Long Windowsills Poems
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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.
Gods of glowing neon and gaudy screens
smile upon charming, charming patterns of heads.
All colors of hair, lit red, then green, then blue,
guided along invisible paths, crown heads
perspiring, chanting and glancing down
on marching, mechanical arms, then worrying
as they scurry along infinite, crisscrossing paths -
at once so ordered and so unfathomably chaotic.
Drums are rolled by hurrying feet
dictating the race of mankind.
A metropolis looms, adorned by a billion shimmering jewels -
electric jewels - and an apparition sways over the
bustle, silently watching, silently floating.
Giant chutes proudly puff out plumes of nightly black
and devils forged in impure fire do rise
to the heavens above, graced by the blessings of
the industrial revolution, in turn blessing humanity with progress,
imperceptible except as phlegmatic gasps
and the whiff of crisp green paper, distinguished by
wizened faces and packed in neat bundles.
Bulbous, aged fingers do trace from within
the sanctum sanctorum of a temple aged a thousand years,
charming, charming patterns of jewels
in intricate, frozen dance, carving out hexagons of perfect symmetry
from wearily cut marble windowsills.
The work of a thousand splendid hands
preserved by the unseen, dusty hands of time
did render the mosque palatial, its beauty heavenly.
The admiring eyes sing hymns praising the architecture, alas
they are blind, for the marble, white as angelic wings, is grey now.
The scientist appears, eyes hidden by thick glassy cubicles
yet shining through, lit by the endless pursuit of knowledge
and equally burdened by numbers, figures, notes
and the maddening myopia of man.
On the screen appears, against fresh white
charming, charming patterns of red, green and blue
sinking downward, worryingly as it would seem,
his uninflected pleas let in through one ear, instantly
shunted out through the next by the populace, to whom
the music of modernity rings sweeter.
First Place, Charming Patterns Poetry Contest
Date: 16th October 2021
Entrance into the Garden of Eden
An Exit Oft Repeated in Four Acts
By Sy Roth
Act 1—Somnolence
Smells of winter tickle a warm sun.
Crisp air,
Red, brown and yellow leaves,
Thrust the trees aside for their impending sleep.
They all come to the dance brushed
Content to revel in the gift of a cool early morning,
The commuter moms wave queenly to their spouses
The kindergartners snuggle at their mothers’ thighs
The yellow buses creep along the streets like multi-legged caterpillars.
They all bend their knees
With uplifted arms
They stretch in a free-day yoga plie.
The balance of warm sun and falling leaves,
Comforts them into a somnolent sleep
Cats resting on windowsills dreaming of nothing
But belly rubs when they awake
And the mothers remind themselves of the need for toothpaste at the local CVS,
While they ignore morning headlines that shout of a fiscal-cliff fall.
Act II—The Awakening Asp
Miles away a mother dies in bed alone.
Her dreams lay in bloody splatters on her morning pillow,
The house bellows silence afterwards.
Task one, a bloody heap of compensation for their silence.
He prepares to meet the crisp morning also,
To grab the low-lying fruit which hangs lusciously ripe in his mind,
Green fruit of the loin
Slathering beast of his senses
Giving way to knowledge.
The asp in his frozen garden sibilates silent messages
He happily complies,
Runs his tongue over his sandpaper rough teeth,
A fava-bean violence rests in the venomous one
Spits his triumph at the world.
Acts III—The crossroads meet
Garden of wishful dreams meets at 9:30 a.m.
Sounds of enthusiasm settle in in the lush green garden.
The air like a popped balloon
Is eaten by gunshots and screams.
A boy reacts in fear, in Room 303, and
She comforts him
Shoos the ghost from the room,
but it is insistent.
She hugs the boy closer,
Trigger pulled,
She brings him closer,
Conjoined twins in their new hell.
Act IV—Finality
He leaves for other gardens,
Remain in a loving embrace
All dreams flop flaccid to the floor.
Encased in an isolated castle of an old fool’s paradise,
A decaying dagger rests upon a distressed oak table.
Frayed book pages scatter across termite-riddled floors.
The calligraphy carries echoes of triumphant battles,
Vividly etched in ink.
A revered legacy is forgotten in decades of decay,
Its inked glory fading into disarray.
Reminiscing of bygone days when youth was a sturdy partner at my behest,
Now weathered crimson dahlias adorn the windowsills
Of a desolate dynasty,
As the last petal falls.
Echoes of faded footsteps can be heard within the empty halls of waste.
What remains is a golden crown with sanguine marquise
Resting heavily upon an exile’s head.
How do I conquer the bloodstained fear trickling within the fractals,
Reflecting off the scorching sun that swallows flames,
Swirling around the ashen pyre
Of the poetic corpses I’ve slain for validation?
An inquisition paints a vicious vermilion
Within the sobbing stained glass.
The once-perfect porcelain flesh of our legacy is flayed,
Surrounded by the whispers of forgotten souls.
Cobwebs drape over shattered dreams,
As beams of light punctuate looming shadows.
Concealed beneath cold stone lies the family crypt,
Patiently awaiting its reluctant visitor,
Beckoning the exalt through clandestine corridors.
