Best Windowsills Poems
Encased in an isolated castle of an old fool’s paradise,
A decaying dagger rests upon a distressed oak table.
Frayed book pages scatter across termite-riddled floors.
The calligraphy carries echoes of triumphant battles,
Vividly etched in ink.
A revered legacy is forgotten in decades of decay,
Its inked glory fading into disarray.
Reminiscing of bygone days when youth was a sturdy partner at my behest,
Now weathered crimson dahlias adorn the windowsills
Of a desolate dynasty,
As the last petal falls.
Echoes of faded footsteps can be heard within the empty halls of waste.
What remains is a golden crown with sanguine marquise
Resting heavily upon an exile’s head.
How do I conquer the bloodstained fear trickling within the fractals,
Reflecting off the scorching sun that swallows flames,
Swirling around the ashen pyre
Of the poetic corpses I’ve slain for validation?
An inquisition paints a vicious vermilion
Within the sobbing stained glass.
The once-perfect porcelain flesh of our legacy is flayed,
Surrounded by the whispers of forgotten souls.
Cobwebs drape over shattered dreams,
As beams of light punctuate looming shadows.
Concealed beneath cold stone lies the family crypt,
Patiently awaiting its reluctant visitor,
Beckoning the exalt through clandestine corridors.
Within the hushed chamber of undying slumber,
He recalls the tragic tale.
Before him stand his beloved wife and children,
Forever ensnared in the clutches of eternal sleep.
Echoes of the past replay like eerie shadows,
Retelling the grim chronicle of their demise.
His envious, wrathful younger brother succumbed
To the greed of his own ambition.
In the darkness hour of that dreadful night, the dagger-wielding usurper
Plunged their existence into oblivion,
Casting spirits of suppressed speeches to weep
Within wailing walls.
Now I am the cerulean dusk of the gloaming,
A burnt-out waxen ivory,
The candle before their tombstone.
I'm sensing something familiar as a lost memory
coming back and revealing itself in realistic form;
glancing at the rose-covered gate without a worm,
it looks different, somewhat newer; its color was gray
and roses that now cling weren't there...it's so enchanting!
Looking closer, I perceive another feeling of elation slowly rising.
An old house with long florid windows stood there,
beautiful flowers waved on windowsills looking out to the daisy-draped lawn...
that was the only beauty it had, then Erica ran down
and met me and gave me the most gorgeous sunflower;
I couldn't resist the lovely smile in those eyes color sapphire...
she was burning like the dry desert sand and asked me to quench her fire!
I recognized the passionate gleam in her enamored look, yet fearful as a deer;
she led me through the rose-covered gate with unbelievable rush, her fair hand
was much warmer than the blood in my bursting veins, we had to explode
in passion and emit moaning screams that only the serenading bluejays could hear.
There it laid: a bed made of lilacs and jasmines...strong was the aroma I breathed,
I pulled her down as someone too desperate to devour and satisfy with eager eyes;
and too happy to lose myself in that ecstasy, I became the wild man she needed...
chimerical as dreamers, we clung to each other and sighed in our splendid Paradise.
golden beams of dawn
are glinting amber prairies--
smiles of daffodils
enchanting day break
are red, white, purple tulips--
pride of early spring
waltzing lilac winds
charm violet hyacinth--
gems on windowsills
June 4, 2020
Placed 1st: Fresh Traditional Haiku by JCB Burl
Placed 2nd: Brian's Select 5 Contest
Tulips fronting daffodils
Azaleas in pots on windowsills
Rows of rainbow chrysanthemums
Mingle with orange geraniums
Bright pink peonies ready to pop
A bird of paradise sits on top
Still ~ Red roses always make my day
Arrange them in a sweet bouquet
many daffodils
beautiful on windowsills
narcissus appeals
one yellow divine
single or double refine
purist flower mine
dainty and sublime
standing hours at a time
waving in their prime
*For Carol Browns "What's The Buzz" Haiku contest
The neighborhood has been going, to every variety of dogs.
But I simply can’t believe it… We now have Gutter Frogs!
They climb upon my windowsills, and also among the trees.
They climb up my patio screen, is there nothing, they don’t see!
Nightly nestling in my window gutter, where they have safely gone.
My hubby says that he can’t sleep, with so much racket going on!
Shiny, and oh so sleek, unlike any other toad, are these little blokes.
Perhaps I have been hasty. Their voices are only a cricket, not a croak.
Unlike my Hubby’s snores, they are way more soothing, yes, by far!
