Along with stories, I have for most of my life, enjoyed writing poetry. Some ok, some bad, some terrible, and once in a long while, a winner. You be the judge, and please leave constructive feed back.

Saturday, September 27, 2014

The Old House

The Old House

The windowpane of dirty glass
Kept the cold from getting past
The snow outside lay cold and still
On ground and tree and windowsill
The neighbor’s house not far away
Was alive with the sound of children’s play
But this old house up on the hill
Stood silent in the winter’s chill

One small chimney in the back
Puffing out a plume of black
Against the sky of cloudy gray
The only sign of life this day
Nothing stirred on porch or yard
Life itself seemed frozen hard
Inside the house though, anger raged
Within a man trapped by his age

No one stopped to say hello
They passed his drive and on they’d go
To town or visit with some friends
He wished someone would visit him
Day turned to dark and then expired
Still he sat beside his fire
Never came that friendly knock
Only the toll of the mantle clock

Why is it that no one cares?
To go and see who’s living there
When they pass, they sometimes slow
Then reconsider and on they go
“Much to busy, he won’t mind
if I come back some other time.”
Other times are busy, too
Soon enough it will be you
Shut in and so all alone
Trapped by age within your home.

©1990 James L.Frady