Best Sills Poems
Passing through framed windows like ours,
I recall your tales of reckless war and lost friends
that burned your innocence at 21... and though
you claimed flashes of courage, moist eyes
poured vulnerability looking calm, undaunted.
We both searched deeply into our souls
as a father is to his young daughter, that I wanted
to let you know, it was alright;
but that mound of shoulders turned away.
Down the years as officer and gentleman,
Time stole long weeks, absent from your dining chair,
leaving me resentful and bitter on hardened sills
until you arrive under crawling dock of stars.
But in free moments, how you cherished
me so; waking my cheeks at 3 am to race the winds,
to fly with a shooting neon, laughing with a blue moon.
You spoke of faith and honor if life dared a shame, oh
mild scent of your arms cuddling my girlish dreams...
until off you rode suddenly on heaven’s wheel.
I see you through all framed windows like ours,
that even if my iced breaths needed you more
as small flowers thirsted for rain, my anger was a cry
for love’s company... “ I have adored you
in moments of distance and nearness, if not
always, then for all eternity.”
Have I forgotten to open this, my soft, broken sigh?
Dad, everything is all right.
Ir0nic Zink's Your Personal Favorite Poem Contest
Resubmitted 5/19/2017
Where the sound of the wind whistled through the cracks in the walls and the door-sills where pots collected rain beneath a leaky roof where some drops ping-ponged on the empty soup cans resting on the kitchen counter as Autumn turned to Winter seen through white ferns painted by Jack Frost during the night on the window panes where beneath, snow fell through the cracks in the walls and lay glistening on the coat the little girl slept beneath on a cot in a house that even the coal collected from the train-tracks burning in the stove couldn't warm but could leave a trail of black soot on the wall behind the stovepipe in the place the little girl lived and called home for awhile, until the next move, and the next move, and next move, to places much the same, that she also called home, where a broken turquoise robin's egg (in a glass jar), tagged along, forever bringing beauty and joy to the little girls life.
grass and mud a nest
from such humble beginnings
yet the robin flies
____________________________________________________________
A blossom I’ll be on the wreaths for peace
An offering to deity to feed world’s hungry
I’ll be the garden on every troubled street
Preening as gleefully as exuberant tulips
Swaying with spring in rhythms of daffodils
I’ll be the laudable bouquet of friendship
An emissary of cupid when love is elusive
A gift I’ll be, from souls of dreams romantic
I’ll be the cure when dear-heart is aching
A sensuous rose I’ll be, alluring bride to be
I’ll be sweet smile of expressions in violet
Pleasing smitten hearts on lilac landscapes
Presenting bell-shaped English bluebells
Tenderly in aura of angel’s blessed grace
I’ll be the enlightenment in lotus of solace
Lovingly I’ll answer every call of your will
In colors of hyacinth upon your window sills
And fragrance of white Lily evoking revelry
Composing gaily dulcet themed melodies
Strumming floral kisses on your sateen lips
January 31, 2021
Placed 2nd: If I were a flower premium contest
I decorate a grotto for you, Mama
where orchids and holy images
embellish this special place and day,
that saintly icons guard you there
as if they beg me to be released
from years of guilty devotion…
Yet I polish their laced clothes;
then end the night waiting
for wind chimes to knell,’ Magnificat.’
Scenes from younger days resound,
while you, Mama, gift me with love and hate
flickering through my confused mind :
And sharpened bells ring in my ears;
the gong of your voice banging
across the hall... yet I still recall,
mouth so tender, droning lullabies
in the soft of window sills, ‘Magnificat’…
How can I reconcile quietude and boom,
when the little girl in me longs for your timber
here beside this special place--
till holy statues listen to my own chimes
and finally, understand this adoration.
