcade tickets
& spin for a kite to tangle.
climb the town hill and bury our warmth.
kiss to forget or remember this bliss
& strange language.
strange sprawl of lights seen.
the homeowner’s association melt a pile of plastic flamingos
into an idol osiris.
dead god.
& wait,
wait for halloween.
our parentals diligently sweat.
they are conjurors of snacks and supper.
they are creatures of the ritual routine.
we ritual.
we homework.
we breathe easy, waiting for nothing.
(except for more holidays)
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC
The setting of traps
has always seemed
like a tacit endorsement
of the mice.
Acknowledgement.
Validation.
Admission of failings as a homeowner –
(cracked baseboards or an unsealed gap in the door.)
We are usually responsible
for our own infestations, after all.
The relationship with the mice is codified
“you are vermin,
I am not.
I will ****
You will die.”
Thus the mice are transfigured,
Christ-like.
Frozen in fear,
frozen in time,
laid bare
on a sticky, chemical
altar of sacrifice.
Saviors
giving their lives
so that we may preserve
those unwanted crumbs
in the vacant space
between the couch and loveseat
where the vacuum won’t reach.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
Relax.
I know your instincts are screaming to fight.
This is a mistake.
You will only hurt yourself.
Just relax.
You are frightened, confused, and angry.
This is only natural.
You will tell yourself to not feel these things.
This is a mistake.
Feel them, own them.
They are yours.
It is only natural.
You are being dragged backwards through a hedge.
You say,"Stop it!
The branches are tearing my shirt!
This is my favorite shirt!"
This is a mistake.
**** your shirt.
Tear it into bandanas,
sell them on Etsy.
Just buy more shirts.
Pack of four. $9.99. Wal-Mart.
Tell a stranger a story
about the scars the hedge gave you.
Maybe he'll trade you
a shirt for a good story.
But you say,"My pants!
The hedge is covering my favorite pants in grass stains!"
Stop that.
This is a mistake.
Cover your pants in new and interesting stains.
Paint in them.
Spill food on them.
Comfort a dying animal,
let it bleed on them.
Do too much *******
**** yourself.
Get bored, cut them into daisy dukes.
Try wearing a skirt, a sarong, a loincloth, the wind.
Calm down,
they're just pants.
"But what if I break the hedge!
The Homeowner's Association will **** me!"
This is also a mistake.
**** the Homeowner's Association.
You did not choose the hedge.
The hedge did not choose you.
And once you're on the other side,
you won't to answer to them.
No one will find you, and
you don't have to come back.
Unless you want to.
But that is your decision.
Yours and the hedge's,
no one else.
Remember that.
"But who is dragging me through this hedge?
What kind of hedge is it?
Why is this happening to me?"
These are the wrong questions.
You are being dragged backwards to through a hedge.
That is all that matters.
Concern yourself only with what matters.
Making it through.
Landing on your feet, or
barring that, getting back up.
Seeing what's on the other side.
So you ask,"what is on the other side?
What if I hate it?
What if it's a parking lot?
What if it's all sticky?
What if everything's on fire?
What if it's just more hedges?"
Relax.
You're looking at it all wrong.
Maybe your friends are all there.
Maybe it is all sticky.
Maybe it's a combination liquor store,
ice-creamery,
minigolf course,
and you can pour whiskey on your face,
and eat Rocky Road,
and finally get a hole-in-one on that ******* windmill.?
Maybe it's the way home.
You're still looking at it wrong.
This, too, is a mistake.
You were dragged backwards through a hedge.
Dragged.
Backwards.
And you made it.
While you were worrying
you didn't notice you already made it through.
So now you're here,
on the other side.
Now it's your call.
You can do as you wish.
Watch the sunset.
Or dive into a new hedge, maybe
headfirst this time.
Or walk home.
Or make a new home.
It's your choice.
And really, who's going to stop you?
Some puny ******* bush?
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
WARNING: Horror...you might find this series offensive or distressing if you are not used to horror.
