Long Window Poems
Long Window Poems. Below are the most popular long Window by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Window poems by poem length and keyword.
Through her window,she could see nothing in the clear blue sky.
Its deep colour was reflected in the calm waters
Of the estuary which spread out in the distance.
Even the normal busy shipping traffic
Seemed to have been lulled to sleep this hot summer afternoon.
There would usually be the sound of ships' horns
Out in the Elbe as they signalled for the lock gates to open.
Water was calm, sky was calm.
It felt to Petra that she was looking at a painting where nothing
Was really alive but only replicated in oilpaint.
The ever-growing buzz in the sky was the only indication that the scene was real.
Others had heard the sound as well.
Like hundreds of bees, but these had a special sting
The temperature was high and it was very dry
There had been no rain for some time. Now there was a rain of bombs.
Petra saw the explosions through her window before she heard them
In the distance as the skyful of B17 s unloaded their cargoes.
Petra and her little sister were terrified, struck immobile in fright.
Their window bellied in like a giant glass balloon suddenly over-inflated,
And jagged, face-ripping shards of glass snarled across the hall
And embedded themselves in the cushions of the sofa.
The woolly innards of the cushions spewed out,
Dangling lifeless from the slash-wounds.
Luckily the girls were not cut.
Suddenly, the whole area became one big fire
With air being sucked in with the force of a storm.
Fires joined together, temperatures rose to melting lead,
Wind speed picked up to hurricane levels,
Trees were hurled into the flames, furniture, cars, even people hurled in.
Fire trucks unable to get through roads blocked by rubble.
Dying by carbon monoxide poisoning
When all the air was drawn out of their basement shelters,
The shelters were filled, but few people were really alive.
And then it was over. As the exploding fireballs gradually died away,
The drone and throb of the buzzing B17s faded off
To the blue sky of the east, to torment some other part of the city.
Walls crashed to the ground, gas lines exploded, people cried and screamed,
The girls shook with terror, but the B17s had gone.
History called it 28 July 1943 - Hamburg firestorm.
Petra always called it Day of the Bees.
.. .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Entered in Debbie Guzzi's Contest Hot Time Summer in the City
Glass shattered Saturday afternoon tea for S I L E N C E
holding steady raven momentum for its own r i p p i n g
fire from heartbeat slashes its void to tumble wounds of
wisdom weeping slow dirty tears of biting burns inserting
into wordless flesh of waiting before window panes were
smashed with stone docile ornaments, rampant afternoon
unvoiced holding a blank white canvas for dripping
bookshelves tumbled, poems torn to sheds, laundry strewn
with glass splinters as lead, aphonics slithering into dried out
stewpot waiting for maniacal tsunami to cremate emotions
tweezer them from dna soiled in possessive prisons ridiculed
Divinity spoke in all pervasive silence on testing timeline taut
holding breath to His nostrils imbibing a billion frequencies
I chose to brave open His serene lips for unutterable L O V E
lashes He crafted brushed breathy implicits with assent
for missions of courage traversed embracing solitude
observed in stillness whilst across eerie forest moss
carpets I deciphered “They Don’t Care about Us”
hush self wears a daisy cloak from heavenly dew fields
luminosity unzips not as lies hop chaotic across
spiderwebs it can chameleon transmute into gentle
streams to soothe that which hides for right timing
~ first bud of white rose birthing delicacy or benign
waters over pebble backdrop quietude
biscuit baker feeds jealousy, deceit, shame, guilt, indecision
escapism ~ swampy keys of stagnant quagmires will too utter
her heart’s eclipsed light breaking egoic invisibility as
softly I breathe her shadowed taciturn s t e a l t h
quiet petaling garment breaks open blackout mission
regurgitating quantum memories incubated in beckoning cell
fertility for decades perhaps centuries, marching crusades of
soul conquering ancient lands, majestic mountains, raucous
seas, ports, yellow spices, when women with babes gagged
anguished longing for men to taste their honey in serenity
hot crusted bread speaking truths of labouring backs bent
cows chewing cherrywood cuds ~ what could be a more
knowing t r a n q u i l i t y ?
now wafered soundlessness is lamb yet diamond piercing
raw, a lark offers sotto tones as harmony cupped in two
musing wings to ascend where it can quintessentially
quiver, hover in expectant repose for another silent mission
Glowing days that were once red-cheeked and ripe with promise,
Are narrowing like tall candles in a church window,
Tapering from the golden stand and the sturdy base,
To the glorious flame and the ever fading light.
