Long Windowpanes Poems
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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 lines,
slick on high street asphalt,
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 under primer that never hides the past.
The streets run red and white,
paint claimed by hands insistent on marking stone, brick, asphalt—
silence made loud in streaks and drips.
Roundabouts stand proud under fresh layers.
Slash Dulux over despair—
coverage meant to hide, but failing.
Paint bleeds over more than tarmac—
onto takeaway windowpanes, footpaths, shop signs—
a mural of identity, impulse, defiance.
Undercoat logic tries to cover the past,
but no sealant ever lasts.
Brushstroke patriots,
emotion disciples,
armed with rollers like substitute rifles.
The painting’s wrap is hollow,
decorating decline as if it were fate.
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.
Private bleeding edges,
lines never straight.
Revolutions run off into puddles of hate,
mirroring the sky distorted,
clouds stretched, colors 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 asphalt,
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.
It’s in the rows of old oaks
the pothole that was never filled,
the decrepit buildings like time capsules
dark and crumbling, creaking out a song
of far-off secrets, their sagging floors writ with
wood-scars of decades past,
bare feet and spilled lemonade,
pieces of chicken left out for the strays,
quiet evenings curled warm within a hand-sewn quilt
while the crickets and lightning bugs
performed their nightly cabaret just beyond the windowpanes.
It’s in the strained smiles, the folk who settled in,
dug their toenails into the dried earth and stayed put.
Slow, soft-spoken drawls, hugs that squeeze all the truth
from your lungs.
It’s in the same two restaurants,
the same greasy burger, the same
breaded porkchop, the Sunday service,
the ritualistic abuse.
You can cross the county line,
drive on past the swampland and the deer carcasses,
hit the highway pavement and find yourself
far removed from this liminal space.
Chase the skyscrapers and parking garages,
the concrete havens carved out
from the woodland through stubborn sheer will.
It doesn’t matter. There’s always a hollow, a yearning,
this calling back to the inkblot on a withered atlas map,
the lingering sting of sunlight on bare shoulders,
the simple thrill of unloading a clip into a strip-mine bank.
There are wild boars screeching in the forest,
hidden graveyards with finely manicured lawns
though the family line died out years ago.
Even so far away, the sick-sweet perfume of honeysuckles lingers on your tongue.
Come back, the humid wind whispers against the shell of your ear.
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.
The dignitaries are passing through the town in big Limonene and long gowns. They are throwing five hundred dollars bills on the ground and the people are running all around.
Children are running after them and a great big crowd has gathered around the bend, the whispers are getting louder, and the crowd began to swell. Money is scattered all over the street, filling pockets and purse, boxes and cans somebody must have broken the bank.
Listen to the whispers in the street; something is transpiring in the deep, the roosters are crowing, the cows are mooing, and giant tiger is running around the den. The zookeepers are not around, and the cheaters are running all over the town.
They are smashing windowpanes and emptying the stores down the lane, they are running in bushes with bags and buckets and entertainment TV to mount on their walls, how far can they go when destiny have them on the show; the whisperers in the town are going to drown.
See them going back and forth without pants and shirt, they are running around the street with naked bodies and bushes wrapped around their malicious bodies. Some are going back and forth with no place to go.
They are carrying bundles on their head, dragging a cart filled with dead bodies and white sheets draped around it and a mantle sitting on top of it. While men with pickaxes and shovel on their shoulders walk slowly to the cemetery to bury the dead.
The traffic is rumbling around the town, dragging the passengers all around and the heat penetrates the center of the town. The day’s slips away and the cold wind blows violently through the trees sending the birds flying with the mad breeze.
And suddenly everything comes to a standstill and a mocking laughter burns through the earth and the vibration turns over the dirt.
The trees began to shake, and people began to scramble all over the place, the houses are tumbling down to the ground and the bridges have broken into pieces and falls in the sea, weeping and wailing all around and millions of people are buried underneath the ground.
The shaking stop and not a sign of life could be seen except the owl and its rattled dream, the whispers fade away and a new earth was born.
"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.