Perhaps there is no reason, for us, that we must now, declare a war.
But no! I must revise, as the gutters surely do need, to be cleaned.
So up the ladder Hubby did climb, as he now, had a full head of steam.
But, yes, life is never simple, and that seems to be… our very own lot.
They had watched our environmentalist son, as he studies and he plots.
‘Save the Gutter frogs!’ Became their banner song, which truly did evolve!
Alas! What’s worse! They are asking, an environmental study, to be done!
They quoted conservationists, and several even chained themselves to our home.
I’ve heard of save the Whales and trees, but now will it be… the gutter frogs?
This is their habitat! What will be next… a nest of new age lawyer gutter frogs?
Evolution has come quite far, as they mentioned a protest, to visit city hall!
We finally did concede! We could share this house and land, which we do own.
As Hubby descended the ladder… Yes! He was covered in jubilant gutter frogs.
Then to make things right, we made for each, an adorable wattle and stick home.
Attaching them along the top, of the gutters, that they could now, play upon.
The gutter frogs agreed to keep the gutters clean, in return, we will let them be.
The moral is: No matter who is right! We can live together, if we only try, you see!
Written by CSEastman 12-18-2013
In Contest for Honerable Mention
Ever have one of those days
where you just have to get away
from the daily work grind...
where you can just kick back,
relax a little,
and finally unwind,
tomorrow is that day for me
because I took a personal day,
where I'm going to sleep in till noon,
wake up and shower and dress
and watch a little television
if I'm in the mood,
then eat a leisurely lunch
with a lot of crunch,
and savor every bite,
afterwards have a nice dessert,
like some sherbet,
that'll really hit the spot,
then drive to my appt. in town
and get massaged by a masseuse,
go get a manicure and a pedicure,
shop for a new dress,
and go get my hair done by my hair stylist,
later at home check my e-mail
and see whats on the soup,
laugh at some of the funny poems
because they can be so humorous,
read some of the serious ones,
and feel the corners of my mouth suddenly droop,
then after that I'll maybe take a walk
and stroll around the park,
but by then it'll probably be getting late
and the dusk will be turning to dark,
so I'll go home to my family,
and I'll say good night
and go retire for the night,
where I'll go into my sanctuary,
change into my pajamas,
watch some t.v.
and turn off the light,
but I know most if this is just a fantasy,
but it really doesn't matter
since I'm not really into all that glamour
why I'm just your average Josephine,
like a lot of folks just trying to stay afloat
by making ends meet,
Because when I look around
there's 1001 chores to be done,
especially the housework,
where I'll be washing dishes,
feeding the cats, dogs and fishes,
cleaning windowsills,
dusting and vacuuming,
mopping floors,
wiping down doors,
doing the laundry,
and shredding some old bills,
But hey, I'd rather get these mundane
chores out of the way on a Friday,
so then on the weekend
I can do what I want
and go out and have a fun day!
Two Aloha-shirted Hawaiians
of generous girth were strumming
their ukuleles
on a small stage in front of the hotel’s poolside bar
in the late afternoon,
rehearsing for the night’s performance.
It must have been the low season,
as both bar and pool were deserted.
and the singer, unburdened
by a leis-laden audience’s
Mai Tai-soaked expectations,
was going through a mele
as if trying it on for size,
his voice loose-limbed with an easy grace.
Wrapped in the ukuleles' lolling strains,
his falsetto notes tumbled out into an
uncongested airspace,
where no ceiling formed by small talk, disjointed laughter
or tinkling glasses impeded their progress,
so they unfurled their wings,
lifted themselves into the hibiscus-brushed breeze,
and climbed,
hopscotching and frolicking on their ascent,
skipping from Tiki torch to treetop to balcony.
Some straggled, loitered on windowsills.
Some, afraid of heights, fluttered back down
to rest on top of beach umbrellas
next to shadows of palm fronds.
Still others hang-glided out over the sand
and the lapis water,
lured by the marigold light.
So that, when they alighted on my
hotel room balcony ten floors above,
they were fragments,
excerpted by the intervening air
from the upflowing cascade into
a broken yet voluptuous murmur,
a soft, lilting South Seas benediction
floating around my head.
I’d just sat down in the balcony chair, alone,
my wife being inside the room busying herself
with the correct placement of luggage
after we’d checked in.
And so it was that I found myself looking out
at the beginnings of a sky-painting Maui sunset
accompanied by air that quietly sang.
