An octagonal verandah
Wide steps below
Polished red oxide floor
Shining with a glow
A large leather settee set
A round table in the midst
With tiger claws at it’s feet
Clasping a globe
Brown wood all around
Smells really good
Framing French windows
With clear panels of glass
Etched in my memory
Looming the house stood
Once it was my home
Now it’s on my mind
In it’s place stands a tower
Glass and steel and chrome
Looks cold and menacing to me
Just doesn’t have the charm
Gone is the grass covered lawn
And the roses that surround
In it’s place is a car park
Space well utilized
They tell me it’s progress
Maybe I do agree
But somewhere in my heart's corner
Looms the old bungalow
Close
Thanks, Uma!
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our soul rest in old bunglow . i agree with your longing thirst .
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So true! Thank you so much for the wonderful comment, Ajit
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as we move froward...............................never turn back ...............yoiu will always find the past beautiful...................
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Dear PBS,
This is a beautiful poem with a nostalgia for the old bungalow and a bygone era. You have beautifully evoked the memories of my own home, specially with your mention of 'tiger-paws' table. We too had a lot of carved wooden furniture like that and I know what a pain it was to maintain it.
Sometimes I do feel similar nostalgia for my old home and sometimes, especially when the daily maid bunks, I am thankful for my tiny flat, which is easily maintained.
Lovely poem.
Charuavi
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wow...you took me there
to that old bungalow
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Etched in my memory

Looming the house stood
Once it was my home
Now it’s on my mind
A nice reflection on how 'homes' are slowly being replaced by apartments, big malls and the likes.
Vini.
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