Poem by Sylvia spencer

A House Called Lonely (A Trilogy In Three Parts)

There is a street in every town that owns a house
called lonely. Then when your just passing by you might
just say, ‘if only.
If only could mean a life time of thoughts but it does’nt cure
a lonely house and all its faults.
Boarded up windows and tiles gone from the roof, graffiti
painted by a rebelious youth.
Such a lonely house and an oh such a tired one,
one that has lost all it’s fun.
Stairs and rafters all gone to pot all that is left
is wood worm and dry rot.
No children playing in the garden, it’s just a house condemend
by the council without no pardon. Poor lonely house someones
forgotton dream, now describing lifes social scene.
This lonely house stands in the way because their building
a By Pass or a new motorway.
The house called lonely could be any where, in the town, the
country or city square.
Even in your street there’s a house called lonely just waiting
for you to say ‘if only’

A Lonely Heart In A Thunderstorm

A lonely heart sets the table but is she a Milly,
a Betty or a Mabel. Tea, coffee, cakes and ale
but outside there blows a gale. Sash cord windows
rattling like chains, thunder and lighting tormenting her
brains. A frail old lady who always lays up for tea but no
one comes not even her family. As the rain pours down she
gives a little frown as she looks at a photo in her wedding
gown. A picture of love on her wedding day, a day she
never wanted to go away.Now all that’s forgotton as the
clouds roll together, will her lonely heart stand up to this
gale force weather. She draws the curtains and says
goodnight to the storm then sits by the fire where its
cosy and warm.
No visitors tonight she says to the cat who lay curled up
on the fireside mat. Again she views her wedding day and
asks the Lord to show her the way.Then she holds the cat
to her lonely heart so that they will never be apart. The dear
old lady died that night and the cat now sits on her burial site.

A Cry For Help

Dont keep me hidden,
in this dark room,
please show me the sun,
so that I can bloom.

I know you kept me here,
just to keep me warm,
but now it is time,
to show me the dawn.
I am ready to flower,
I need some light,
and the warmth of the sun,
that shines so bright.
I have been shut away,
all winter long,
my bulb and stem,
are now extra strong.
My date is near,
to join all the rest,
and show off my trumpet
at it’s very best.
I dont care where I stand,
or where I go,
I just want to put on,
a very good show.
I am boasting not,
but I will be, a real smart fellow
standing proud,
in the brightest of yellow.
If I go out now,
they say I am sure to catch a chill, ,
so I am stuck in this room,
on a drafty windowsill.
It’s frosty outside,
but the crocuses bloom,
and here I remain, in this dark tomb
the March winds blow, I’ll be in such a state,
I know I wont pass my graduation date.

 Monday, February 20, 2006
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