3)
I know
once I was just like you
I was young and furious too
the world was too much
everyone made you feel
so hopeless, you think you could ****
I know exactly
how you feel
*Dear, oh dear
don't cry
Darling, oh darl
don't bleed*
There was a time when I married
(everyone finds it's a mistake;
they either **** their partner
or, to continue living,
they **** their own spirit)
but I was determined to grow
my body and spirit -
can we not get conventional? -
so I had minced pie for a time
and no one could bring
my wife back home
you see
wifey got
too comfy
and see she had this thing
(after respectability)
about responsibility
the role of husband and father and
parent and homeowner, mow the lawn
service the loan
and all that crap –
I quite believe she was going mad;
maybe she walked away into the woods
Was that responsible of her?
*Dear, oh dear
don't cry
Darling, oh darl
don't bleed*
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
In my pocket
Old and wore out
A symbol of every color I felt
This old paint brush
Has seen miracles
Made many more
Revived old houses
Brought life to a dying kids eyes
As she watched her playhouse
Become healthier then her
This old paint brush
Painted a future for me
In every smile of every homeowner
Brought beauty where darkness resided
Yet I never tried to let it
Bring colors into my heart
Bristles are missing
Brass is dented and caked over
Handle barely holding on
But its my brush
My favorite brush
The only brush I'll ever use
Because its the brush
That painted more miracles
Then Jesus performed
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
Lint and dust in every corner,
the **** of living builds in all
the nooks and cracks like
furniture for spiders.
The room is wilting;
The walls have been stripped
and slowly everything recedes
to the center of the room.
A monument to what was.
In this room, there was;
an art gallery,
a cave,
a studio,
an arcade,
a love shack!,
a study,
a library,
a concert hall,
a gym,
a dressing room,
a laboratory,
a cafe,
a theater,
a psych ward,
a photo booth,
a club,
and a home.
Now it moves elsewhere,
a box at a time. One-two,
a hamper of clothes,
a bag of cheap technology.
A poster. A picture.
An instrument.
A lot of instruments.
There was a heartbeat here,
and now I hope you can
invest in that.
Keep this room more than
a home. Above an enclosure.
Head and shoulders above;
this room holds legends.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
I remember you well
at the halfway hotel
dusty corduroy ragged
shambling shoes smiling
toothless and untethered.
You, shop door keeper
sidewalk sleeper
a torrent of tall tales
and misery sweet
You, invisible to those
who see beauty
in possessions alone
while all you possess
hangs in blue plastic noose
from your weathered hand.
Me, the bearer of bread
hot soup for the soul
and soft blanket warmth.
We settle together
to watch the world wane
You tell me your story
hushed tones as sun sets
homeowner to street roamer
family man to castaway
as an eye blinked
and winter frosts left their bloom.
We shared our love of Cohen
as the stars forged the sky
you sang a little
with tobacco rough lungs
the sweetest sound
mixed with bitter tears
picking through all that remains
in the ashes of your life.
You thanked me for kindness
grateful for a chance at visibility
your gratitude reciprocated
by the impression left upon my heart
your face forever summoned
by Leonards finest song
I remember you well
at the halfway hotel...
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 6:20 AM UTC
The homeowner called up
to me as I danced across the attic floor,
"careful on the creaky boards."
But I didn't listen,
now I don't know where I am,
and everything is dark,
and I miss the way
your bedroom smelled
in the spring time,
with one window open,
and a fan blowing hot air
in from the kitchen.
I told you
I didn't wanna go back there,
and you asked where "there" was
and I said "I can't put my finger on it,
but I don't wanna go back"
and it made sense
even though it didn't.
I keep falling into these empty spaces,
void of fruit bowls & hands to hold.
I keep falling into these empty spaces,
where I can't walk a straight line
because there are only circles.
I keep falling into these empty spaces,
where mirrors refuse to turn away
& familiar voices are distorted
by the unique echoing of silence
when it overlaps silence.
