deepundergroundpoetry.com
Hear It Breathing
Follow me to the east side,
If you would.
A metal trellis leans on
the window
leading into the kitchen,
but sadly
both’ve been overtaken
by dirt and vines.
Slowly creeping up the walls,
like they are
pulling this man-made horror
into the earth.
Maybe that’s where it belongs,
though that’s not
for anyone but nature
to decide.
If you will, stop and listen
a moment.
You can hear the house breathing.
Now it’s tense.
Quiet and curt. Not like it
used to be.
At least the history books
say it’s not.
Catch the quick gravely inhale
then release.
The aged moan of wooden beams,
waking up.
Though it’s just the wind and ground
reaching in
like an ancient sock puppet,
it makes me pause.
Come with me, 6 paces south
on over to
this lone, gnarled elm tree.
did you know
It’s two hundred fifty-four years,
six months old?
Trace its austere, stately shell
to the back
And see, engraved deep in the bark,
“Ann Thomas”.
They were both fifteen when he
etched this.
If they only knew what the vines’d
done to them now
It still makes me want to cry
Sometimes.
If you would.
A metal trellis leans on
the window
leading into the kitchen,
but sadly
both’ve been overtaken
by dirt and vines.
Slowly creeping up the walls,
like they are
pulling this man-made horror
into the earth.
Maybe that’s where it belongs,
though that’s not
for anyone but nature
to decide.
If you will, stop and listen
a moment.
You can hear the house breathing.
Now it’s tense.
Quiet and curt. Not like it
used to be.
At least the history books
say it’s not.
Catch the quick gravely inhale
then release.
The aged moan of wooden beams,
waking up.
Though it’s just the wind and ground
reaching in
like an ancient sock puppet,
it makes me pause.
Come with me, 6 paces south
on over to
this lone, gnarled elm tree.
did you know
It’s two hundred fifty-four years,
six months old?
Trace its austere, stately shell
to the back
And see, engraved deep in the bark,
“Ann Thomas”.
They were both fifteen when he
etched this.
If they only knew what the vines’d
done to them now
It still makes me want to cry
Sometimes.
Published 1st Nov 2020
Author's Note
A portrait of an old house
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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1st Nov 2020 2:54pm
This is really beautiful and moving. Old houses tell stories, if one is so inclined to listen.
1st Nov 2020 3:03pm
Thank you. I love gothic literature and haunted houses (supernatural or not) have always been very romantic to me. I think the souls of old places are fascinating and beautiful
1st Nov 2020 4:15pm
This took me back to a time I toured an old southern plantation's slave quarters. The stories those shacks must hold, still bring tears to my eyes, when I think about them.
A great theme to ponder on. Thank you for the opportunity.
A great theme to ponder on. Thank you for the opportunity.
2nd Nov 2020 1:06am
Thanks so much for taking the time to read. I agree the history of places and things has always been very interesting to me.
2nd Nov 2020 6:08am
The ghosts that rattle the bones of old buildings is poignantly spilled and reverently tendered. Excellent spill. Welcome to the DU; I look forward to reading more of your work 💜.
2nd Nov 2020 6:47am
Absolutely. Thank you so much. I look forward to reading more of yours as well :)
3rd Nov 2020 8:06am
Excellent and very vivid writing, Jacob! It's good to have you here at DU :)
3rd Nov 2020 8:43am