… scattered jazz,
haunted gnarls of
octupi-night staggering
between semen-splinters of stars
pain-fornicating in
my collective gutter, my disheveled
cells oozing your
black and
softer gold
burning silence
in a heathen writhe between my ears
dancing on the cusp: my dead-zone ecstasy
defiling
corrupting and
seduction-raping the
industry of numbness,
toilet-scream from
between legs: slave of avoidance
whore of denial
death in a vacuum
naught ever happening
until it’s time to drain
blood from the radiator
in the cross-hairs of crucifiction,
copulation of seven-inched nails
click of steel, snap of heels,
tails,
tongues flickering to embrace
the gutters of my cells
reaching for unopened chapters
strewn through sanctified pain,
and I waiting
for your drive through
the brothel of my mind,
forsaken
lashed to the altar,
my anguish screeching
our prayers,
your black, softer
gold annihilated to smoke
ravishing the reek spiraling up
from my nostrils,
your unspeaking
crawl through catacombs
whispering mouldering truths
under my fingernails scraping remembrances
from your hair
caressing cathredrals rent into
matchsticks to prop heaven
apart,
shriven thighs
toxic-anointed sighs,
poison of my ache for
the healing venom
of your eyes,
soothing darts of darkness bathing dead-zone paramids
with the musky
perfume of sorrow and
floundering celebration
dug from primordial pits
by scrabbling fingertips
clutching for a remnant of your heart
wrapped in wonder
around my pulse staggering, ragged edge of jazz
scraping across windowpanes
in a shriek freezing the soul of god
and dried ice
begging to plunge into embers of your blood
lost in my veins
running from room to room
in my house, our house,
teddy bear, knothole yawns and
oven with gaping jaws,
medicine cabinet of numbness,
sobbing pills
ceiling lowered to a stoop,
tatters
patterns
snow-crystals following a trail
through our window into traffic jams of children
cascading out of the chapel – my gutter-cell
longing to be unlocked
by the sound of your voice…
… ressurection in the
octupi-night…
With a wave of the hand
and a wry, twisted smile,
She'll cast you aside
ev'ry once in a while;
And the door is shut quick
without making a sound,
You'll wait for the echoes
of a world tumbling down.
Outside through the rains
on a sunrise of grey,
An old fashioned love
has been fading away;
The frames have been emptied,
there's no chair in the room,
And radios keep playing
those old songs of gloom.
And the Christmas tree lights are flickering low,
Old men on the street walk through the falling snow;
A trickle of life rides on tides of the time,
Washing the mem'ries from the folds of your mind.
Moving to the hallway
under shadows on high,
You recall a day
that has long since passed by;
Was little to remember,
even less to forget,
Still up to this point
you hold on to regret.
The road that you traveled
has drifted from sight,
Yet you pray that the dreams
will return in the night;
You knew a woman
without knowing her name,
More than just cut you loose,
she absolved you of blame.
And the Christmas tree lights are flickering low,
Old men on the street walk through the falling snow.
A trickle of life rides on tides of the time,
Washing the mem’ries from the folds of your mind.
Suddenly there’s daylight
through the far windowpanes,
It lights up the past
and everything that remains;
All the promises made
come from lessons you’ve learned
But you cannot look back
and you'll never return.
Now the door’s pushed ajar,
there are chimes from a clock,
Captains ready the sails
of their ships at the dock;
Fresh breezes are blowing
and soft words have been said,
With a last farewell kiss
she returns to her bed.
Now the Christmas tree lights, they no longer glow,
The old men been moved on by the melting of snow.
The trickle of life is now far from this time,
And so, too, the mem’ries once held in your mind.
Arabic: (Alam) meaning "world" or "universe"
A character of a madman has a role in the play.
Henceforth, the casting was done,
Alam, the madman, to mentor in the acting,
the wanderer in the graveyard area
his folded sleeves hold the world, in fullest.
Throughout days, one might notice
his gesture, in talking, in walking, in waving
The way he solves all those problems in this lowly world
Within just a blink of an eye.
A face, covered with beard and mustache reminds often
The magnificent Karl Marx.
One might wonder if Karl Marx was himself a mad person, or not!