Here I am,
on a bed of thorns
that hide their roses,
wanting desperately
to rip my thoughts from my skull,
scatter them like petals on the ground
and rearrange them...
Here I am,
timid hands,
wabbley knees
wanting desperately
to pick my body
from flesh to bone
til it's raw and naked
and ready to grow in different
I think that's why
they call rock bottom
the wake up call
you get when you need it...
I need it,
I need it,
I need it,
and if there's no foundation,
all that's left to do is build.
I'm ready to climb
out of these empty spaces.
Don't reach your calloused hands
out, palm up to catch my
shaking fingers.
Not this time.
I've gotta learn
where the bricks fit
for myself,
or else I'm always
gonna be leaning
in the wrong direction
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 12:31 AM UTC
I've grown tired of labels in life
Are you White
Are you Black
Are you Asian
Are you Green
There are so many labels in life
Are you Muslim
Are you Jewish
Are you Catholic
Are you Agnostic
They continue to put labels in life
Are you a homeowner
Are you a renter
Are you in an apartment
Are you in a house
They're driving me insane labels in life
Are you Democrat
Are you Republican
Are you Green
Are you Independent
What does it mean in the big scheme of things????????????????
Nothing at all as the only label that matters is
HUMAN
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
why do you bicker why do you ruin my life well just bring it ruin yours.
i use my skill with words all you can do is complain i make you look like the fool who thinks he can bring people down.
ok whatever i just join the fight for homeowner independance why wait to get out when i can end their group.
I vow to fight for this harder than i fought to to make her stay last year she walked away i can be put down beat down but i get right back up so your british didn"t your people remember you held us back we came back stronger.
i am coming for this i fight i show you that don't mess with best
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
over the creek and through the woods,
a mower roars to life
shattering sweet morning silence with
sounds of this manmade hell.
little homeowner
lazy little **** or *****
is your little patch
of manicured green
so important a sign
to ruin this sweet morn?
keeping up with the neighbors
buying into this artificial life.
never are you seen out
sitting about
in your little-manicured world
of green.
pesticides and trimmers
blowers and mowers
how i turn my eye with disgusted scorn
at the destruction
your convoluted idea
of beauty
has brought.
earplugs firmly inserted
windows and doors tightly shut
still i can’t help
but to cry out,
"why can’t you just
shut the **** up?!"
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
She came back on Christmas
to don the polyester white tree
and fleece lined blankets hung over edges of chairs.
But she always forgot to say goodbye,
as the hinges creaked upon her betrayal.
To fill the gaps between solstice seasons,
I stood in place
While party balloons hung plastered
to our shallow walls for months.
Other days a bath house for aching joints.
But never for the woman in question,
because she only came for Christmas.
The hours grew into days which encroached into weeks.
The dog-walkers passed,
The mail man caressed my farthest reach each noontime,
The daughter and son toiled with the mower,
The rake, my lungs (the dehumidifier).
The mother checked my fever on Thursdays.
But my rooms were empty all year,
Until the week of rushed decorations
And mass tear-down. All within four nights.
I guess the vacant tree gave me comfort.
The fibered needles and flame retardant tree stems.
I pictured each dollar store ornament as an entity of you,
Pulsing with life and beating of blood,
Vibrating in sync with the refrigerator and furnace.
But the fever-checking mother caught me mid-April
Molesting your Christmas tree, draining every ounce of humanness left.
And I knew when fever checker shoved it upstairs
You'd never come back to me again.
I was right.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
The homeowner:
“O should we warn your kids that my yard fence
Is now electrified against possums
And foul raccoons most pestiferous?”
The stepfather:
“No.”
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
Constipated glance at the foot of the stairs
Captured by seller’s remorse
A man leaves the room having bought some wears
No further discourse.