Maybe it was my senses unwinding
after the bustle of the journey,
or maybe it was simply that I was caught unawares,
but the feeling of contentment,
the almost Zen-like awareness of the here and now,
that overcame me at that moment was something
no convergence of sights and sounds
has been able to reproduce in the 20 years since.
It was, to be sure, an experience I’d paid more than
a negligible amount of money for.
The irony is that it was the first time
I truly understood the simplicity of happiness.
Mahalo.
I say; Happy Birthday, to you today.
To someone special, in a loving way.
I dedicate this song to you.
And give my thanks, for all the time you shared.
I'll send a bouquet of flowers too.
Something special, while in love with you.
Petunias, Roses, maybe Daffodils.
Something special for the windowsills.
I say; Happy Birthday, to you today.
To someone special, in a loving way.
I dedicate this song to you.
And give my thanks, for all the time you shared.
I'll ice the cake, and bring the candles too.
Something special, from me to you..
I'll bring a carload of friends along.
Everybody will just join the fun.
We'll light the candles.
You can blow them out.
Everybody will just scream and shout.
And say; Happy Birthday, to you today.
To someone special, in a loving way......
Birthday Song By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 1989,2014..
ALL rights reserved..
Well I could write endlessly about Frankie my cute English bulldog,
But when it comes to being a good watchdog, she’s closer to a log.
I do however have a pet that notifies us if someone is approaching,
She has taken it upon herself to do this faithfully without any coaching.
Her name is Molly and she is a watch-bird, my fearless cockatiel,
She performs this amazing task with confidence and great zeal.
Her elegant grey head feathers stand tall signifying she’s alert,
She perches stoically on the frig, her notification ready to assert.
Living in the countryside, a security system is needed, or so I feel,
When people come to the house, Molly lets out the loudest squeal.
A different chirp for each family member, my daughter gets a loud burst,
My son on the other hand gets loud staccato chirps, they’re the worst.
Molly spends most of her time out of her cage when someone is at home,
She surveys the home flying from window to door, monitoring her zone,
Taking her job seriously, she bites if you try to stop or get in her way,
Molly has a job to do, she’s the security alarm, keeping burglars at bay.
So for a little bird seed, you too can get a watch bird that makes lots of noise.
Keep in mind, there are a few downfalls, there’s a lot of things she destroys.
Chewing windowsills, hiding jewelry and pooping where ever she may be,
A bit of a bitchy bird but what a set of lungs, a unique way to increase security.
Written by Lee Ramage
August 30, 2011
For Ryan Jackson’s Contest “Animals on my mind”
I learned from my grandmother
To dry roses in windows
Hung, upside down, from a string-
Maybe because that way
All the red would flow to their head
Like when one does handstands-
Handstands are never something
That I learned how to do
Particularly satisfactorily...
I've always been a bit too-
Off-balance-
I learned from my mother
Not to hang around windows,
That I am not a rose
To be put up to dry...
When you spend so long
Leaning over windowsills,
You can only ever be-
Off-balance-
Scents of burnt embers flowing over my windowsills
Charred are the palm tree fronds that
once fanned the breeze
Seized are the pods, timbers
Torches sparking shrills
Behold the ashes drifting
as they fall from my smoke-sooted skies
O but in b 'tween choking and tearing eyes
Bright orange-colored clouds shade
So fiercely they invade
If you look West…
The 'golden glow’ shall arrive
He who heeds the warning
and flits, may survive
A brush fire has lit the landscape
furiously waves its crimson cape
Tangerine smoke suspended in time
surrounds the hills all around me
congesting the natural scenery
Arousing anxiety, anticipating
the scale of the expansion its spreading
Swirling fire, twirling tornadoes
ravishing existence in its pathway
Flames so blinding that align the sunset
In my field of vision – I’ll never forget
Frightful yet surreal,
I hear myself whisper it’s not real
Nonchalantly, Winds sweep in firestorms
Notorious for its name the ‘Santa Anas’
Lingering, its breath; smoggy haze swarms
The brave battle the blaze, corral the flame
As the hills die, an obstinate inferno resurges
"To extinguish life" its aim
Like the Phoenix rising again and again,
but this isn't the Phoenix
it is something sinister
Guide us along the road to a safe place
Away from the drought,
O home, there is not a trace
Chaos turns on every cornerstone
I’m back where I started, I atone
Circling all areas, as others do —I do
With nowhere to flee vs warnings to eschew
Perhaps I’ll make it to the highway
with westbound caravans I’ll stay
There I’ll keep alive
If you just look to the West…
The ‘Orange glow’ (fire) has arrived!
