Long Panes Poems
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It stands alone four square, white-washed straw-thatched,
small window panes, black frames, and out back chickens hatched,
pecking weedy ground around a single willow.
Set just a little back from single country lane,
high-hedged between the farms with tracks for bumpy tractor rides,
strong arms to try and guide wobble wheels on hardened sun-dry ruts,
to draw trailored dung across winter's dark and muddy fields.
Father's fingers, numb with frost by hand-picked sprouts,
with dawn's dim light not yet bright enough to warm his back.
And hundred weights of summer grain on neck and shoulder,
staggered through barn doors to store, to tip hessian sacks piled high,
sack upon sack.
My mother, crushed and bruised at milking stall,
squeezing squirting teats to fill the milking pale,
to complete them all before mucking out the dung and straw,
then moving on to something more which bends the back
and rubs sodden foot sore in chilled hoof-trodden boot.
This was no Eden's garden which followed war enough to harden
even softer souls.
Yet, it was a paradise for smaller feet to roam free among the fields,
not caring when to make for home and sup on sprouts that dad had picked
and mum had peeled, and soft cooked, with such hard labour,
all overlooked by youth, and by youth's youthful ignorance.
For some, certainly for dad, and for mum,
Eden's garden gave way to thistle and to thorn,
and to sweated furrowed brows serving children's carefree days,
and precious hopes for first and second son.
These rode upon the carts and crossed the dykes in leaky barrels
and threw their stones at tethered bull not caring for the weather,
whether fine, or whether dull, or whether small gloved fingers numbed with chill.
For them that Eden's garden was a Paradise still,
and though choking staining seed was sown, it was not yet grown,
and eyes not yet exposed to serpent's smaller gardens,
composed for ever younger eyes, for the tainting and enslaving of ever younger lives.
That wiley snake now lurks and lies inside dark orchards of delight,
a world explored unseen from pillowed comfort,
and sometimes in the darker night with a different sky blue light,
that Eden web now known world wide, that Eden made with fallen pride,
that Eden oft obscene, that Eden all of lies, that lies behind the pixel screen.
The beauty of lies.
Darling tell me lies tell them gently
Lies are so much softer than the cruel truth
that leaves behind the cold taste of winter storms
demanding the truth, we rather forget about it.
You slept with a man two days ago, I have been told.
if it was a sudden fling,
we can laugh about it and for a good meal.
However, if you tell me, you have been seeing him behind
my back for many months, I will see it as a betrayal.
I will not condemn you, but you will be ignored, for all time
I will never speak to you again.
While I walk the streets, and crying roof panes,
wondering why I had done to let you down.
The hot days of summer slowly fade away
Autumn takes over with blustery showers
tinted with some warm days others cold
still it creeps on causing leaves to curl up.
Vivid colours of browns, yellows and reds
drift down carpeting the land with piles
that hides insects ready 'to escape the cold,
land's chill and we know Jack Frost waits
He waits in the wings full of much mischief
but still is not quite time for his appearance
Autumn is not yet quite ready to stand aside
with final breath she blows, then steps away.
Leaving winter to take his place with chills
running down spines with freezing fingers
A light sprinkling of snow a warning sign
and Jack Frost steps out with great glee
He whips up a bitter wind leaving trails
in the snow, finger prints on window panes
So we snuggle close to a big roaring fire
and start longing for the arrival of spring
Magnificent Willow stands in silent prayer,
calm and composed,
so does the unruffled Evergreen,
stretching its arms in thankfulness,
decked with shimmering snow-pellets,
gleaming and glistening as the countless stars are,
in the absolute harmony of the magnanimous cosmos
Majestic jewellery adorned.
It's Christmas!
symbolizing the spirit of kindness, love, compassion, joy...
I glimpse through the hazy window-panes,
world around me dazzling with shiny snow,
reminiscences of many delightful Christmas days
roll through my thoughts,
an open album of heartfelt memories!
Of boxes, ribbons, and golden bows,
sprinkles, silver bells, and cookies...
of family rejoicing together...
of extending generous support to the needy.
A tranquil, serene night,
mesmerizing snow, falling uninterrupted, unhindered,
envelop the entire universe around me.
I ponder my life of multi-coloured hues,
in every snowflake I behold,
the inspiring dreams, the fervent hopes,
the intense ebullience -
for ever crystallized.
A Strand - 1046 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE
dodoitsu series (rhymed)
Winter is taking the reins
speeding past days of autumn -
Jack Frost smears the windowpanes
forefingers and thumb.
You who have no house to own,
too proud to seek charity,
you choose your path all alone
that’s a guarantee.
Your attic room, where risks run
rowdy as the eastern winds,
barren refuge while you shun
warmer help from friends.
Churches serve a daily meal
without impugning censure,
Would a shelter prove to shield
Christian adventure?
God casts no smears. You must know
you are short more than your needs.
God produces once you show
you will plant His seeds.
Twixt four fingers and your thumb
winnow pangs of laziness.
Earn warm lodging ere autumn’s
freeze spawns haziness.
for Elly Wouterse's contest 3 Proverbs and a Quote
For my series of didactic "germane" dodoitsu, I chose three German proverbs, being influenced much in my life by my German grandmother.
-A poor person isn't he who has little, but he who needs a lot.
--Charity sees the need not the cause.
---God gives, but man must open his hand.