Patiently the buyer sneaks from the house
And enters his designer car
There sits the homeowner’s traded spouse
Waiting to be taken to the bar
Key turns, engine roars
The wife hikes her skirt
The man checks for sores
Her previous titleholder stumbled to the dirt
Says that he wants back his wife
Though soon brought to realize he had just sold her life.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC
They'll say, "Women are beautiful, like books." They'll thumb through, gently turning the pages, smelling the worn pulp, being careful not to hurt the old and exhausted spine. They'll say, "Beautiful.. aren't they just beautiful?" before placing the unread books back on their neatly lined shelves. Kant and Lawrence and Morrison will line either side of the fireplace for the next twelve years, and the homeowner will recline and sigh and think about how elegant their space looks lined with hardbacks and plays. And all across America libraries will lose funding because books are beautiful. Because they make a home feel full. Because the pages are old and perfect, unread, untouched, unloved, unopened vaults of ideas that can only be preserved through concept, potentially brilliant and bound in untouched beauty. Women are. Beautiful books.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 12:49 PM UTC
I knock on the door, he says go away
I plead and I beg, let me in, I say
Please let me in
He pushes me astray, telling me to find another home to invade
Stepping aside I reveal one large flowerpot filled to the brim with soil and three blooming flowers
May I at least enrich your garden with my three budding fruits
Reaching out, the homeowner grabs hold of the cylindrical vessel
One by one he looks each flower up and down, examining their brightly captivating colors
Their yellow-like nature shines like gold in the sun
The depth of their cocoa centers contrasting beautifully with those same honey dyed petals.
Looking over into his garden, I see only white flowers.
Though equally beautiful, the unanimous collection lacked the distinction that my prodigies could provide
Awaiting his response, my head falls limply in reverence
Yet I remain confident
A smile gracing my lips.
I was excited to see
Excited to witness the opportunity my blossoms would be given to thrive in a nurturing environment
Yet as my head rose and my eyes lifted,
All reassurance left my face,
My happiness transformed into terror
Before me stood a man seeming ten feet taller and baring the face of a fiend
A wicked smile replaced his pondering expression,
A snicker belt out from his nostrils.
Looking into my eyes, the homeowner spit his words into my face
The saliva causing a sickening chill to run throughout my body
In my heart, his words will forever stay
My God-given soul permanently hardened to stone
No. They are the wrong color.
A shiver sparking a queasiness in my belly
As are you.
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 3:42 PM UTC
If We Speak of the Hurricane
We think of past storms, the aftermath
The deep wailing of the crowd
The interview of the bystanders
And here comes that sad looks
of the homeowner faces
And there it stood that uprooted fallen tree,
Inches away from their house
And that when we know,
It was the rightful thing to do
Listening to the voice of God:
In the wind of the solemn sound
I remember the falling Palins,
The rusty galvanizes that blanket the streets
Where the birds of prey nested:
And once again, we listen to the voice of God
In the wind of the solemn sound
If we speak of the past storms,
and chat about hurricanes disasters
I remember how the winds pressed on the
Apartment window, forcing it way in.
But I listen to the voice of God
As I heard an uprooted tree, clash down
On the rows of park car, before the alarms sound
Scattering debris, block the drains
Water filled the lonely streets,
And once again, we cry out to God
The volcanoes, now hurricane Elsa
Why We??
Jul 3, 2021
Jul 3, 2021 at 7:55 AM UTC
Please World
Don't be mad at me
For being poor
And for only
Wanting to work
Part time
Please world
Don't be mad
At me
I don't want
To be a homeowner
I don't want
To work a 40
And 50 hour
Work week
Please world
Don't be mad
At me
I'm poor
I live at home
Lived here
Since October
Of 1997
Please world
Don't be mad
At me
For enjoying
Poverty
And simplicity
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC
By. Lauren
Swish.
Swash.
Swish
Swash.
Faster,
Swishidy.
Swashidy.
My mind is a washing machine gone rouge.
A high speed chase for sanity.
I've lost my own key to that of which I once owned.
A homeowner locked out for the 10th time in a day.
For now I will keep searching until the
Swishidy,
Swadiding,
Becomes a calm
Swish,
Swash,
Swish,
Swash,
Once more.
May 1, 2019
May 1, 2019 at 6:22 PM UTC