Haiku: The Homeowner's Lament (06-09-10)

A poem by Pascale Steig

Found a house, at last
Charm abounds everywhere
It sits on a hill.

Yellow wood siding,
A nice porch to while time away
On warm summer days

Wake up to the light
Filtering through old stained glass
Lavender, red, green, amber

To rest, -Home at last-
And finally settle in,
Unpack my boxes

Secret garden spots
It is ours now, all of it
Plants, shrubs, flowers, trees.

Glorious spring blooms
Peonies, roses and more:
Endless surprises.

Water runs downhill
Rainy weather, soggy ground:
Endless surprises.

Alas! Rain; more rain!
Water pours under the house,
A river, a lake…

Crumbling foundation
Carpenter ants, -worse: spiders-
Problems all around

A mess to fix;
“Sell it before it’s too late,”
Says one contractor

“Don’t think about it -
It’s been here a hundred years,”
Says another one.

I try to fix it
I paint it; I buy windows:
Presents for the house

I want to tame it:
The cantankerous old house
Hides its beauty well.

Haiku: The Buyer's Lament (02-23-10)

A poem by Pascale Steig

House sold; moving on
Looking for a house
Alas: slim pickings.

Frantically looking
Days on end, reading the ads
Hoping for wonders

It's all said in code
Where "Lovingly Restored"
Means total mess-up

Mongrelization
Of styles, periods, and uses.
Sage green, brown and grey

The tiles, all the same
Gone the trims, the cabinets
Gone, the wood built-ins

The windows, vinyl
Gone, the charm, the history
The doors, hollow core.

Done in the name of
Updates, home improvement:
Obliteration

My heart beats faster
For two words: "Historic Charm"…
Perhaps this is it..?

Alas, alas, no.
With walls, leaning to the side,
The house is crooked.

It smells; well, it stinks
Unkempt, drafty, moldering
Unfit for humans.

The agent, he smiles;
If not this house, another...
...Or another yet.

Haiku: The Seller's Lament (08-20-09)

A poem by Pascale Steig

My house on Woodward
is lovely and for sale now.
Great neighbors. Much space.

Three bedrooms, two baths,
The best kitchen in the world:
A gourmet’s retreat.

Time passes, so slow.
The house sits immutable,
while my hair turns gray.

Fickle buyers, all.
Only complaints: too spacious;
the tree...too much shade.

Complaints, excuses:
No lawn, no fence, tree too tall,
house and rooms too big.

What about agents?
Large or small, from the same mold:
"Make it bargain cheap!"

"Price low! Give it up!"
But one thing is sacred, one:
The commission, always high.

"Sell my house," I say
to all agents who come by.
No results. Nothing.