Best Windowpanes Poems
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
It seems that time...is calling out my name
As raindrops beat ..upon the windowpanes
While scanning through the pages...of my life
In a book...where empty pages...still remain
What, I ask?...will be the final ending
So many pages...so in need...of mending
Now...with so little time to write the wrongs
And find a title...for a cover pending
Tattered pages...the story of my life
A beaten trail...of harmony and strife
A tale...more strange then fiction...in reflection
With paper pages...cutting deeper...than a knife
So many pages...yellowed by the years
Words lost in faded ink...and salty tears
As I read...and re-read...each page again
With voices...from the past...ringing in my ears
For years...I put these pages...on a shelf
This endless quest for truth...to know myself
Went on to write...so many poems of love
And a book for children...all about an elf
The past...I thought...I'd finally put to rest
Thought I'd finally sent those demons...to their death
But a restless wind...keeps calling out my name
To write the ending...before my dying breath
Grace and Solitude
Peaceful stillness covers me - wide eyes embraced when I see
Luna rise up with her pale face, with a humble yet simple grace,
That waxes large and then wanes, beckoning to clear windowpanes;
Hypnotic awe in harvest light or when blue moons ride starry night -
Teasing, changes her April name from pink to fish yet remains the same -
With her ever changing shape – crescents thin to full moonscape -
Now unfolds a glimmering gown while tip-toeing through a hush a bye town;
No fanfare, no rockets to proclaim her silent ascent, dark skies to claim,
Blesses silence – clamor sent away; nocturne opened - solitude to pray
Swaddled in a silver cape – floating into dreamy escape -
Breathing in her unselfish grace in borrowed light from a solar birthplace
Cradled in her cradle song – soft midnight murmurs to prolong;
A silent whisper – a prelude - to reverent reveries of gratitude;
A gentle light - peace to expand – her solitude and grace walk hand in hand.
Pick a Title – Wild Is the Night – Sponsor: Edward Ibeh 1-9-25
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Wild Is the Night
Night wakes
In atonality of imploding infernos
Stretches,
Tossing matted tresses,
Throws off serene quilts
Of winter’s full golden moonlight
To thrash about with bare feet
On icy floors,
Tripping over the remains of dawn
Where shreds of crumpled thoughts,
Like shards of icy hailstones,
Claw at windowpanes
Clothed in nakedness.
Night shivers
As jumbled fangs of hunger
Rattle chimes and unbroken stares
When gusts of darkness ravage lullabies,
Gnaw on jawbones of savaged dreamscapes,
To race through hairpin curls of obsession
Night huddles
In tempests of dead ends,
Decorated by fixations,
By graffiti of the grotesque,
Where despair masquerades in cyclones of deception,
Storms of mania as solutions.
Whispers of wind driven earworms hatch,
Step in front of Heaven’s voice,
Cutting into Heaven’s heart
With blades of infected gales;
As the blood of angels stains doves
Anxiety floods in downpours
When the litany of the hours tosses and turns
In explosions of black noise;
Wild night paces in midnight,
Caught by scurrying tornedos,
Waiting
For the first light of resurrection.
A nail goes in the barren wall to bring the spring alive
I can almost hear a bird that begs a morning sun to rise
There's a garden now between my palms, and dew within my eyes
The fog lifts high and drifts away, and clouds that hover high
While butterflies, and bumble bees, bring color, oh, so grand
Addressing spring, caressing things, a rainbow in my hands.
I glimpse, as if through windowpanes, and fall in love anew
Enchanting me with roses, red, that bloom around my head
A cottage quaint, with paint of gold has cheered me from the blues
Such charm invites my soul to rest, in shades of Monet hues
From nature is a vast array, of color, by the best
I wish to hold the magic long, to frame, to keep, ... to last
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Inspired by "Springtime By Monet" For Ekphrasis Contest Sponsored By Rick Parise
1/5/15
Are you thinking of me tonight?
I sit on the warm carpet
in this mountain hut,
in front of a blazing fireplace,
where flames flicker fitfully
and logs crackle in delight.
Outside it's chilly cold,
snow softly cover the land,
owls seek shelter and warmth,
while windowpanes
are covered with frost
that looks like a lover's lace.
And you? Do you feel cold or warm?
Are you thinking of me tonight?
Outside of my inner self
I feel the fire's comfort.
Inside I'm as cold as the snow.
Of what use are the burning embers?
I prefer the welcoming warmth
of your endearing arms.