An absent-minded thought like this brings me smile
Through ages, men, way ahead than their time,
Preachers, revolutionists for a greater change
Falsified in their cults of blames of being “mad”,
more or less.
In midst of all this, a pair of fatigued, absent-minded eyes
Wander beyond the sky
faded songs of tragedies, lives.
Turbulent river waves ensure overflowing hypes
Ebb tides,
And Alam , one madman.
With him, I also reach my predestined tears, bursting ones
A drag of memorable gems!
Some of those days, graveyard walls Index finger, boasting higher,
All that loudness in noisy speeches, acted up, yet no lies
Alas! Utterance of these intrepid, bold truth, yet
Abandonment for ages!
Tonu, Muniya, Sundarbans, Black money, Tears of Mountains
How all those synagogues and worship places
are burning into ashes for race and class
Cities are burning down,
Neighborhoods, Maps, Palestine, Brussels, Paris
Angry fire of greed is burning down countries
Alleys and unknown cities.
Men are getting killed in broad daylight
With his proud civilization.
A saddened soul, I, return to my window
The tree branch, on the other side of windowpanes
greets my forehead, with its shadow, gently
And I simply wonder,
Everyone is acting quite fine these days
except
the one and only, Alam , the madman.
October 14, 2022
Tribute: This is an effort of a translation of a poem of poet Ehsan Nazim
In the soft glow of December’s muted light,
you gather around the table, memories swirling,
not as bright as they once shimmered in your youth,
but still, they echo—a chorus of laughter fading.
You were wild then, careless as the falling snowflakes,
dancing into the arms of midnight, oblivious to time,
each heartbeat counting the minutes under star-drenched skies,
but now, those moments feel like ghosts, haunting the air.
You aren’t sixteen anymore, and the world has shifted,
like heavy drapes drawn tight against the winter chill,
where mischief once bloomed like daffodils in springtime,
now responsibility gathers like dust in the corners.
Look at how the frost etches lace on the windowpanes,
a delicate reminder of seasons that have passed,
while you sift through fragments of who you were,
and wonder if youth was merely an illusion, a dream.
In the hum of the kitchen, the kettle’s gentle whistle,
you hear the whispers of teenagers, restless and bold,
their laughter rings out, a vibrant song of the present,
yet your heart lingers on the edge of what was, what could have been.
You think of those bright-eyed afternoons filled with promise,
the clang of a high school locker, the rush of first love,
the reckless abandon of tossing caution to the wind,
yet now, those echoes are muted, a bittersweet reflection.
You’ve traded late-night exploits for quiet reflections,
stepping over the threshold of adulthood with grace,
but every now and then, a spark ignites inside,
a longing, a flicker of who you once dared to be.
As you watch the snow blanket the world in white,
you realize December holds more than just loss;
it cradles possibility, a chance to reflect and grow,
to weave the threads of past and present into a tapestry.
So let the seasons change, let time flow like a river,
for though you are no longer sixteen, you are more—
a mosaic of laughter, pain, wisdom, and strength,
and in this moment, you stand, alive in all your layers.
t a p
tip tap
p l i n k
the first drops
come dancing
across tin roofs,
windowpanes,
wide leaves,
bare skin—
tapping out
their quiet
language
on everything
we forgot
to feel.
the wind
turns the sky
into a drum
and each raindrop
a fingertip
playing jazz
on the glass
of the world.
they leap from gutters
swirl in sidewalk puddles
splash laughter on parked cars
and pirouette off petals
like ballerinas
practicing joy.
some fall
straight,
obedient to gravity
but others—rebels—
bounce,
skip,
twist,
spin.
they don’t fall.
they dance.
and every drop
carries a secret rhythm,
a soft choreography
of chaos and calm—
a memory of oceans,
a kiss of cloud-breath,
the sigh of sky.
listen—
not just with ears,
but with skin,
with soles of feet,
with the space
behind your eyes.
the rain is not noise;
it is message.
not a storm;
a ceremony.
and when you step out
into its music,
don’t run.
don’t hide.
just lift your face,
and dance.
let the world
drip
drip
drip
away—
and become
the rhythm
of rain.