Best Windowed Poems
When looking for a quack with spiked rates
Some try the Windowed Office of Bill Gates
Coz right on the spot
He’ll give you a shot
But be prepared to accept his dictates
His business, Microshot, you may know
Needled itself ahead of every foe
With billions of bucks
To create deluxe
Vaccine versions 2, 3, and 4.0
Yet there are many who’ve come to razz him
And treat him with deserved sarcasm
Like those who’ve found
Themselves wheelchair bound
Though Gates claims it’s just a back spasm
Now Gates wants to vaccinate the planet
With help in tow this is how they’ll plan it
By changing genes
With secret means
Which to me sounds more or less satanic
Yet there are those who want to be first in line
To get their shot with a chaser of wine
Well here’s to their health
Or rather Gates’s wealth
Which must be baked in his evil design
But when at Bill’s door you hear the death knell
That is your vaccination alarm bell
For more than malware
Coz once in his lair
You’ll know why they call his shop ‘Gates of Hell’
"When humanity becomes louder than love, stay out of its way. At times, it's better to be the lion in the distance, rather than the sheep losing their way...again."
This was the 1st time
I felt out of place.
Its impact mimicked abused parallelograms
Unto emptiness’ solution
I witness sliced wrists shedding bohemian smiles.
Testament verses
Latching onto anchors of invalid mo(u)rning
There was no sunrise to be found,
Because humanity kept making love to silhouetted blinders
I was surrounded by shovels
Ransacked
For the sake of digging louder messages’ trench
While I
Caress incipient wings
And half-full Windex bottles
Just to keep perception from clouding my lyrics
Because nobody wants to see eye to eye…
…
…cataract-laced speeches permeate tainted whispers
Of an innocent breath
Simply
Searching
For B-rated serendipity
Oh, this was the 1st time
I felt out of place.
Turning away from windowed afflictions
Ready
To step towards gratitude’s breath
Outside,
No longer looking in
How good it feels.
Yet, I still miss my friends.
©Drake J. Eszes
The dank petrichor of grainy night,
meters stand like gravestones,
the obsidian avenue slick as a sapphire,
windowed granite rising in sharp cut shadows,
wind gusting, tumbleweed clouds somersaulting
in a moonless ghost town.
I jingle keys with atonal sky
and listen to my footsteps on concrete
ticking like a clock.
There are places to be.
I hasten my step as rain drops resume,
one by one mounting into a riotous crowd.
Umbrella-less, I am soon sopping,
hair a wet carpet, suit a gray saturated tarp,
the briefcase and tote onyx boulders.
My car is still a block away,
but eventually I reach it
like a leaf washing down stream.
The tote slips off my shoulder
as I stoop to retrieve fallen keys
lying in a shallow puddle like a shattered talisman.
Suddenly I begin laughing,
dropping everything in the street,
my face skyward, arms splayed like a crucifix.
Now there is no tomorrow,
only the farce of my predicament,
standing like a drowned coyote howling
at the moon as though it would be there forever.
In the darkening room I stood:
tears welling in my eyes:
by the windowed-wall, looking out,
my small chest full of sighs.
Headlights bright white and tail lights red,
paired, meandered down the street,
yet the white headlights that I sought
seemed only to retreat.
Cold, calm, singular, tear drops fell,
soon reaching down turned lips;
as in the house across the street,
the living room was lit.
A Father held his baby high.
He hugged that toddler tight.
I wiped the corner of my eye,
and gazed into the night.
Above the darkened woodland near,
beneath a cobalt sky;
the highway brought their Fathers home.
alone again stood I.
Horns blared out in drives near by
sweet laughter filled the air,
and, in the drive across the street,
their Fathers did appear.
The children ran out slamming doors,
on small unshodden feet,
with tiny squeals, and upturned cheeks,
their Father they did greet.
Where was the father who I sought
our lives incomplete
a traveling man, my Father
did nothing but retreat.
*A memory from when I was 8.
Oh how sweet warmth would gently fade
cast shadows on the games we played.