Give me your hot breath
on my cold neck.
Let me imbibe your fragrance
even for one instant.
You are so far away.
When will you be back from work?
You said in about half an hour or so,
We will be together in the warmth.
But are you thinking of me tonight?
Creamy hot chocolate
bathes windowpanes
Two Clydesdales trot smartly
down cobblestone lanes
Through the trees, moon rises
pools of light, reflection's prayer
Rest now, reminders
~ of an era unscared
Coffee bean scent still fills the air
with each new sunrise in our log cabin
My arms around me,embrace the winds of winter gone
Every sky-night windowpanes glow in silent mist
Lunar limbs stream through bedroom blinds
reflecting shadows on empty sheets
Star clusters shine above velvet shores
Sand-wish away from my bare toes
Another month,another year,another thought
I can't freeze time or make a clone
First magnolia blooms on a bare branch
Buzzing bees extract nectar from moist corollas
Coloured wings flutter on melting icicles
Sun birds return in a sweet song
But what is a song without a symphony
What is music with no slow dance?
His hand-pressed petal
still marks the chapter between stained pages
The dusty shelves recall my mind
recall my heart,recall my soul
For the last time these eyes would linger
before leaves curl,before buds wither
before moons move on,and I let go.
Song for the Sky
I sing of the sky's beauty today.
Holding our hopes to its
watchful heart,
As we go on our way.
It's the soft, loving cloudscape, we hold in awe.
As birds bless blissfulness
and our humbleness.
On special days, the sky, like
magic, waters our Spirng thirsty flowers.
I love to watch raindrops on windowpanes.
Doing creative dances for hours and hours
Sky~ thank you for being there!
I whisper to you ever so softly of
secret dreams, that only we two share.
May 14, 2020
5pm PST
Poem # 1268
DEMENTIA CASTS LONG SHADOWS
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sunlight fades from the window ledge
hands tremble, reaching through
mist where memories dwell
her memory – a moth-eaten shawl
whispers cling to dusty frames,
familiar faces blurred
like rain on windowpanes
keys forget what doors they knew
chairs hold ghosts’ warm weight
the clocks hands swim backward
through forgotten dates
footsteps echo in empty rooms
long shadows cast where memories pass
"Christmas Spirit"
(Christmas Day in Italian Culture)
as a snowy blanket of white caresses in Winter's glow
and frosty icicles kiss windowpanes in glazy show
a silent atmosphere embraces a starlit sight
while magnificent choir of Angels sing Hosanna O! Holy Night.
Church bells chime in twilight mist to welcome Christmas day
wishing holiday greetings while children glide on sleigh
glorious festive mood captivates inspired light
as heavenly Angelic voices praise Hosanna O! Holy Night.
decorations adorn to honor the precious Infant King
candlelight illuminates the Manger Scene as carolers sweetly sing
the scent of fragrant pine cones creates an aura to ignite
hymns of worship as heralding Angels proclaim Hosanna O! Holy Night.
soon family gathers to partake of traditional Christmas meal
"Feast of the Seven Fishes"prelude to tree trimming feel
the fireplace mantle glows where stockings smile so bright
and hark the herald Angel hosts greet Hosanna O! Holy Night.
Joseph is the patriarch who shelters newborn babe
a gift of God from Heaven sent to Earth to save
a glorious time for celebration in precious moment of delight
majestic music from Angels chanting Hosanna O! Holy Night.
sheer warmth of having a personal relationship with the Lord
a unique experience enlightening as He is adored
sharing love with everyone, the human spirit takes flight
melting their voices with holy Angels singing Hosanna O! Holy Night.
*For Cyndi's Season of Lights, Delights & Enlightenment Contest.
*Nov. 14, 2012.
in the Italian culture we begin our Christmas celebration ...
Christmas Eve - Feast of Seven Fishes Dinner for good health & prosperity
Tree trimming ceremony with music and singing toasting wine
Midnight Mass at Basilica in Rome or at Church in N.J.
Dessert Party after Mass with eggnog
Christmas Day exchanging gifts and visiting children and seniors at hospitals
Pasta dinner with salads and baked stuff shells with meatballs
Desserts of creme puffs laced with rum, cannolis pastry filled with chocolate
Wine tasting from orchards of Italy imported with olive tray
Candlelight ceremony where all hold a lit candle making a wish for a
Happy New Year.
When darkness falls and finds us all alone,
When the heart becomes a small grey stone ...
Bravery is all there is.
