Long Windowsill Poems
Long Windowsill Poems. Below are the most popular long Windowsill by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Windowsill poems by poem length and keyword.
birds gather at the feeder, hovering,
near the sunflower seeds,
tap, tap, tap against the windowsill,
where a feeder is attached,
filled by hopeful hearts who linger,
at the window,
relishing the wonder of these flying whispers,
sighing in the distance, and laughing
through the mysterious edge of a shadow,
playing melodies on feathered harps,
lingering quietly in the morning,
as light loosens the burden of darkness,
reflecting the gentle in soft hearts,
at the window,
destinies pulsating eagerly,
fraught with yearning,
need to become like the silence,
with its own music, its own notes of praise,
billowing in echoes,
miracles and gestures raining down,
dewlike expressions,
blessing away the past
with all its poison memories,
in tones of blue black feelings,
resonating only the beautiful, so much beauty here!
still, kind moments
blessings poised and waiting,
to fill the spirit
with promises, healing
glowing on the mornings,
embracing the soul with wonderful
sensitive pieces of yesterday,
when life was more honest,
when light shimmered
in the forest of a restful dream,
awakened by the peace,
tones of grace, pure and amazing,
tending to the memories,
tantalizing gifts, unburdened,
by the delicate truths,
naked wonders,
invading the spirit with light,
softly flowing,
glowing on the heart,
stirring up the restful mercies,
so much mercy
in the miracles of the tap, tap, tap,
against melancholic things,
compositions in breaths,
songs of freedom,
songs who last.
birds breath pure, honest prayers,
prayed by their wings,
feathery extensions of praise,
beaks pleading,
praying – praying – peck, peck, peck
tap, tap, tap, joyfully,
pleading for the beautiful,
the hopes and seeds – seeds
meant to be shared,
by stiff beaks,
those who know, in prayers,
humble words,
sweet belief… believing,
to be shared, by the lives who prepare
for beautiful moments
like these,
destinies growing with love,
for trembling testimonies,
praise for the One who is love,
and supplies every need,
without greed – they share,
the endless supply of seeds.
So, you want to buy a gift
for that famous geezer.
First, hear about the midnight shift
of our Ebenezer.
Late at night, he is concerned.
It is December time,
when, it's been confirmed,
good people lose their minds.
Some gristle in his soup
upset his condition.
Now, he is unable to regroup
and sees an apparition.
He peers out the windowsill,
as that stew's injury lingers,
standing so very still
with cold and boney fingers.
A guy intent to pin a rap -
hear him moan and bellow
like a bear caught in a trap,
Marley, that poor fellow.
Once a boy on a country lane,
how did Ebenezer meet this fate?
What happened to his brain,
as he neared heaven's gate?
Why could the Lord not spare
the one good thing in life,
yes, his sister who was kind and fair.
Why cut his heart out with a knife?
Why would I condescend to take a seat?
I would not recoil, but rather retreat,
than hear the mutton's painful bleat
'neath his blade as its heart still beats.
Leave me ghost, blow out your lamp.
I'll not see the moron's laughing face.
as my nephew's knife, the devil's stamp,
another life, it would erase.
No, I'll not see the foolish face
of the boy who took my sister away,
who took her life, and with his replaced,
all on that tragic Christmas day.
The ghost made Ebenezer sit and sigh
as he watched his own body die.
There was no one even there to cry
as a worm crawled out his eye.
You want a gift idea with merit?
Perhaps a greasy goose. I won't bicker.
If there's something you stand to inherit,
a heart attack is indeed quicker,
but for the man staring at his casket,
I recommend a fruit basket.
I sat with my cat on a New York Tower
We got so cold, we had to have a warm shower
Then I sat with her on a cold windowsill in Tennen, Idaho.
There was awful weather, we were slammed by snow
Why don’t you sit on a hot tin roof? My cousin said.
He laughed at this silly idea; he is crazy, old Zed.
We will sit on a warm cold roof in Wisconsin I agreed.
Afterwards we sat in an old oak tree, trembling and treed.
For below was a bear, and he looked angry and mean.
Come on down! Yelled an elf, who was invisible and unseen.
Why don’t you make me? Asked the cat, whom I did not know could talk.
This brought happiness to my heart and made the bear growl and squawk.
The clock, a low and humming, silent thing,
Stands guard upon the desk. The house is still.
A single streak of moonlight seems to bring
A dusty silver to the windowsill.
We lie on separate beds, a silent space
That feels a hundred miles, or none at all.
Two mirrored shapes, with shadows on each face,
Held by the same deep silence of the hall.
KITTY:
(A whisper, barely heard above the hum)
Do you ever feel it? The pull to be
A single person? To be more than some
Reflection you must wear for all to see?
We walk in step. We finish every thought.
I look at you and wonder who I am.
SISSER:
(Her voice, a soft, familiar, quiet sigh)
I do. I feel it every single day.
They look at us and see a single eye,
A singular perfection, come what may.
But in this dark, in this sweet, quiet hour,
I think of us as two small, growing trees,
Whose roots are tangled, sharing sun and power,
But reaching for the light in different leaves.
KITTY:
I had a dream that you were not a twin.
That you just lived a quiet, lonely life.
You didn't need to try so hard to win
Your own small space away from all the strife.
It was so strange. You didn't smile like me.
Your hair was longer. Just a different light.