Dusk's chatter-patter playing hide and seek
under streetlight curfew lamps
unspoken call to home.
Wild laughter of the “last tag” challenge
beneath soft yellow-windowed eyes
days dirt relinquished begrudgingly
precursor of soft goodnight sighs.
Darkness closing in
sleep blanketing life’s moments
eyes pursuing dreams.
Chasing childhood's Holy Grail
through the canyons of slumber.
©4/20/2018
submitted to – It’s All About Four – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Broken Wings
My world now
is lensed through a few
walled and windowed rooms
and a garden held within
a high fence through which
I take in views of the universe.
Galaxies turn in the swirling
motion caught in the gravity
inside a coffee cup
and further out, way past
the edges of a table,
ancient constellations flicker
still fuelled by embers
left by the fires of creation.
I see the boundary
of all that I know ripple
and diminish to a still,
stop at a point past which
my feeble instruments cannot go
and confront an infinity
that lies beyond
and plummets inward
towards the very centre
of myself.
By Edmund Siejka
A high school English teacher
Issues a challenge
Her class
Is to write a poem.
Reading a student’s poem
Her experienced eye
Searches for
Imagery
Metaphor
Tone
Point of view
Ultimately the student’s poem
Is graded a gentleman’s C.
Somewhat surprised
The student admits his shortcomings
Indicating that poetry is a lot like writing
Disappointed
The teacher
Doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Coming home that night on a crowded train
The teacher passes up a seat
Letting an exhausted looking woman
Sit down
Thankful
For this simple courtesy
Brief smiles are exchanged
Strangers from two different worlds.
The teacher notices the smell of disinfectant
Hovering over the woman
Thick fingers holding tightly to her purse
The woman
Begins an animated conversation
With two other women
Broken English
Graceful hand movements
Words interrupted with laughter.
From what the teacher hears
She believes the women
Are cleaning ladies
The little people who clean the bathrooms
Vacuum carpeted hallways
Empty the trash
From windowed offices
High above the New York skyline.
The words ‘poetry is a lot like writing’
Linger in the teacher’s memory
One thing she is sure of
The ladies know of life
After years of
Hard work for little pay
Hungry children
Angry husbands
Absentee landlords.
The train stops
Momentarily the ladies collect
In a small group
On the empty train platform
Suddenly there is no more talking
In the awkward silence
Each of the ladies turn
Toward the direction
Of a place they call home.
You can't imagine what its like to march on a sacred city,
to plunder and pulverize a Peoples' promise to Deity,
demolishing centuries of lavish labor, wasting offspring of ancient heredity,
destroying flesh, scriptures and stone with a savage Roman military synergy,
a discipline determined in it's destruction of dissention, inspired by ancestral victory,
politics was not our purview, methodical punishment was our specialty,
We were War's royalty, we were Legio XV Apollonaris,
monsters of Mars, messengers of Apollo, the juggernaut of Jupiter,
along with 11 other Legions led by General Titus, 60, 000 cuts of glory we stood,
for 3 and a half years we fought through Jewish guerilla ambush
asymetrical urban warfare welting our progress like a pirate pestilence
district after district, hell spell after hell spell we bled with chilled maneuver,
the Zealots were pyromaniacs, burnt sacraficers, their zeal and our bodies zesty wood,
in the Kidron Valley they flooded the streets " knee high " with oiled water
as the Cohorts waded through the lanes leery, a torch was tossed, flames rose in rush
240 men perished like spazing stars trapped in a box, our grief agape with a horrified crush,
as reprimand, Titus made the Legate sit in a tent with his chopped off ring finger
smoldering like hot sand in the hand of a marooned man aware of error in his plan,
the insurgents had men we called Fox Tails, desperate demons who knew how Hell began,
as a skirmish succumbed to our skill and number they would run into apartments,
dragging the fury of our blades into rooms of Hades revenge, these were fire entrapments,
the buildings would blaze like windowed volcanos, screams salting us with panic linger,
It was not uncommon to discover a missing Brother Legionary
castrated, and decapitated with a headedless eagle carved upon his chest,
don't speak to me about morals and mercy for I have seen and dealt the damage of rude death
hate becomes your Father, vengence your Mother, aggravated murder your cause
when everything you revere and fear merge to make a leviathen of life,
the " Chosen People " of God became the chosen target of annihilation,
Mount Moriah, mansion of Yahweh the Pariah would become capital of Divine crucifixion,
J.A.B.