The final birth of dreams that was once distant and cold,
Is now close, closer, ever closer.
The imminent darkened clouds of doubt, that haunt the wise,
Are now gathering close to form a ghostly shadow,
That will create a vast tempest, in a quiet place,
And a mighty torrent that will quench the firelight.
Unyielding waves of fear that are rising in the old,
Are now near, nearer, ever nearer.
To have once coveted the blue from the autumn sky,
Embraced the fallen leaves of a giant maple tree,
To have jumped into water without wondering why,
Leaped joyfully in the warm sand near the emerald sea.
Having playfully chased off the petulant sea gulls,
Broken twigs to build a fire against night’s attack,
Held tight in your strong hands the soft feathers of eagles,
And kissed a beautiful girl on the nape of the neck.
To have laughed at the tetchy clock ticking in the hall,
And smoked each distressing regret like a cigarette,
Knowing it would certainly give cancer of the soul,
The narrowing compels the pining heart to forget.
When forced to consent to the lessening of a day,
And to accept the waning of a moonlit heaven,
To wonder if the path taken was the only way,
Is to live in mortal fear inside a peaceful den.
To be ordered to find gratitude in the calming,
And to find a moments peace in the resignation,
Is not the purpose of the dancing and singing,
This game is but a trial of the imagination,
God has left the beautiful forest unattended,
There is no lesson, design or celestial rule,
To search for meaning is to invite eternal dread,
It takes a saddened, embittered mind to be that cruel.
An elegance can be found in the narrowing,
As memories line together like a pearl necklace,
And clouded moments vanish and amount to nothing,
And all are gently buried with red velvet and lace.
Love the narrowing, set in a purposeless blue sky,
Not because winter nights have become less frightening,
Or the smoldering summer days have now lost their sting,
But as there is no truth in the trumpet or the drum,
It is just a walk among the flowers of freedom.
And a laughing stroll through the narrowing of wisdom.
What was missing in my life?
You!
I lived many years without you,
not knowing what I was missing.
One day a surprise came to us
at an unexpected late- in- life date,
it was a baby boy.
He smiled at us with blue eyes
and bald little head,
and we were complete.
I treasured the cuddly feel of you,
fitting into my arms so well,
your weight seemed just right,
to pack you around every day,
even as you grew and grew.
You added an element to my life
that had been missing.
I now learned to slow down,
stop at playgrounds, push your swing
and sit in the one next to yours,
leaning back, looking up into
the crowns of swaying trees.
Taking walks, delighting in gathering fallen
red maple leaves, watching bugs
and birds.
Frogs and crawdads appeared in our bathtub,
I emptied your pockets while doing the wash
of rocks, seashells, dried katidid shells,
sticks and marbles.
I learned that stepping on jacks
at night while going to the bathroom hurts.
On your first fishing trip you accidently hooked a duck
and cried because you thought you hurt it.
I already knew of your compassionate heart.
You and I laughed and cried watching " Free Willy,"
"The fox and the hound" and "Alladin."
You brought joy to my life.
I learned that it is exciting to watch you play soccer,
I cheered and hooted and watched from the bleechers,
while you ran your little heart out,
I watched for signs of your asthma acting up,
but luckily you seem to outrun it.
On the first Halloween you were a little
smiling pumpkin that I pushed in the stroller,
but soon you were running with your buddies,
dragging a pillow case filled with candy,
and I had to scurry to keep up with you.
On your first day of school I was nervous,
I had to leave you with strangers.