I Cannot Believe I Wrote That Poetry
For Nina Parmenter
Written 8/1/2015 Re-post 12/5/2018
The cold hand of Winter swiftly approaches
Its breath etches frost on my windowpanes
Nearer my threshold, Death now encroaches
Blood is slowly chilling inside my frail veins
Reaper's wild winds pelts hail on my roof
His breath etches frost on my windowpanes
Snowdrifts climb higher on the sills in reproof
Huddled in a corner, my fear is spurred
Reaper's wild winds pelts hail on my roof
This room is the chamber where I'll be interred
On the threshold of madness, I'm losing grip
Huddled in a corner, my fear is spurred
Winter's hand has caused a temperature dip
I flinch at the sound of a knock on my door
On the threshold of madness, I'm losing grip
Terror incites me to curse what I abhor
The cold hand of Winter swiftly approaches
I flinch at the sound of a knock on my door
Nearer my threshold, Death now encroaches
August 17, 2017
to all who know and love,
and who may not know at all,
i have told tales of adoring loss
and romance utterly grand-
building walls with broken sills,
falling apart at the seams to well,
not knowing which path to choose
but
brilliantly radiating verses that
weigh heavily upon hearts
so i go toward the light that found me;
bright and anew i am glowing in grace-
gifts of love and hope i bestow,
with gratitude i extend my heart
though the threshold to peace
has yet to be shown…
i know i have grown
i accept where i’ve been,
showering others with my
metaphorical muse-
embracing poetry without fear;
leaving behind friendly notions
so that i can become the
woman i've always longed to
be-
creative in my heart,
talented in my essence,
and
giving to those deserving
my utmost kindness-
i sing my lullaby today and fly away
farewell my beautiful being,
i am too far away to express what i feel
~for goodbyes are all too real~
some say i am becoming,
beautiful and unique-
melancholy in my technique,
loving to all who seek…
MY SOUL
few know my name,
even fewer embrace my quill-
but
one day i shall shine like the
stardust falling onto my barren feet
(the feet that once carried me home)
i shall no longer take the deceit,
nor allow Judas to defeat…
ME
i am strength intensified-
a push assumes its weakness
is part of my fate,
but
there’s no regret in the magic
I DID CREATE
for my time has given me
much pleasure-
i hand out thanksgivings to
all who were kind to…
ME
i may fly back once and awhile,
to embrace amazing tales told,
see companions of old-
write verses of hope and pain;
making my heart smile,
adoring each style-
but for now i must abstain
wish upon my star,
from afar,
and all will be revealed in time-
for nothing does compare to the
rhythm of my rhyme
farewell my beautiful being,
may you touch what i leave behind-
take my verses and wear my hope
that tomorrow shall be better for…
you
and
ME
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
3.2.20
Dream catchers chime in the wind,
like soft tones of a xylophone.
Melodic melancholic rain,
is free flowing,
but morning birds still arrive,
sitting on wet window sills,
singing about their desires.
In daffodil daydreams,
the breeze resonates like a flutist,
gently swaying bluebells in a rhythmic flow,
as pink, silver and lilac heather spread
around a bed of golden violet crocus.
Under my magnificent magnolia tree,
ivory petals dance in puddles upon
damp lawns with fresh grass,
weeping love songs strummed
on acoustic strings of green.
Sprinkles of drizzle sparkle,
like an absent lover's ostinato,
caressing the earth in a
rhapsody of tender kisses,
nourishing it's soul to harmonise with
a symphony of returning sun rays.
As a chorus of clouds clear in
a final crescendo, introducing
sapphire hues with golden delight,
rainbow pastels bless the tempo
of rows of tantalising tulips
in kaleidoscopic shades -
as natures breathes in alternating fusion.
Zephyrus, the god of the wind from the west
Gently blows where the lily grows
He is springtime's welcome guest
In early summer he whispers to the rose
As she sways in his warm caress
He gently blows where the lily grows
The winds of *Notus may give her stress
For he brings the summer storms
But she'll sway in Zephyrus's warm caress
The winds of *Boreas are never warm
He brings the cold winds of winter
While Notus brings the summer storms
Icicles on window sills begin to splinter
As the winds of Boreas make us shiver
He brings the cold winds of winter
His icy breath is upon the river
With gusts that never seem to rest
The winds of Boreas make us shiver
But Zephyrus is springtime's welcome guest
----
12/11/2014
''Z'' Contest, New Or Old - Poetry Contest
Constance La France
*Notus - The Greek god of the south wind
*Boreas - The Greek god of the North wind and the bringer of winter
----
I Recall Mockingbirds Singing To Me
My life now so far away in the past
resting back in that glowing red sunset;
in lost memories where dreams always last
wishing for lost time, I can never get.
As fading shadows dance in bonfire's glow
I recall mockingbirds singing to me;
precious gifts such memory plants to sow
so like seeds dropping from big red-oak tree.
My eyes filled with falling tears, my soul sees
far beyond, well past my mind's window sills;
Green forests in my life with their lost trees
resting back there, lasting memory hills.
As my life now sends me yearning anew,
images parading forth, treasures so true!
Robert J. Lindley, 4-03-2016
Syllables Per Line:
10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: Total # Words: 105
Note: I had to visit my favorite woods yesterday(AS WAS MUCH NEEDED RELIEF), this came to me this fine morn, a sonnet..
