Jan G. Otterstrom F.

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THE HOUSE

Nobody belonged to the house except
the stargazer poet intellect, his pseudo
entrepreneurial fantasies evolved far
of course, the father and their mothers
studied and wrote long explanations
of anomalous theories to order inner
rooms within, to justify the library full
of otherís ideas, dreams expanded
written documentations, textbooks
of all sorts, poetry of historical note.
A great cook ladled delicious meals
but also managed the whole process
from raw materials, philosophies, new
tendencies, brought in electronically
or delivered by sundry services mixed.
Music filled the floors daily to set moods
cohesive models holding minds captive
enlivening creative fountains to spill
over, set another task to be defined.
What is a house without children running
high pitched laughing, shaking the gables
light dancing from the windows or sitting
pondering the whys? Yes, we hold views
in memory , stock our ponds with rainbows
wealth of imagination darting for morsels
or errant insects that fly to close to see
the water as a mirror, captivating them
to be recycled, into the next bloom of bugs.
There is a garden, trees and open lawns
to play also plant varieties of flowers, fruits
vegetables and other edibles that stock
the pantry. The knitted altogether is a ball
of love, self-sacrifice, unconditional desire
that bonds a universe of thought, longing
to be together again, yet only beyond
the horizon of life, parting of the veil
reunited in a grand celestial room again.




© Jan G. Otterstrom F. August 23, 2015