Several of us Moms were hanging around the hallway
peeping into the door's little window,
until they made us leave.
Then came field trips, help with homework,
I was "room mother" to be near you and help,
and visited you in the cafeteria at lunchtime
on "Parent's day."
Suddenly, you are taller that me!
The braces came off, and you have a summer job,
and you are very good with it, I am proud of you.
You now have a Highschool Diploma and
are getting your driver's licence,
but you will always be my little boy,
and I will love you forever.
Love, Mom
Ask the fingers holding
an aloof pen.
Ask, where its passion has gone,
ambition has fled.
The fingers will be still.
How...
the empty eyes will look
at the pale pages
yoked with numbers in black...
Then,
just observe...
how a curve widens on the face
as they gaze out of the window...
The far...the farthest!
Fast, it dies out.
A swarm of feelings from the heart's cavern,
pick up their last daring flight,
to die at last
of thirst
of love...
These eyes will never dream.
Words will never be welcome.
One day they will be dumb as stars,
And grey as time.
They'll give up the race,
race to superiority.
Cold the heart as ever,
will sleep in a colder body.
Frozen as dreams they were,
will leave the turbid eyes.
Will leave,
for the worms to delight
in a body so baked in plight!
And Time?
Will it mourn or joy?
That it could not find
the fragrance of a budding mind
before it too was damned.
Lost forever
in its quicksand...
I was a successful, fashionable florist, in mild green days of elegant gardens,
When an orange sun beamed its pleasure, like locales where lavender begins.
I formed arrangements for many occasions, drawing beauty lovers from afar,
As pretty planets arrange for a meeting, after wild rumors of the newest star.
And crowded hours were filled with summer, like pearly dews crowd morning,
Until ruby butterflies are playing tag, and gemmed damselflies are swarming.
Friends felt I might always be found, in some area of flush bloom fragrancies,
Like raven midnight's march to daybreak, with its warm, varicolored agencies.
Fond family held festive feasts, in fading hours of sparkly, fuchsia sun falling,
As whippoorwill songs clashed with red robin's, midst magenta stars gawking.
I lived in the house of tangy, saturated noon, when flowers were in full glory,
Like the most beautiful day of a woman's life, when a bride she's come to be.
Scarlet, saffron and other hues glittered, within the soulful sector of summer,
As starlings sang songs along my street, and sun rose and retired, a stunner!
Neighbors were nomadized at times, as honeydew moon nestles in new night,
When visiting me on eves of silk and satin, when fresh June was at its height.
Silver clouds were saddled with summer sun, in suddenly days of sweet rose,
Like grey encumbering smoke from autumn fires, when in plum mists it flows.
Raven noon was in green treetops, as the inarticulate ravens were squawking,
And fading time seemed to stand still, but ephemeral moments kept walking.
One day I woke to a gorgeous view from my window, daisies pink and yellow,
In the wide field right next to my house, glowing in the rich, sunshine mellow!
It put such a smile on my face, oh my! Like flocks of pretty blue jays going by,
And I kept seeing daisies everywhere I went, like a pearlescent moon on high!
I beheld African daisies and shasta, and pom pom-like chrysanthemum ones;
Along with fine lustrous gerberas, in all colors found, in wild green kingdoms.
I wondered at my strange, good fortune, in seeing beloved blooms anywhere;
Like the young, butterscotch days when Mother said, 'We're going to the fair!'
For awhile, I saw sweet daisies by day, and it seems I dreamt daisies at night;
Like a brief mystic spell of rapture, when hidden beauty's freed from its plight.
I stayed awake all night listening to the sounds fighting with the night and battle raging in the street erupting my heart beat, one bad news after the other the body lie waiting in the gutter and the morning crowd kept walking on without a music or a song, and I said to myself what on earth is going on?
It is the question you usually hear when the dogs’ barks late at nights and the stars over your head are shining brightly and hope looks at you from the window. You cannot read it; you cannot understand it and you cannot deny it.
