Long Windowsills Poems
Long Windowsills Poems. Below are the most popular long Windowsills by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Windowsills poems by poem length and keyword.
Venus
Casts a tiny shadow
Upon the ghostly snow
From its candle held by an extended hand
Of a cloaked man
Who trips through the stripped trees
Follows the fresh trail of reindeer
To our second-floor windowsills
Then on to rooftops lined with owls
Comet tails thrashing through the oval
Stars
The kids pretend to sleep
To the faint smell of hay
Their red stockings overflow with candy canes
Earlier in the gray day
As I walked my dog alone in the park
A herd of deer
Found a barren patch of grass
In the backyard of a farmhouse
Laid themselves out
Like real life figurines to a nativity scene
Four does curled up on all fours
Three bucks standing over them
Antlers like crowns
Two more does
Heads bowed
Grazing
Kitchen light
On
In the window
Next to a frozen pond
A swan curtsies and a sandhill crane bows
They nearly kiss
Looking on
In our bed
Between my wife and I
With his furry head laid on our pillow
Our golden retriever jerks from a dream
Whimpers perhaps
For my hand cupping his treat
Both cats stretch
Between our legs
Ears twitching to moles jingling
To the faint guiding light
Outside
It’s five before midnight
The animals will soon begin to talk
Though I’ve heard them
All my life
Hallelujah!
The end of Autumn is still mild
and the majestic Mounts of Partenio
have no trace of snow; lovely Baiano
at its foot is tamed, not wild.
One can spot, looking up with delight,
different colors of lilacs and roses,
lulled by the softest breeze on balconies
and windowsills open to glaring sunlight;
a Verdi aria is sung by a housewife
who is bored, but looking outside
she sees all the beauty that excites life
and lets her daughter improvise!
Hasty shallows are leaving
the sky of Baiano, a picturesque town lying
in a valley between sturdy mountains
that protect her from the harshest winters;
see that slim boy run down Via IV Novembre
holding his books in his right hand with care!
Only the grey-breasted robbins choose to stay,
they shriek emitting a loud cry; warm is their nests
beneath the red rooftops when frozen rain pelts;
ah, they sadly follow the trail of the shallows in dismay!
This flaming sunset blinds as the old bronze bells
of Santa Croce ring; and in this church, I sat, pondered, and prayed
and singing the hymns written by a monk that lived
two hundred years ago, and now in the golden city of God, he dwells!
Hasty swallows are leaving
the sky of Baiano betraying their trust
in an iridescent season very calm and charming;
I chase after them, then I stop and start to grunt!
Not remembering you in joy
how had this come to be?
No memories of you content,
no happiness to see.
No happiness for your whole life
though plenty filled your plate.
Bards filled your mind at early age
with beauty on the page.
The home you had was pin cushion small
pincushion small, it pricked
with a violent soul rent from the Guf
raw poverty , rent and licked.
While violets held the windowsills
and mother’s soul was sweet
denial visited much too oft
father’s drunken anger did compete
Longfellow laced your nascent mind
The Children’s Hour your treat.
You escaped to Edgar’s house
The Raven at your feet.
You read to me from Golden Books
of Joseph’s many colored coat.
Mother goose set the dreamscape
as Nod rowed by in boats.
I know this must have happened oft
yet no memory do I retain.
Just the lilt of longing reciting
of others happiness on the page.
May the Guf be kind to you
and return you full of joy.
May the sparrow find for you
a kinder living story.
For I have eaten of manna
I have witnessed the Holy Spirit I will
not shall not flee in the face of Danny
strange flesh messenger from hell a man
and horse walking on hoofs wearing the
bussom of a woman this unholiest
entered my home leaving a strange
stench of sap upon my windowsills she
opened her black wings beckoning my soul
flying over head with my ex husband
in her claws repent now I shall not
perish for I have been baptised by
the spirit my third eye pierced
Damnation as I passed into gods
kingdom escaping the gates of hell
where operation Danny dissolved
leaving the stinking sap from the
wrath of serpents again strange flesh
seeking her coven within the living
catering to the rotten flesh of evil doers
of hatred my father has casted you
down to hell your wrath is beneath
my beautiful bronzed feet can’t you tell
Be still and know I am God I shall never
ever fear the corrupt agent slithering
around with my ex husband reeking
havoc threatening me stalking me
Danita Delmont agent oh Danny
boy or girl her appearance was
of a woman and a man adultery her
image was a man and horse man and
beast she wore a woman’s bussum a
stench of yeast every time she arrived
ripping my husband from home straight
into her bussom controlling my ex
husband and the domestic violence
taunting me an evil unreal knowing she
carried a badge and a gun hissing
I feared my safety as she approached
God comforted me the Holy Spirit
embraced me during this calamity unholy
hell on earth from glen to glen craving my
death Danny has fallen into the Lake
Michigan where hell has finally frozen over
If no strong wall is found
and you cannot reach
the top of my castle,
please cling to this heart.
Others may give
more than happiness,
find in me comfort
and true compassion.
Please cling to this heart,
oh, cling to this heart...
and embrace it
and embrace it,
to find the strength to hold on anytime you're weak.
Feel it with gladness,
it's a light that warms darkness;
smile...you've found that patch of blue,
please cling to this heart.
If beautiful roses
cling to windowsills,
look! My arms are open...
to let you in on any day.
I perform no miracles,
but I'd love one somehow;
be the reason I live and breath,
white flower of spring,
lead me to that sunny field...
please cling to this heart.
Entered in John Heck's contest, "Dear John".
I'm sensing something familiar as a lost memory
coming back and revealing itself in realistic form;
glancing at the rose-covered gate without a worm,
it looks different, somewhat newer; its color was gray
and roses that now cling weren't there...it's so enchanting!