This poem has been entered into the Roman Legion Contest
to honor Ancient Rome and the Poet who sponsored this historical subject.
You can't imagine what it's like to march on a sacred city,
to plunder and pulverize a Peoples' physical promise to a Deity,
demolishing centuries of lavish labor,
wasting offspring of ancient heredity,
destroying flesh, scripture and stone
with a savage Roman military synergy,
a discipline determined in it's destruction of dissension
inspired by ancestral victory,
politics was not our purview,
methodical punishment was our specialty,
We were War's royalty,
we were Legio XV Apollonaris
monsters of Mars, messengers of Apollo,
the juggernaut of Jupiter,
along with 11 other legions led by General Titus
60,000 cuts of glory we stood,
for 3 and a half years we fought through the Jewish guerilla ambush
asymmetrical urban warfare welting our progress
like a pirate pestilence,
district after district, hell spell after hell spell we bled with chilled maneuver,
the Zealots were pyromaniacs, burnt sacrificers
their zeal and our bodies zesty wood,
in the Kidron Valley they flooded the streets ankle high with oiled water
as the Cohorts waded through the lanes leery
a torch was tossed,
flames rose in a rush,
240 men perished like spazing stars trapped in a box,
our grief agape with horrified crush,
as reprimand, Titus made the Legate sit in a tent
with his chopped off ring finger
smoldering like hot sand in the hand of a marooned man
aware of error in his ill plan,
the insurgents had men we called fox tails,
desperate demons who knew how Hell began,
as a skirmish succumbed to our skill and number
they would run into apartments
dragging the fury of our blades into rooms of Hades revenge,
these were fire entrapments,
the buildings would blaze like windowed volcanos
screams salting us with panic linger,
J.A.B.
Staring at the end of the hallway
The stained glass windowed is etched into my mind, woah.
Just another place to remind me
What we had is gone, long gone.
This was the house that got us through those moments
of insecurity and self hate.
You told me you would always love me, no matter what.
I realize now you didn't mean it, you didn't mean it at all.
You told me you loved me, what a lie.
You were the one. Mr. Right. Mr. Wrong.
Our relationship took a wrong turn, but I could get it back on track.
I always could.
Except this time. It was all too much.
Staring at the end of the hallway,
and that stained glass window that was etched into my mind is there no more.
Beside the fragmented pieces lays a stone.
The stone that shattered that window, and my heart along with it.
I loved you. I really did. I was ready to marry you.
You had other plans. That didn't involve me.
Now that stained glass window is gone.
I'm gone.
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
©Alfreda Williamson
July 2, 2004
Outside town boundaries,
bustling, noisy din,
Deeply in the serenity of peace, calm,
the country County,
Around a curve, sharp, blind.
There it leaped out at me.
Suddenly, unexpectedly
Catching me off guard,
Not foresightedly, not scary
Just by way of wonderment
. . . why this unfinished business?
The house without its finishings.
. . . It rose up in the trees,
reaching the tops, for two stories,
Sweat/precision/deliberation imputed,
Reaching towards the sun.
Or was it toward a full autumn moon,
Or could it be the direction,
from the ancient star compass.
Harnessing a cloud drifting by, for clearing?
It stood among the ivory,
Entangled, entwined but
Not overgrown, not overtaken.
The roof covered in tin,
The setting for magnificent, earthly,
heavenly sounding of
drenching,/torrential/steady
rain drops.
The windowed eyes of this
Unfinished dwelling,
Finished, painted, shadowed, framed
. . . in pink.
Its back bone wood no longer
yellow /white/beige with youth.
The grey/brown color of rotting age and elements;
. . . time, neglect, exposure
. . . nature scraping and shearing away,
year after year,
after month, after day,
after time.