My quote from an international celebrity is from German poet, Rainer Maria Rilke -
“Whoever has no house now, will never have one. Whoever is alone will stay alone,” is from his poem, “Autumn Day”, translated by Stephen Mitchell.
https://audiopoetry.wordpress.com/category/poet/rainer-maria-rilke/
For word play:
“the four fingers and your thumb”, and “winnow pangs” of verse 5(6) play off of
“Jack Frost’s forefingers and thumb” and "window panes" of verse 1.
Word with two meanings:
Verse 1 – smear – v. to wipe or daub
Verse 4 (5) – smear – n. a slur or insult
double meaning proverb
A poor person isn't he who has little, but he who needs a lot.
poor person can mean poverty-stricken or a
poor person can be incompetent, inept
I used the normal 7, 7, 7, 5 syllable pattern of a dodoitsu but rhymed it ABAB. I really needed 24 lines to complete my thoughts, but I dutifully cut it back to 20 lines, adding it back in italics after contest was judged. Expanding on Rilke’s “Autumn Day” title, I took a different turn from his prayerful, more positive piece.
Panes of dirty glass conceal the past
where futures were tied to land and soil.
And pa fingers a hand full of dirt
reflecting on years of pain and toil.
A rusty sun bronzes a foil star
ma hung in the window for good luck.
And a small candle awaits a match
to defend against the dark when struck.
Hunger gnaws at our empty stomachs,
everything we plant is doomed to die.
And yet, ma slips me and pa a smile,
showing us where her loyalties lie.
Looking up to a burnt almond sky,
she searches for clouds other than dust.
And scans for life in neighboring homes
long ago left to decay and rust.
Abandoning a dream lost to time,
ma loses hope and accepts defeat.
And I can see the pain in pa's eyes,
the trickling tears mocking his conceit.
California calls in shades of green,
with lush pastures and clear mountain streams.
And common sense says that we must move
far from this dust bowl of dying dreams.
(Quatrain)
9/23/2017
Outside my window there is a tree that stands alone.
In the distance there are towering pines but no tree
is near to this one. It stands wild and untended
with thin branches intertwined in a jumbled mesh
of aged and fragile limbs. It is a favorite gathering place
for sparrows. Great groups swarm to its many cross-stitched branches.
Their chattering excitement like a noisy children’s playground
with gossiping voices that travel through the panes of my front window.
They love this tree. They tell the world through song.
Without complaint the tree stands patient. For thirty-seven seasons
I have given it little notice showing even less care for its welfare.
This January has been mild. Yesterday we had a brief shower.
The bare branches of the old tree were dripping with rain.
Its boughs drooped with the weight of heavy drops.
Later, the warm sun came from the south and shone through
each droplet hanging, reflecting sunlight to my eyes.
Each raindrop became a tiny light upon the tree
covering it with thousands of faux Christmas lights.
They shone more brilliant than the nighttime stars in heaven.
And then a miracle happened. A small breeze arose, as if on cue.
Not enough to shake the droplets loose, but just enough
to make them shimmer. The sunlight was then reflected
with a swaying motion, light to shadow, to and fro.
It was breathtaking! Thousands of naturally twinkling lights
on an ordinary, turned extraordinary, tree.
A thought arose within my mind:
“All things in life must have their moment”
I felt humbled and amazed to share this moment with this tree,
Who was I to share a gift so rare. Eyes tearing up, I stood
staring in awe at the most beautiful tree in the world,
right outside my window, where it had always been.
The clouds begin to grieve as the light veils
Leaves descend paths in a radiant race
Only the trees in the forest now dwell
Raindrops blast pain upon mugs without grace
Minds in a tragic war with expired life
Dreaming of a rose-petal sweet sight
Storms blowing branches in their wretched strife
There aren't rose rays to fly kids' merry kites
The cordial wildlife no longer entices
Wee paws press panes desiring glimmer hype
Nada rambling, eyes warped in devices
Blood pressure rises and debris swims windpipe
Autumn, the season when spirits are torn
Lost in the grey union of dusk and dawn.
A rainy afternoon
==================
I Woke up from the afternoon nap ,
upset by the rumbling sounds of thunderbolts,
The turbulent wind was striking at the window panes with big jolts.
The lightening flashed as brightly as ever,
Beguiled by the exotic scenery, I grabbed the moments to savor.
My desire to lie on the bed vanished in seconds,
It was so amazing to gaze at the cloudy sky that beckons.
I gotta thank mother nature for her blissful act,
When the cloudbursts descended with a strong impact.
Raindrops were falling on my rooftop ,
as the heavy rains unleashed with no sign to stop.
I felt euphoric viewing the bizarre spectacle of incessant rain,
and rushed to the garden to dance again and again.
My thoughts flashed back to the childhood days,
I was a lively kid jumping in rain always.
I wish I would run back to those moments once more,
Though I am deluded, and unable to restore .
copyright @Tej.Patnaik
A View From My Window
Perched high above the tree line
A lofty place to be,
A birds-eye view of roof tops
And smoking chimney's.
Rising higher than the eye can see,
Spiral rings take flight,
Riding on the playful wind,
Like string-less kites; vanish out of sight.
A sleepy village awakens
To a blanket of pristine snow,
Gaily glazing abandoned fields,
Where flowers use to grow.
Window panes are frosted
In delicate scalloped lace,
Fences stand like sentinels,
Wearing a bearded face.
Clerical collars band wooden columns,
Whose ledges are built of stone,
And flirtatious flakes, congregate,
A textured pattern all their own.
Eaves, hard line edges,
Now swathed in frothy white,
A creamy marshmallow icing;
An illustrated, storybook delight.
As daylight turns to dusk,
And street lamps begin to glow,
The drifting snow keeps rising,
With peace and calm below.