Date(s) - 02/07/2019 - 02/14/2019
And finally, a poem about the memory of houses . . .
To An Old House
by Rick W. Cotton
What have you seen in your hundred years?
If asked, what would you say,
Of the dozen families that lived in your walls,
Of the hundreds of children at play?
Did the boys slide down the bannister rail,
To a mother’s angry scolding?
How many laughs, and how many tears
Have marked the years unfolding?
Every time a floorboard creaks,
The sound tells a story.
A hundred summers in their heat,
A hundred Christmas glories.
Here in this kitchen, a dozen mothers
Have left their stories behind.
Open the cupboards, look and see,
There a tale you’ll find.
Old recipe on yellowed paper,
Phone numbers scribbled on doors,
A catalog from ’65,
A hundred years of living,
These walls have seen each day.
A dozen families loved this place,
Then, sadly, moved away.
And now you sit, empty, forlorn.
Your dusty halls are still.
But memories linger in these walls,
And memories always will.
Do ghosts hide here, in your shadows?
Are there secrets, hidden well?
Oh, that you could only speak,
The tales that you could tell.
To walk your halls in quiet step,
Just listen, hear the story
That an old house can clearly tell,
In matchless oratory.
“I am the years gone by, and yet,
I welcome you within!
This empty house can be your home!
A new tale can begin!”
Texas poet Rick Cotton describes himself this way: “I am a middle manager in Corporate America….when I am not staring out the window at the color of the leaves, or the clouds, or the blue of the sky. I am a hopeless romantic, love old movies and music, and special times. Cannot abide rap, liver and onions, reality TV, and shopping malls. I have a lovely wife, a fat cat, and a taste for BBQ.”