Looking closer, I perceive another feeling of elation slowly rising.
An old house with long florid windows stood there,
beautiful flowers waved on windowsills looking out to the daisy-draped lawn...
that was the only beauty it had, then Erica ran down
and met me and gave me the most gorgeous sunflower;
I couldn't resist the lovely smile in those eyes color sapphire...
she was burning like the dry desert sand and asked me to quench her fire!
I recognized the passionate gleam in her enamored look, yet fearful as a deer;
she led me through the rose-covered gate with unbelievable rush, her fair hand
was much warmer than the blood in my bursting veins, we had to explode
in passion and emit moaning screams that only the serenading bluejays could hear.
There it laid: a bed made of lilacs and jasmines...strong was the aroma I breathed,
I pulled her down as someone too desperate to devour and satisfy with eager eyes;
and too happy to lose myself in that ecstasy, I became the wild man she needed...
chimerical as dreamers, we clung to each other and sighed in our splendid Paradise.
Dust rises when the light moves~
a faint shimmer lifting from the floorboards,
the world exhaling
its smallest, oldest truth.
It gathers on windowsills,
on the lip of a forgotten jar,
on the spine of a book
whose story no one touches anymore.
It is patient.
It knows the direction of all things.
The wind lifts it,
a quiet rehearsal of our undoing~
how even the strongest bone
will one day loosen into particles,
how names will thin
until they are only breath
and then not even that.
Dust remembers what we forget:
that form is temporary,
that the body is a brief arrangement
of borrowed minerals,
that every heartbeat
is a negotiation with impermanence.
Still we rise each morning,
carrying our small certainties,
while the day leans close and murmurs
its gentle reminder~
return,
return,
return.
Two Aloha-shirted Hawaiians
of generous girth were strumming
their ukuleles
on a small stage in front of the hotel’s poolside bar
in the late afternoon,
rehearsing for the night’s performance.
It must have been the low season,
as both bar and pool were deserted.
and the singer, unburdened
by a leis-laden audience’s
Mai Tai-soaked expectations,
was going through a mele
as if trying it on for size,
his voice loose-limbed with an easy grace.
Wrapped in the ukuleles' lolling strains,
his falsetto notes tumbled out into an
uncongested airspace,
where no ceiling formed by small talk, disjointed laughter
or tinkling glasses impeded their progress,
so they unfurled their wings,
lifted themselves into the hibiscus-brushed breeze,
and climbed,
hopscotching and frolicking on their ascent,
skipping from Tiki torch to treetop to balcony.
Some straggled, loitered on windowsills.
Some, afraid of heights, fluttered back down
to rest on top of beach umbrellas
next to shadows of palm fronds.
Still others hang-glided out over the sand
and the lapis water,
lured by the marigold light.
So that, when they alighted on my
hotel room balcony ten floors above,
they were fragments,
excerpted by the intervening air
from the upflowing cascade into
a broken yet voluptuous murmur,
a soft, lilting South Seas benediction
floating around my head.
I’d just sat down in the balcony chair, alone,
my wife being inside the room busying herself
with the correct placement of luggage
after we’d checked in.
And so it was that I found myself looking out
at the beginnings of a sky-painting Maui sunset
accompanied by air that quietly sang.
Maybe it was my senses unwinding
after the bustle of the journey,
or maybe it was simply that I was caught unawares,
but the feeling of contentment,
the almost Zen-like awareness of the here and now,
that overcame me at that moment was something
no convergence of sights and sounds
has been able to reproduce in the 20 years since.
It was, to be sure, an experience I’d paid more than
a negligible amount of money for.
The irony is that it was the first time
I truly understood the simplicity of happiness.
Mahalo.
At birds' eye view, from an icy frosty windowsill,
8 stories high: I see a city forest full of snowy powdery
pillow packs stacked
These are spread out making a white-out
of black streets lanes
Then piles of pearly ivory fluffy flakes
cascading into tall white iceberg mounds;
greatly abounding in an isolated city that is fully bound
Trees huddled and cover themselves in
white parkas; this of snowflake designed fleeces creating
a blanket white newly made canvas for me the delighted Artist
People are frozen in their village,
neighborhoods being effectuated with the
season's frigid chilly chilled cooled air;
nipping at many red young and old numb ears
Ice vapors of a foggy mist
does tint white car's windowsills
The City sidewalks and streets has
transparently merged into one white snow sheet
Snow summits also rise high with
white zenith peak tops
People are enjoying forming
snow tunnels and igloos and
snow men and snow angels
And some people sculpt ice statues
These come into being at just below
zero temperatures of freezing
Icicles are nature's cold calling cards;
this having a very slick and cold feel touch
At this time youngsters are receiving their
reddish noses and pink red rose cheeks
Black boots, snow shoes sink in a
foot deep of snow slushing to race home
A flurry of snow scene experiences
are how most winters are known back home
The tossing of powder with frost-bite
fingers and colorful blue hue toes that are ice cold
This season has its celebration of the Christmas day: this
the time of “Christ Birth,” the reason why I and others do pray
The theme of all things each and every day; in a heart that is very merry,
light hearted and amazed for the many wonders given to us yesterday,
today and years to come every glorious day
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Midnight shakes frost
from his whiskers~
Chester the squirrel
slips into the chimney,
claws click on brick,
tail a question mark
in the soot.
Inside his sack:
acorns wrapped in tinfoil,
stolen sprigs of holly,
a walnut cracked open
to show its golden heart.
He leaves them
in boots,
on windowsills,
behind the dog’s water bowl
(just to watch him sniff).
Dawn finds Chester
back in his oak,
giddy
with sugarplum
theft,
dreaming of next year~
Maybe I’ll learn to drive a sleigh.