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.
My Missing Muse
I have tried to write as of late,
but my mind has become a true blank slate.
My keyboard is bored and my ideas are bland.
I have to think of something grand.
Lately I lack poetic thought, thus I’m feeling quite distraught.
Maybe new themes will come to mind, if I read some antique poems of mine.
I have written about nature,
birds like ducks,
a child’s marker freckles,
a coffee cup.
A retired boat resting on the shore,
dirty socks behind a door.
I’ve penned 2 poems about Monet and VanGogh.
Now Degas? I don’t know.
Lady Di who danced in her royal gown,
but sadly now listens to angel sounds.
Her love for people was always increasing, but my poetic thoughts,now decreasing.
A teapot and a tuffet, diddle diddle dee.
A sweet little bundle came to me.
Blueberries grow on a bush not a tree!
Still no ideas will come to me.
Two tired tulips on my windowsill doze.
Three ladybugs on a daffodil pose.
Now is the time I need to compose!
A chorus frog’s peeping has a dancing beat,
clicking,
croaking,
repeat.
Jumping rope in heels, the teacher who tried her best.
Feathered fledglings sleeping in a Blue Egg mommy’s nest.
There is a wee granny in my apple tree.
Bring your appetite, then you’ll see!
Trees dressed in acorns
Protect our seas
Echoing owls between forest trees.
No new ideas coming into my head ?
My muse is hiding, I dread.
Cronkite,a reporting wiz,
closed the news, “That’s the way it is”
An unbiased journalist one could trust.
Integrity, sincerity and principles, a must.
TV shows,
Winter fairies on tiptoes.
Still I have the blank slate woes!
A path of moonlight, dragonflies.
Slowly summer says goodbye.
Soon the southern birds will fly.
Smell the season sunshine.
Crowds that cheer, “Alley Oop”
As basketballs find their longed for hoops.
Aunt Gloria was warm in her Irish blue.
Little boy Benjamin lost his little shoe!
His sister found it, "PEE U”
“Hooray” I cheer. Now it seems more clear, I feel my blank slate might disappear.
I’m suddenly feeling passion for more creative action!
Imagination,inspiration,determination!
My mental blankness is washing away.
New topics to write about, coming into play.
Now upside down silly fun.
To the writing teeter totter Marikate, have fun!
Janice Avery loved deep green nature; like cherry sunset owls, gawping.
She dwelt with her parents and Sissy, when old, golden days were walking.
They lived out in the hilly country, where orangeish stars could be seen;
And summer seemed to last forever, for days held a predominate sheen.
Noons were filled with happiness laughter, that foreshadowed pink moon.
Life was young, but blue world was old. Burgundy butterflies left cocoons!
Mauve fog was doing its fadeaway, as never failing, friends came calling;
When feisty fandango flowers flopped-in scent breezes, sweetly recalling!
Future blooms were dreaming buds, in the spring of faultless, family visits,
Via paths, lined with flowers of familiar hues. Birds sang in willow thickets.
Janice lived in the house of cool shadows, beneath lovely, sheltering oaks;
With colored birds at each window! Back fences, saw many tales and jokes!
Rich, raspberry sun lent sights to remember, on their road of blue flowers.
'Ere reverent night fell richly! Like marmalade change, expected in hours.
Numerous hued clouds were etched nebulously, on dusk skies, blackberry,
When nostalgic neighbors came fondly, as a turquoise moon rose, solitary.
'Midnight valentine' camillas felt Cupid's arrows, under yellow stars of thrall;
And 'Lady Margaret' passionflower vine, in burgundy, crept late to the ball!
'Gay goblin' flowers indulged red revelry, as 'brilliant lilies' rivaled the sun;
When 'sultry scarlet' blooms pined for sunset, like nostalgic noon, undone!
Janice was a birdwatcher, for she loved pretty songbirds' chirps and trills;
But, she wanted to see them up close! So, she put seed on her windowsill.
One day as she was entering the room, she saw a red cardinal, hopping;
And pecking her seed as he hopped. Janice ran, but he was not stopping!
Yet, Janice had gotten a good glimpse of red, like sunset skies, before dark;
With a shake he'd flown into azure sky, destnation garden, or green park.
Janice realized moments are precious, and the briefest, might be golden;
And those are the ones most likely to revisit, once twinkling time is olden!
'Once I saw a little bird
Go hop, hop, hop,
So I said: – little bird,
Will you stop, stop, stop?
Then I was going to the window
To say "How do you do?"
But he shook his little tail,
And away he flew!'
“A Christmas Gift”
By: P. G. Borgia
For JP
1
An evening of peace, city streets still,
Snowflakes settle upon your windowsill.
Snuggled in your rocker, pleased to see
A day’s work of love, trimming your tree.