The frame finished, nearly so,
Peaking spaces left, or now,
There, some frame filling
Having been ripped/rotted
Away for outsiders to look in.
This business unfinished,
And not overtaken,
In the gulf of time.
Nature working reclamation,
Of the space, crawling,
Groundward, upward,
Yet unfinished in recapturing.
This unfinished house, standing
Alone in the word,
Sharing a space with no one
In its place.
The windowed souls,
. . . looking, peeking at
passersby,
driving,
cycling,
running pass,
in a flurry.
This unfinished business,
Begs questioned consideration,
Sufficient structural invitation
? who went there
? what past passed
? why this unfinished business
? when
Where . . .
am I begged to inquire,
invited to draw close?
But I can’t get there.
Though attention drawn,
And pondering invoked.
I can’t finish it,
This business.
By Alfreda Williamson
© July 2, 2004
Invariable measures find me concluded with torment.
Crystallized reflections peripherally surpass imaginations advent.
Crackling blisters intern vivid arbitration, as if to teach spine-chilling lessons.
Collapse goes hostage lungs, held up and recorded in air gasping sessions.
Constant ringing beneath definitions light concealed bag piped eye shadows haunting address.
All occurs timed perfectly for surprise panic attacks; choking on nothingness.
White vaporous visuals infiltrate what sight left remains.
Useless kicking and screaming ended then when normalcy fathomed midst windowed pains.
Feelings numb agony crippled sightless time; acoustic sound walls burrow.
Vines manifest scandalous intent, my surrounded record beckons such growth still; you expect me to feel sorrow.
12/09/16
Foolishly Enticed
Whereas your plot did draw me in,
yes you, but perhaps not you alone.
That inviting open widow
that I was pulled through wore sparkling glass
with heart’s desired
worded sash.
Whereas that I, now too late, do clearly see
that it was I who became a foolish moth.
Drawn toward
an open window my heart did wished to see
with a porch light
that wasn’t lit for me.
Therefore I share pain’s lesson,
reclaim my heart, and learn from this.
Cocooning, again,
until a new porch light is lit.
Open windowed wary... as not all panes
wear true love’s tint.
© All Rights Reserved 11/4/14
Despite your transcendental airs,
No windowed soul invites your gaze.
These eyes have steered a thousand stares,
Through labyrinths of smoke and haze.
The town clock marks out the hours of the night;
Its pallid face looking down on the wet street below,
Empty save for the occasional swish of a car speeding
To a distant suburb. There is a brief glimpse of
A grim portrait of urgency, or frozen duet of
Snarling adversaries, or the happy laughing faces of
Lovers. Blank windowed shops cast pools of light on the
Glistening tarmac in competition to the high yellow flare of
Street lights.
But it is darkness that forms the stage
On which I walk. Deep shadows swallow the light,
Denying it power, denying it purchase in this world.
The shops soon end and their reminder of the busyness
And bustle of the day gives way to solitude.
My footsteps no longer echo between the shopfronts;
Now they sound only in my own small world, the
Curtained windows of homes too far away to reflect
My steady steps.
Town left behind darkness shrouds me, each step
Taking me further from the slow moving hands
And sightless face. As I walk, measuredly, like the ticking hands,
I catch glimpses of life in the neat houses that line the
Street. Here a teenage birthday, all frivolity and delight;
There the staid conformity of middle age – television, a
Cup of tea, an early night. And here, and there,
The warmth of seduction in frozen glimpses of passion, or
Passing of love, faint heard words of anger and rejection.
Ahead, darkness becomes absolute; no curtained windows to
Remind me of the rawness and tenderness of life, yin and
Yang. Only my steps, steady but resolute, their sound a
Cadence for my thoughts to follow in obedience. I think,
And therefore I am, except on this journey when thought
Leads only on into the darkness, and “I am” becomes
“I was” in my mind. The darkness ahead gently
Engulfs my past, and proposes my future. And far behind,
The hands of the clock mark out the hours of the night.