And I was... I was free. I was just me.
SISSER:
I know that dream. I have that one at night.
But then I wake, and the first thing I see
Is your dear face, the moonlight on your hair.
And in that glance, I'm home. It's hard to be
Just one. But it's so lonely over there.
We're not the same. They just don't understand.
I know the fears inside your heart, my own,
And I will hold them, sister, in my hand.
You're never free. But you are not alone.
The moonlight shifts. A single, tear-filled sigh.
The stillness holds their whispered, midnight plea.
Two separate souls beneath a single sky,
But tangled roots of one identity.
No warning, in the house a silence fell,
pitch darkness, and the minutes slowly passed,
how long this cut would last no-one could tell.
Match sparked, the flame flickered, a spell was cast
the amber light was filled with visions past.
The smell of warm wax peeled away the years
to Reigate school, Miss Leggett's class, midday,
the noonday sun blazed bright and playtime neared
so time to put our drawing things away,
school milk gulped down, and rushing off to play.
Warm crayons in a box on windowsill,
the sides speckled with marks when taken out,
a pleasing smell that lingers with me still
token of what my childhood was about.
Power back, candle and memory blown out.
19th February 2018
For contest 'The scent of baking bread...', sponsor Sara Kendrick
She calls, I follow to the windowsill
I smile, knowing just what there is to come,
a rainy day, a cat with time to kill
but all the same I'm well 'under her thumb'.
Open the window, she sticks her head out
then pulls it back, her whiskers drip with rain,
looks up at me, jumps down leaving no doubt
we're going through this whole routine again.
Off to the rear window and up she leaps,
I hold the window open, count to three,
head out, more rain but still she has a peep,
leaps down, heads for the door, followed by me.
Door open, and into the porch she slinks,
the rain bounces and spits across the stone,
she sits down for a moment, has a think,
then goes back in, leaving me there alone.
By now you think the silly girl would know
the weather is the same all round our place,
but every time to all three sides she'll go
proving to me that this is not the case.
However, credit to her where it's due,
she's covered all her options before then
making a sound decision, what to do
like going back upstairs to bed again.
Sometimes when life throws curve balls, so to speak
before I lose my temper, rant and curse
maybe I should just copy her technique
and check out every option I've got first.
With this new mode of working, I'll find that
I'll become as happy as my cat.
It was Saturday night at Community Hall.
There was popcorn and pretzels and birch beer for all.
She sat off in the corner, her hands on her knees,
A fly on the windowsill nobody sees.
She’s Hannah, sad Hannah.
She’ll never be rodeo queen.
‘cause you can’t steal the show
If you don’t do-si-do.
Sad Hannah just turned seventeen.
All those cowboys and cowgirls were twirling around.
As Hannah just sat there, her heart on the ground.
Neither banjo nor fiddle could lighten her mood.
She pulled out her hip flask and got herself stewed.
She’s Hannah, sad Hannah.
Left out of the fun once again.
So, she’ll just roll away
With a bashful sashay
And drown her misfortune in gin.
Cat
When Oscar sits on the windowsill
And sees someone within,
His mouth opens wide in soundless cry,
He gives us his cat grin.
Oscar rubs around my legs
He's such a friendly soul.
He then rolls round upon his back
And waves his long striped tail.
But after Oscar's greetings done,
He's off to do his rounds.
He sets off from the white door
To the long thin gardens end.
Every inch of soil and seed
Is subject to his nose.
The garden looks one way to us,
But he can see much more.
I wish that Oscar cat could talk
And tell us what he's found.
Ten thousand spider's weaving webs,
A slow worm on the ground.
A million ants climb up the rowan,
I sometimes watch them too.
I see the striped wasps and honey bees
In this small natural zoo.
The hedgehogs sweet have long been gone,
but we have diverse birds.
Oscar sits on my tall stool.
He watches them for hours.
I woke to a blustery, windy, chill,
Rushing through my windowsill,
The room was dark, I lit a candle to find my way,
I was far from home on a frozen covered bay,
As the light switch went on to my surprise,
The world as I knew it was polished and winterized,
From inside it seemed marvelous and surreal,
Until I opened the door and had a quick feel,
The trees shimmered and sparkled, the ground was like fine glass,
This moment of glory, was an image I could not pass,
Though outside was like the artic, its beauty was a wonderland,
The wind consumed with ice pellets hit the house like grains of sand,
The porch was filled with crystals a shiny mirror for my feet,
I put on my boots and allowed the ice and I too meet,
The smoke that floated from my lips was as if I had just put a fire out,
I only lasted a few moments before the warmth in me made my insides want to shout,
I spent the rest of the day by the wooden stove with hot chocolate on demand,
Taking in this piece of art work, an original, from the master’s hands.
BY: Sabina Nicole
A Winter Landscape
a southern winter
landscape framed by dark gray clouds
pines sigh mellow tunes
a small boy laughs as he runs
splashing in muddy puddles
white ice spews from ground
as temperature plummets
peach blossoms turn brown
a gray haired man shakes his head
and buys tulips for his wife
a spring bouquet sits
in a lovely vase gone dry
tulip petals fall
a kitten smashes the vase
and leaps from the windowsill
grandmother awakes
a small boy and his kitten
run outside to play
donning a yellow rain coat
against the winter landscape
Collaborative poem
Written by: Sara Kendrick, USA and Jack Horne, UK