2
Fragrance of pine and lights pulsing bright,
Shining stars lighting a joyful night,
Red stockings hung with hidden treasure,
Toys piled high for a child’s pleasure.
3
Raising your glass to warm, glowing embers:
“Here’s to Santa—he always remembers.”
Your work complete, you begin to doze,
Grinning at the thought, teary eyes gently close.
4
With silence deep and wavering thoughts
Of times in your life happiness brought,
You hear again that soft solemn voice—
Quiet emotion—dry cheeks now moist.
5
You stir with unease, deep in a maze,
Though mercy is brief in slumber’s daze.
You drift into dreams of yesterday’s glee,
Seeking—a child’s voice, sadness-free.
6
Less than a wink, awakened by a tug,
Your child excited, giving you a hug:
“Look, look! Santa was here;
Presents and toys everywhere.”
7
“Can we open them now? Can we please?”
“If I get one more hug,” you playfully tease.
Another big hug — a sweet bribe for sure —
Moving hand-in-hand to gifts on the floor.
8
With a smiling peek at your child’s wide eyes,
Each present opened, another surprise.
Praising your Creator for what you are seeing,
A sense of warmth envelopes your being.
9
Gift wrap and ribbons scattered everywhere,
You quietly return to your rocking chair.
Your child stops playing, gazing up at you:
“Did Santa bring you a Christmas gift too?”
10
Drawing a smile with gleaming pride,
Your little angel moves to your side.
Searching your thoughts, as your lips quiver —
Moments of silence, memories flutter.
11
“Once upon a time, not so far away,
Santa brought presents on his reindeer sleigh.
One special gift was a stocking of cheer,
When gently I peeked, my eyes did tear.”
12
“For inside there you were, my beautiful babe,
A silent night of joy, pure love we gave.
And now, in my arms my gift softly sleeps,
Dreaming a child’s dream, in stillness deep.”
“To you, to us, and to those we've loved—
forever in our hearts.
A BLESSED MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL.”
© 2011 P. G. Borgia © rev 2024
To Eat A Peach
Spring is here.
The delicate tree blossoms replace
the delicate white lights of Winter.
From the petals fruit will grow.
Pears, plums, apricots, cherries,
nectarines...
Peaches.
I set the unripe soft rose and yellow
orb on the windowsill.
Two days later I tenderly lift it
and gently squeeze its warmth before
I wash it.
Biting into it...
the sweet liquid is Ambrosia.
The juice runs down my chin onto
my tee.
I greedily suck the peach’s flesh dry.
I daydream as I munch.
Peach cobbler, peach pie with a lattice crust,
peach shortcake, peach muffins,
stewed peaches, peach tea bread,
slices on your cereal, slices in a bowl with cream.
OR...only for dessert?
How would a
chicken breast soaked in a peach marinade taste?
My taste buds begin chattering.
Summer’s here!
corn on the cob, okra, tomatoes:
small ones that pop in your mouth
and big beefy wedges that
garnish crisp celery slices, carrot medallions,
tender Bibb lettuce, sliced mushrooms, cucumbers,
asparagus, broccoli, Vidalia onions, cauliflower...
Watermelon, blueberries, cantaloupe,
strawberries, honeydews, raspberries...
Juicy hot dogs, spicy barbecue, thick charbroiled hamburgers,
hot German potato salad, 3-bean salad, macaroni salad,
potato chips and French onion soup dip,
soft pretzels dipped in brown mustard, popcorn...
chocolate chip cookies, Snickerdoodles,
strawberry shortcake,
chocolate cake with red, white and blue frosting for the 4th,
apple pie
— softball, Mom, doggies —
I awake with a start. There is drool
on my pillow.
Another day begins but it’s really
not another day.
It’s the same day I’ve been living
since 1 May 2017 ~
The day I let the dentist pull
out the last 5 teeth I had
in my lower jaw.
And as I come to consciousness
my tongue pushes
against and spills out over the
the soft toothless tissue that burns constantly
and is covered in a thick gooey saliva ~ place a
teaspoon of Elmer's
glue in your mouth ~ if
you care to have a taste
of my reality.
Summer’s here.
Clear your palate.
Clean your plate.
Barbara Dickenson
1 May 2018
- [ ]
Written: April 24, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tread of life
a strand of hair
disassociation
desolation devastation
floribunda flapdoodle
constantly hearing
Voices...
whispering
screaming,
spread their
ivory wings,
fly
in velveteen
sky
Constantly...
berating,
damaging
disparaging
mentally...
unseen torment
pretending
drowning in
unfillable chasm
Trauma...
suppressing
swallowing
existence
dripping with shadows...
