You can see some houses have a soul,
Their shadows mock forgotten goals.
Dreams and dirt ground into floors,
stains and sorrow blemish doors.

You can hear some houses have a soul,
In hushed tones their tales are told
by old bones’ morning groans and creaks,
Strong winds met with hisses, and shrieks.

Can one smell a dwelling’s soul?
The garage is pine and motor oil,
The kitchen, bread and heat.
The child’s room smells stale,
though Mom, she keeps it neat.

Can touch uncover a dwelling’s soul?
What stories might this attic hold?
A crib, and a lock of fine, dark hair
in Baby’s Book, blank pages to spare.

The asking price seems pretty fair.

5 responses to this post.

  1. Sir, I love this form. I am a big fan of poems, where the last line slaps me tender, shakes me up at closure which as a reader I ain’t expecting after a perfect build up , Exactly what I experienced in the last one too “The Man in the hospital, hallway”


    • Another poet suggested that I drop that line, but I felt that it was a perfect closing. I am glad you agree.

      I looked up the pronunciation of your first name, er-jun, right? I could not find a pronunciation for Bagga, though.


      • Of course! this poem is for it’s last line.
        Please put category “poetry” so readers can find it, if not tags.
        Ar-jun or AJ. and Sir, what should I call you?

      • Greg is my real name Gregory Cobb. Mel Famy is a name from an old, and very bad, baseball pun.

        I have been running tugboats since I was 29, I am 59 now. I plan to retire next April, circumstances permitting.
        I have them tagged on the xanga site; I forgot to do it when I transferred them here., but that will be corrected.

      • Wonderful.
        Greg, I’m going to take your leave now, will see you in 8 hours and some more poetry.

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