Finding Presence
Night sky beckoning dawn
Gentle sensations
Early morning walks
Empty avenues
Central Park breezes
Village cobblestone streets
Wet with glistening reflections
Accompany the seeker’s every move
Citified whispers
Discordant choruses
The street cleaner
The sliding steel-front security doors
Excited canines straining leashes
Open casements echoing emphysema-regrets
Merging with the early morning smells and start-up images
City’s reality mix awakening
Conscious-walking shakes loose somnolence
Opening eyes to the gargoyles atop historic landmarks
Their stoic residence mirrored in all-glass surroundings
Urban growth towering over huddling addicts of all types
Weary of sleepless nights
Enjoined by occasional pouting mannequins
Dressing light-starved windows
Poised to portray tourist-trap knockoffs
Rayon for silk
Fantasy for verity
Predatory “going out of business” choices ubiquitous
Shut down shops—beaten
Barely open shops—clinging
Wanderers drifting listlessly
Rising early by guilty conscience
Some prodding their welfare bodies to move
Others fearing unfaithful one-nighters become known
Old widows lean from their tenement windowsills
Having endured another sleepless night of heat
Too poor to leave the city
Too proud to ask of children
Soon
Sunrise bathes the grayness with color
Subway entrances congest
Yellow cabs begin cacophonous warm-ups
Like an orchestra of out-of-tune instruments
Their blasts are met with the inescapable “Taxi!” “Taxi!”
Deli workers spread cream cheese
Warm Bear Claws
Brew bad coffee
Wish their customers “have a good one”
Keeping secure their jobs
For another day
Returning home
Five flight walk up
One’s feet beg relief from the morning roam
A pull on the carton of OJ
A flip-on of the two-burner
The water to boil
A drop into the drug-from-the-dumpster-couch
Chock-Full-Of-Nuts in waiting
Want ads front and center
A few deep breaths
Just another day
Surviving the city
Feverish cleptic safe
Slipped in kept sacred place
Found you near bamboo shoots
Horizon of our youths
Drag this thunder out of me
Wonder
I don't want to be beam
Lay here in peace and piece together sanity
Drink raspberry teas in cafes
and offer seats to the strange
Read books on window sills of open French Windows
Feet dangle above pavements
wind blowing now
I'm free
Smells like pollen
Nostrils flare and I turn away to sneeze
It's still better here
catch a ride to fetch a bagel
I don't remember you
A foggy wet dream
Streams on my pillow
But I lay on dry beds and can't relate
There are no outlines on the wall from when my body slid to catch my breath
I saw you in a daze
I turn back to the sun
and my back to the holograms of man
Waste of time we have been
And I'll never listen to my voice again
Gods of glowing neon and gaudy screens
smile upon charming, charming patterns of heads.
All colors of hair, lit red, then green, then blue,
guided along invisible paths, crown heads
perspiring, chanting and glancing down
on marching, mechanical arms, then worrying
as they scurry along infinite, crisscrossing paths -
at once so ordered and so unfathomably chaotic.
Drums are rolled by hurrying feet
dictating the race of mankind.
A metropolis looms, adorned by a billion shimmering jewels -
electric jewels - and an apparition sways over the
bustle, silently watching, silently floating.
Giant chutes proudly puff out plumes of nightly black
and devils forged in impure fire do rise
to the heavens above, graced by the blessings of
the industrial revolution, in turn blessing humanity with progress,
imperceptible except as phlegmatic gasps
and the whiff of crisp green paper, distinguished by
wizened faces and packed in neat bundles.
Bulbous, aged fingers do trace from within
the sanctum sanctorum of a temple aged a thousand years,
charming, charming patterns of jewels
in intricate, frozen dance, carving out hexagons of perfect symmetry
from wearily cut marble windowsills.
The work of a thousand splendid hands
preserved by the unseen, dusty hands of time
did render the mosque palatial, its beauty heavenly.
The admiring eyes sing hymns praising the architecture, alas
they are blind, for the marble, white as angelic wings, is grey now.
The scientist appears, eyes hidden by thick glassy cubicles
yet shining through, lit by the endless pursuit of knowledge
and equally burdened by numbers, figures, notes
and the maddening myopia of man.
On the screen appears, against fresh white
charming, charming patterns of red, green and blue
sinking downward, worryingly as it would seem,
his uninflected pleas let in through one ear, instantly
shunted out through the next by the populace, to whom
the music of modernity rings sweeter.
First Place, Charming Patterns Poetry Contest
Date: 16th October 2021