When casting spells
seeking peace
amid war
turn off TVs
keep radios hushed
lure of
loathy
illusion
draped in earthy
petrichor shade
splendidly
sculpted from
stardust
bereft of insignia or emblem...
Opus headline
in magnetic bowl
shredded
with a spark
burned in full
anoint ash
on forehead
As Peace Symbol
Then
with a broken gun
on windowsill
east-facing muzzle
align seven shots
heart-shaped trigger guard
shadows shouldn't touch
Then
stir three dove wings
into hot milk
must be flawless
add three plastic
army men
whirlwind
madness
let it cool down &
stir with
olive branch
Dump sharp knife out
sun-facing blade
back spell your name
five times
then step inside &
close the door
etched in
immortal art
of humanity.
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEARTED
You walk on to me you pair me with your eyes startled
Dilated spectrum rationalize beautiful window your pain
Eye gate windowsill is splintered crest
The message of the view I see everest
And I realize that the glass is smudge tears fall like rain
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEARTED
But it's clear to me now love
You need agape love
As you stand before me innocent blood
I want to embrace you in your millennial space
As I hold you there's this grace
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEARTED
Empathy titans spun in dirty lace
There's no lust found nor sour icing found on your cake
These the holdings that I bear of you
Until you is heavenly sound royalty blue
The beating of your hearts rings sad on rebound
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEARTED
And there's your light lit it's not in the dark
Don't want to let go of you because this not a lark
It would be a fleeting thought
If I could pray I would pray for blessedness
Completeness because you're worthy caress
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEARTED
Far more worthy than the hurt that you express be
Healings of the broken pottery that stands before me
Feelings of empathy of the wantings the need be peace
And the spectrum of the glass I see your reflection talking
It's so fragile yet strong as a diamond back sparkling
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEARTED
You're jewel you're the Father's daughter and above
Stand so tall Queen of Israel
In awe for all so tall you walk on void materials
As you walk tall straight your head above the waters passionate fruit
Glee you strive humanity you deny for your broken vessel earthen suit
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEARTED
You bruised vessel stands so glitters
As so those clothes you wear radiant heather
Having those you're worth more than rubies and gold
So I let go of my embrace, I look into your face so cold
And as you withdraw your body In cadence
So loved you turn around and walk away
And all I can see is the beauty surreal at bay
Assured of your essence your soul walks away
Leaving me in part pupils still dilated spark
You walk away with the swollen heart
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEART
7/12/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2023
There is a man in the street. He walks his dog, unaware of the eyes observing
him. The ladybug's short flight ends on a windowsill. A man sits and wonders
why life consists of sitting and wondering.
The great storm came. Its violence shakes the foundations of his thought and
a rude awakening occurs. There moves a creature, unaware of its movements,
unaware of its destination, unconcerned with its destiny. Fate has it so the
creature can walk, but there is nowhere to walk. There is no truth, there is no
future, there is only continuity. A season of death approaches, and all are
prepared with flowers. A return to the beginning, when I did not exist. A return to
the windowsill, where nothing was achieved. A return to the streets, where
nothing was seen.
A hopeless motion is repeated, and the creature is found on its back. A push
to an awakening follows. Out it flies, to follow the creature on the streets, to an
unknown destination, to an unknown future.
The storm passes and there is a return to the deathlike silence. No man can
say what death is, yet each man has his future embedded in its existence. Each
man has come from non-existence, and to it each shall return. But why is there a
fear of death, if each life was plucked from it? Why can not man again
experience a rebirth from one state to another? Is there another universe in the
state which we can only recognize as non-existence? Once I was there, but there
is no memory. I am now here, but there is no reality. There is no experience
which can not be classified, and there is no classification for reality.
There is only the storm, and the short-lived hope it brings.
Time is the great variable. It is the essence of life. It is the road upon which
each of us travels. Another dimension, unclassifiable, indescribable. If there is
a spirit of man which flows from one state of existence to another, if it is eternal,
then time is a mere means of measuring its position.
The answers to man's questions lie in the concept of time, of the continuity of
man. Each man lives but a short time, but man as a whole spans a greater
length of time. Look for your answers here.
Tom Bell, 1968
In your restless slumbers you feel me,
I know you feel me.
Always by your side like an iron rusted sword
Dull to the touch and stranded to the length of your back.
Your sudden sighs will be the ocean churning and
The waves that collapse against the shore.
Every ache you undergo will emit a moan
So loud and locked away that even the sky will mourn
And it’s rains will fall for you alone.
Each dripping drop will attempt to match your insides
From the moment the first moon beams hit your windowsill
Till the sun ascends in an incandescent dawn
That pinkens the walls of your chambers.
You look beyond a naked field to
A moon which eases with every passing moment.