It looks like a pecan pie rolling sitting on the table with shoes and hat getting ready to connect the dot and the man in the dressing room is walking with a gun strapped to his side and a beach ball bouncing in front of him.
I am still wrestling with this heavy feeling inside it is not pain or any form of physical aliment, it is the environment and its occupants that is sucking the raw energy out of me and the urgency to tell a prolific story. I can’t tell it alone; I have to tell it in a night gown with incandescent lights around my bed and a bulletproof roof over my head. When the tension fades and morning weight subsides, we will write this story together and it will serve for the next century.
The temperature is rising and the squirrels are coming out of the ground they have fist like man and sand to cover the entire land. They are running up and down the streets trying to escape the beguiling heat but the sun creates a simple track and mercy is holding on to the rock with the pipers and the minstrel playing a merry tune
It is not the rhythm that you usually hear or the one that is saturated in the atmosphere, it is not the sound of death that is running the marathon around the track, it is the formula that you dig out of ice and the jewel that is sold at a very high price, it is the type of rhythm that make me feel nice. For one moment the cluttered space around me evaporate in thin air.
The window is wide open in my face and I can see everyone that entered the race, they are still walking under heavy burden covering grounds and surveying the town, and looking for substance all around but just before 2:00pm the ship will dock in the harbor and you will have fine spices and tea for th rest of your life; the window is open wide and I can see you standing in awe gallivanting with your new bride.
She said that this man, my grandfather,
held her head under the black pool water,
while up above, a German man leaned
out of his window, against the moss and brick
to scream violently: "Don't hurt that woman!
She is the most beautiful woman in the world!"
The tone of the man's voice, authoritative, cold
broke my grandfather's concentration and he
let her bob up to the surface, coughing, sputtering
in an almost drowned manner, while still maintaining a beauty uncommon to humans, as she stole a quick glance
to the heavens of heavens to acknowledge the saving
power of a stranger.
This is her story today, as she sits on three moth-eaten,
velvet pillows to make her tall enough to reach the kitchen table.
She has shrunk in her old age and is no longer "the most beautiful woman
in the world".
She sips her black coffee out of Russian demitasse cups with diamond emblems
until she reaches the grinds which have slept in warmth on the bottom,
to fool her, she thinks.
She nibbles her white toast with butter and honey and shivers in the air conditioning as royalty should.
When she has filled the remaining ten percent of her stomach (the other ninety percent was removed from the worry
of ulcers when technology was in it's infant stage), she continues her story.
It lasts all afternoon and twists and winds around the basic sub-plot that, somehow, her beauty and dignity was
acknowledged in the worst circumstances, and, with her infinite wisdom, the world was made a better place.
Her voice soaks into the wooden cabinets, and will remind me forever of strong, fresh-brewed coffee, and I think,
right at that moment as I look at my hands (which I know will resemble hers one day), that I miss my grandfather.
The most gentle man in the world, whose thoughts never amounted to more than wanting to garden well, or shape
the perfect pizza in his pizza shop.
This man, who set chairs on tables to clear the floor before he danced in pure Zorba the Greek manner, with a glint in
his innocent eyes.
This man, who looked at this woman, this fabricating, self-absorbed, once beautiful woman, with an adoration never
deserved.
I clean up the dishes, while still listening, and kiss her good bye on her forehead.
Jittery from stories caffeinated and old, I chose to walk the long way home, lightening my mood and shedding her
words along the way.
On the Twenty Fifth, December Night,
Black Skies Sparkle with bright light!
Church Bells ring,Ding!Dong!Ding!
Chores of angels ,start to sing!
Merry Christmas!Everyone!
Happy Birthday,Jesus Son.
We rejoice in prayer and joy,
as We thank this New Born Boy,
He is Born for You and Me,
from Our darkness ,sets us free.
Christmas time,a time for Friends,
Tender Hugs and shaking Hands.
Red Holllies in Window Sills,
Deers and sleighs,Over the Hills.
Cheery music in the streets,
Christmas time,a time for peace,
Neighbours sharing Merry greets,
robin's nest, safely in trees..