To the sound of pelting rain, she woke in early morning
Upon the tattered tin roof, it rhythmically pitter pattered
No sunlight peeked through clouds on daylight's dawning
She thought of him and of the dreams that were shattered,
of the nights she'd spend without end, remorse spawning
Windblown rain pummeled windows, on sills it splashed
Obscured was her view, vision blurred behind each pane
Howled as does a wolf, thunder growled, lightning flashed
In rivulets like rain, was weeping she struggled to restrain
Like drops of blood from a wound, her teardrops splashed
That night, in shadowed lamplight she espied on the corner,
a familiar silhouette of one whose countenance was a given
Dark eyes of a raven who had waived his right to scorn her
No vocal cawing was riven as torrents of rain were driven
He was beyond the reach of this sad beseeching mourner
Outside she ventured, into the sting of nettled showers
for just one glimpse of him, she would offer as her reason
On the street, scattered at her feet, her espousal flowers
Fallacy, was an act Charlotte Bronte' would label 'treason'
Uncloaked, soaked, she stood with her memories for hours
From grief she could not hide nor abide her mirrored face
His eyes, for once unveiled, yet not one word did he speak
A webbing of fine silk threads spun, woven in warm embrace
He had raised no hand in farewell. A tear grazed her cheek
Without solace she would linger in portals of empty space
She trembled, shivering, eyes teary, there was no mistaking
her sips from tainted cup had the caustic taste of bitter gall
The impeccant knight chose the right to claim his forsaking
Nimbus skies lay overcast without surcease of a graying pall
Fraught with aching, she sighed one word, "heartbreaking."
Most of us play, our lives like a game
Both ends of our candle, consumed by the flame
Choosing a curtain, buying a vowel
Planning tomorrow, forsaking the now
In days gone by, not so long ago
We were dreaming of spring, through icy windows
Fields of green clover, budding trees and daffodils
Cooling homemade cobblers, on open window sills
Walking barefoot in the yard, after warm morning showers
Lost in our daydreams of sweet smelling flowers
Now June awaits, with anticipating brides
Spring has sprung, as we hear distant tides
Our minds look ahead, to tropical destinations
Free time with loved ones, on family vacations
Camping, hiking, perhaps water skiing
Traveling far away, for some casual sight seeing
While we're relaxing, with minds elsewhere
Spending today, on tomorrow's big dare
In the hot summer sun, we'll think of the snow
Taking for granted, the time that we blow
For Americans, tomorrow is Memorial Day
Religious or not, we should all stop and pray
For all the people, who gave their lives
At home and abroad, for their sacrifice
Fighting and dying, for the time that we waste
Ask God to love them and show them His grace
Pray for their families, for the love they lost
Paying the price, with the ultimate cost
Think of the fallen, lost in their prime
Be thankful for them and keep them in mind
an original poem by the "Poemdog" Daniel Turner
Somewhere in the Appalachian Hills quilted with love
there are cottages and curtains clothes on sills, quilted with love.
Up high in deep where electric wires don't reach where night is dark
and the ridge the deepest blue of spruce hearts are still, quilted with love.
Across the table hewn from ancient apple, rubbed and oil, flat, sweet
lies a cloth that Gram made from flour sacks once filled, quilted with love.
The stream, miles off, had held a mill where wheat was yearly brung
our harvest gleaning we would bring barefoot uphill, quilted with love.
Nothing was wasted then, old clothes, became new, small bits of sacks
bought comfort, hot pots to hold, mended gifts, heart instilled, quilted with love.
The paper lay flat
on a low reading table,
yet thick in it's pages,
a days worth of fable.
Our library bright with it's
rays to it's sills
and the paper bleached white
with a grey side of gills.
It's HEADLINE in blue
relaxing your eyes.
Large print making stories
seem simpler than size.
Text in black letters;
dragged out into words.
Knowledge you crave for.
Ideas in herds.
News from a paper
pressed for attention.
Left on a table
as though for detention.
A thousand dots of bulbs flutter wildly
exploding into my summer’s redness
to gather awed murmur upon these lips,
my amazement tossed beyond open sills—
How I watch you glitter from a dance
as late afternoon spreads the outline
of your voluptuous curves tapping
beneath warm sunset now giving way
to that quickened female rush ...Just then
against gauzy light—a steady pause,
another different movement quite innocent--
weaves on fine voile of your tiny bosoms...
Until comes the stillness. The nobility
enhanced by caressed petioles
delicate as slow flame unto night’s halo:
I claim tranquility. I become meditative
unaware that grind of day tears my sensibilities.
O you, dear Asian vine grant quiet radiance
hanging leisurely through my window's slumber.
4/03/2019
Written for Craig Cornish: Bougainvillea Contest
behind the logs on this crackling fire
the dulcet sound of a distant choir
wakes up the child and times in me
like lights around a Christmas tree
and takes me back when sixties' chills
left ice inside our window sills
when Jesus lay behind the door
of advent's number twenty four
when the greatest present that we had
was the presence of both mum and dad
when love and laughter fun and games
lit up the room just like these flames
that dance each year to times gone by
before they flicker, fade and die.