Beckoning you to dreams and thoughts that lay like scars and stains.
Come, they whisper.
Come listen to the symphony of our affairs.
Come watch these green waters turn to gold.
Travel the world and reach the end
Only to find that you still want.
But here, with no one around in this volatile room,
With no eyes peering but the licks of lighted candles,
You’ll plead no to a nameless fear
As you swallow the back of your mind.
Let an open mind in,
Allow it to listen.
And as you glance over to vacancy from
Your worn and heated side,
The skies will shudder with every hope and every lie
That even Socrates cannot deny these tries.
But in the half light of my own room
I wish to be your broken record
Or the lead singers private microphone.
Kiss my finger tips and drink in the residue of fountain pens.
I will plaster each phrase to my bedroom wall
Where I live to see that the writing never flows.
That each excerpt is choppy and final.
That every quote is bold and blush.
The frayed and shredded nursery wallpaper,
Shimmering pink with sudden audacity,
Will reflect moodily and ambiguously of my shattered thoughts.
With kudos to a grandmother Mary,
I slowly lift a frozen face from underneath a pillow.
After a minute of self doubt and realization
That settles like pin pricks on the palms of my hands,
I slide the idle face back into it’s sheath
Then contemplate the curiosity of my own slumber.
While ignoring every hope of sleep,
I’ll thread two nimble fingers through an open flame,
Stare provokingly into the shadows on the ceiling,
Get bored,
Get lonely,
And think of you.
The light withdraws—
not abruptly, but with the grace
of someone tiptoeing from a room
where memory sleeps on every windowsill.
Sky smears gold across the edges of goodbye,
and rooftops inhale the hush of coming dark.
The world holds its breath
while shadows begin to
slip silently
from the ankles of trees.
They stretch and reach,
curling like ink spilled in reverse,
writing forgotten things in soft grey,
and I watch—
not with fear,
but with the ache
of remembering what I never quite knew.
In the hush,
the shadows begin to whisper.
Not in words, but in movements—
a tilt of a leaf,
the sway of a branch,
the slight retreat of warmth from the stones,
the silence between wingbeats.
They speak of things
the sun never says aloud—
of old stories kept in bark and moss,
of the names of winds no longer called,
and dreams that folded themselves
into the creases of dusk.
Somewhere,
a child once stood on a porch,
counting stars before sleep claimed her.
Somewhere,
a letter waits unopened,
the ink slightly blurred from time,
its promises softened by shadow.
And in the violet distance,
twilight walks barefoot
across the fields of once-was.
It hums.
Not a lullaby,
not quite a dirge,
but something in between—
the hymn of in-betweenness,
the breath
before
the dream.
And as the sky exhales its final gold,
and night opens its dark and endless wings,
I listen.
I listen
to the
whispering
shadows
in
twilight.
("Pema", 2017, original pen and ink)
The Journey of Souls
Dogs make the ultimate example
Of a conditionable being,
And my deaf-dog buddy
Old Pema the Pug is no exception.
Meanwhile Buddhists of all faiths
Believe reincarnation effects us all
And involves the journey
Of a soul through countless lives,
The idea of improving our lot
Being central to life’s meaning,
Improvement which comes from the habit
Of accentuating the positive and eliminating
The negative, combined with deep insight
Into our true nature.
One way to do this is through meditation
And contemplation in a mindful way,
But the point is, it’s up to each of us to do.
So back to my pug.
Like I said he’s getting old,
But he’s still a best friend
And I’m sure I mean the world to him too
At least in the basic fact of how he’s bonded to me
In a way that’s sweet but
Also unfathomable.
This morning as I worked on a project
Building some closet shelves in my study
He came to hang out with me
And of all the soft spots available
Chose to take his place
On my meditation cushion
A spot he has over the years grown familiar with.
And it strikes me as a profound
Yet obvious fact that his conditioning
Is leading him to not only follow me
In this life,
But to set a course for his future lives
To improve his lot
Whether he knows it or not.
Maybe at some point I had a similar mentor.
I did flash once on seeing the dark soothing inside
Of an ancient Tibetan temple
From the edge of a wide open windowsill
High above the valley below,
And in the moment recognized
Something of the heart, something familiar
A point of some significance
Now matured in time
To something vastly different.
And the thought occurred to me
Perhaps I was a small bird then
Attracted to the place, perhaps simply
By a morsel of food,
But in the moment heard and felt
Something much more significant
Much more substantial and transformative.
Maybe it was a million years ago
In a different galaxy,
Maybe it was just a lifetime or two ago.
What does it matter
To the dreamer dreaming this now?
Like for my pug
Pursuing his own self interest life after life,
It makes all the difference,
And eventually becomes self evident
To mean everything.
(2/21/24)