Its a time we give Our best,
thinking more about the rest,
Christmas Cards,a Christmas Gift,
Its Our time,to give and give!!
Christmas Spirit,Home sweet Home,
A star twinkling ,on each Dome.
Lots of toys, For Homeless Kids,
Stories told and ancient myths.
Brindisi ! a toast! Saluting with a kiss,
Warm mulled wine,We never miss..
French Beres,Red coats to dress,
in their tails,Men, look their best.
Decorating Christmas trees,
altogether,Families!
Phone calls ,far across the miles,
Happy Cries and lovely smiles.
Stocking with little surprise,
Before New Dawn,wake and rise.
Five course lunch, For Everyone,
Turkey roasted,just well done.
Aunties,Cousins ,join together,
On this Christmas ,Winter Weather.
At four tea,a Christmas Bun!
Crowd in Chit Chat,having Fun.
Grandma ,bakes ,a Christmas Cake
Snowballs,Mince Pies and Fig Dates.
I prepare ten christmas logs,
Cherries,Nuts,Whisky and Chocs,
Yummie Candies,so delicious,
Forget all which is nutritiuos..
Little Crib in every House,
Grandpa dress as Santa Clause,
Presents,granting many wishes,
Christmas Day, so very precious.
Missletoe and Gleaming eyes,
Christmas Carols,Christma Rhymes.
Cosy Eve,Burning Flames of Fire place,
Spicy wood and Indoor games.
Long Processions in the Streets,
all the Door Knobs Hold Gold Wreaths.
Candle lights in Children's hands,
Miss Christmas and Snow men Dance!
All the Nations holding Hands,
War Is Over,Still a Chance!
Many Blessings On Our Lands,
Merry Christmas Super Friends..
Merry Christmas Everyone,
Welcome Home,Enjoy the Fun! :)
(Inspired by Caroline Devonshire)
(Welcome in my picture of Christmas Landia)
Charma
Morning has broken as it has done for many years
Day to day we continue without the fear of fears
Then out of the blue their comes thoughts from long ago
Prophecies of a past, that could halt us humans flow
Tablets scribed in gold, have been uncovered in Peru
For in them they tell of the future, surrounding me and you
We await with fervour in the media, the radio and the t.v.
As I try to get my head around it, and what it means to me
The day that they speak of, it's a little over a year
Do we just laugh if off, or do the sensible in us fear
As I drive through my city, towards this impending day
The street corners start to fill, does panic have it's say
Speakers start to recite, of this doom that welcomes we
I see suicides in escalation, jumpers in front off me
Families leave their homes, for they no not where to go
Panic buying surrounds me, anarchy appears to flow
We now reach December 2012, as we gain on the scribed day
Can it be all that was written, have the ancient had their say
My eyes catch the clock, midnight is awaiting it's strike
It'll be the twenty first of December, are the Mayan scribes right
The minutes pass the hour, everything appears to be normal
Maybe the writes are fables, to them simply formal
To pacify myself, will it be the radio or the t.v.
Sometimes one has to ask oneself, to simply look and see
Visions on the screen appear, many screens my eyes do view
Reports from many countries are brought to me and you
They show events of nature, more fierce than naturally so
Rainfall in arid areas, deserts in metres off snow
The Polar ice caps start cracking, exploding ice in crying break
Mudslides now carry cities, everything caught in their wake
Bangladesh now no longer exists, the Maldives have disappeared
The Mariana Trench now starts to rise, her ridges in rampant rear
A bulletin catches my ears, Yellowstone has started to erupt
Is this what the scribes have warned of, our planet being so abrupt
A rumbling I start to feel, where I stand I feel I move
I'm in tumble across my floor, in fear of their impending prove
My apartment on the only hill, allows through my window to view
A giant fissure slices through my city, for into it, buildings spew
The free ways now broken and torn, many cars in tumbledown
From here I hear the screaming voices, I'm deafened by their drown
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-20.php