When thunder shakes the windowpanes,
When those we love lie wracked with pain ...
Bravery is all there is.
Bravery concedes its fear;
Does not attempt to hide its tears.
Bravery is born of holding calm,
In quietly, doggedly, carrying on.
When reason fails to light the dark,
When the answer is a question mark ...
Bravery is all there is.
When justice seeks to rule in vain,
When sorrow sweeps the roiling brain ...
Bravery is all there is.
Bravery trembles while it stands,
Accepts what it cannot command.
Bravery bears its burdens well,
Looks not to see if others tell.
Be brave then, Mystery asks of us;
Face the unknown with silent trust -
For at the End, there is only this:
Bravery is all there is.
Bravery is all there is.
When I awoke this early morn
I looked out upon a magic fairyland
Last night a whole new world was born
Nature had been making surprising plans
To paint the world with an icy hand
I looked beyond the windowpanes
And spied a welcoming winter's view!
Enchanting houses up and down the lane
With frosted roofs, and sidewalks too
All the world covered in crystal hues
Frosty art upon the window glass
Beautiful designs that Jack Frost has left
I wish his artwork could be framed to last
But as morning leaves, and Jack takes his noontime rest
The chill will leave, and the sun will bless
For Carol Brown's contest "Welcoming Winter"
This responds to “Operation Raise the Colours,” where some have painted the St. George’s Cross across streets, roundabouts, and takeaway shops. Claimed as patriotism, these acts are vandalism and an attempt to erase community spaces and stirring division.
Red bleeds across zebra crossings,
slick on high street tarmac,
smearing over takeaway shutters,
stretched across roundabouts, stubborn as lead.
Rollers scrape and flake,
pigment cheap, sunlight shakes it loose,
drips into puddles,
history seeping through plaster,
like damp beneath primer that never hides the past.
The streets run red and white,
paint claimed by hands insistent on marking stone, brick, tarmac—
silence made loud in streaks and drips.
Roundabouts stand proud under fresh coats.
Slash Dulux over despair—
coverage meant to hide, but failing.
Paint bleeds over more than roadway—
onto takeaway windowpanes, pavements, shop signs—
a mural of identity, impulse, defiance.
Undercoat logic tries to cover the past,
but no sealant ever lasts.
Brushstroke patriots,
disciples of feeling,
armed with rollers like substitute rifles.
The painting’s wrap is hollow,
dressing decline as though it were destiny.
Every slogan,
a stencil sprayed on the breeze.
Pigment flakes with ease,
truth showing through the layers.
Heritage red becomes eviction scarlet,
brilliant white papered over target.
Crowns drip Crown paint onto stone,
monarchs in tester pots,
empires reduced to monochrome.
Borders cut by shaky hands,
masking tape straining against the straight line of intention.
Edges bleed in private,
lines never straight.
Revolutions run off into puddles of hate,
mirroring the sky distorted,
clouds stretched, colours torn thin.
Tins are stirred, paint slapped on the ground.
Every revolution circles round,
because property cannot be glossed,
despair cannot be mapped.
Whitewashed roundabouts cannot hide the cracks.
Paint peels, drips, bleeds into puddles,
but the fissures of history remain—
veins in stone, stories in tarmac,
layers no roller can erase.
Crowns, crosses, streaks of red and white
twirl and fall like the last dance
over streets that remember,
over walls that refuse to forget.
The cracks take the floor,
silent but insistent,
and they will not be painted over.
The loneliness of night cloaks a desolate sky.
Drizzling rain clings to devitalized windowpanes.
Staring, longing for an escape from reality.
Ruminating thoughts keep sleep at bay.
The flicker of the television hums in the other room.
Dragging myself, I sink into the doldrums of a discarded sofa.
Turning up the volume, the weatherman describes a tempest coming from the northeast.
Burnt out, silhouettes of notions run rampant.
Even the soft glow of the TV has become too much.
The wind is starting to howl now.
I can feel it whip around the boards of this old house,
Like ancient bones rattling through the ages.
The porch blinds suddenly, violently thrash.
Getting up, I close them before slipping into my pajamas.
Preparing for something just out of reach,
Always a centimeter from my grasp.
I lay in a desperate bed.
Ever-expanding darkness shrouds me.
Yet no relief arrives.
Swollen eyes no longer produce tears.
Vocal cords no longer produce sound.
Just silent screams going unheard into the mattress,
As sanity finally slips through the threads of unyielding fabric.