Within the hushed chamber of undying slumber,
He recalls the tragic tale.
Before him stand his beloved wife and children,
Forever ensnared in the clutches of eternal sleep.
Echoes of the past replay like eerie shadows,
Retelling the grim chronicle of their demise.
His envious, wrathful younger brother succumbed
To the greed of his own ambition.
In the darkness hour of that dreadful night, the dagger-wielding usurper
Plunged their existence into oblivion,
Casting spirits of suppressed speeches to weep
Within wailing walls.
Now I am the cerulean dusk of the gloaming,
A burnt-out waxen ivory,
The candle before their tombstone.
The neighborhood has been going, to every variety of dogs.
But I simply can’t believe it… We now have Gutter Frogs!
They climb upon my windowsills, and also among the trees.
They climb up my patio screen, is there nothing, they don’t see!
Nightly nestling in my window gutter, where they have safely gone.
My hubby says that he can’t sleep, with so much racket going on!
Shiny, and oh so sleek, unlike any other toad, are these little blokes.
Perhaps I have been hasty. Their voices are only a cricket, not a croak.
Unlike my Hubby’s snores, they are way more soothing, yes, by far!
Perhaps there is no reason, for us, that we must now, declare a war.
But no! I must revise, as the gutters surely do need, to be cleaned.
So up the ladder Hubby did climb, as he now, had a full head of steam.
But, yes, life is never simple, and that seems to be… our very own lot.
They had watched our environmentalist son, as he studies and he plots.
‘Save the Gutter frogs!’ Became their banner song, which truly did evolve!
Alas! What’s worse! They are asking, an environmental study, to be done!
They quoted conservationists, and several even chained themselves to our home.
I’ve heard of save the Whales and trees, but now will it be… the gutter frogs?
This is their habitat! What will be next… a nest of new age lawyer gutter frogs?
Evolution has come quite far, as they mentioned a protest, to visit city hall!
We finally did concede! We could share this house and land, which we do own.
As Hubby descended the ladder… Yes! He was covered in jubilant gutter frogs.
Then to make things right, we made for each, an adorable wattle and stick home.
Attaching them along the top, of the gutters, that they could now, play upon.
The gutter frogs agreed to keep the gutters clean, in return, we will let them be.
The moral is: No matter who is right! We can live together, if we only try, you see!
Written by CSEastman 12-18-2013
In Contest for Honerable Mention
*The Passionate Shepherd's Final Plea To His Love* ( my version of the conclusion, ) inspired from " The Passionate Shepherd To His Love" and " The Nymphs Reply To The Shepard" by Christopher Marlowe and Sir Walter Raleigh
I never spoke rivers seize to rage, nor denied disease of winter brings the flowers to fade, surely there will come nights that our home be plaqued with cold, and indeed Father Time ensures our bones will grow old...
How can I promise you truth in every shepherd's tongue, when I am the only one? However everlasting youth is quite possible, if you look past your worldly presumptions of love...
Tangible were never thy cap nor kirtle, neither beds of roses nor gown or anything embroidered in myrtle, merely metaphors my love, in attempts to swoon, for all I can truly offer you, are all my remaining suns and moons...
From behind a wall of protection you stand, armed with daggers of doubt that you throw at each man, who ever so tries to untie a layer of twine, that you've entraped yourself under meant to be there for all time...
But if from behind that wall you've built ,my love, you are not compelled to move, your heart I'm afraid, it will wither and die, and you'll never know of any love..
So come live with me and be my love, and all that has left my lips, I'll prove, together we'll build a foundation, and watch it grow under golden hues...
You've never heard laughter, like that of a child's echoing through the hills, so welcoming that from miles, birds will flock to perch upon our windowsills
What say you my dear precious? from that stubborn wall shall you be moved? Or shall I knock down each brick until my last dieing breath to ask once more to come be my love....
Finding Presence
Night sky beckoning dawn
Gentle sensations
Early morning walks
Empty avenues
Central Park breezes
Village cobblestone streets
Wet with glistening reflections
Accompany the seeker’s every move
Citified whispers
Discordant choruses
The street cleaner
The sliding steel-front security doors
Excited canines straining leashes
Open casements echoing emphysema-regrets
Merging with the early morning smells and start-up images
City’s reality mix awakening
Conscious-walking shakes loose somnolence
Opening eyes to the gargoyles atop historic landmarks
Their stoic residence mirrored in all-glass surroundings
Urban growth towering over huddling addicts of all types
Weary of sleepless nights
Enjoined by occasional pouting mannequins
Dressing light-starved windows
Poised to portray tourist-trap knockoffs
Rayon for silk
Fantasy for verity
Predatory “going out of business” choices ubiquitous
Shut down shops—beaten
Barely open shops—clinging
Wanderers drifting listlessly
Rising early by guilty conscience
Some prodding their welfare bodies to move
Others fearing unfaithful one-nighters become known
Old widows lean from their tenement windowsills
Having endured another sleepless night of heat
Too poor to leave the city
Too proud to ask of children
Soon
Sunrise bathes the grayness with color
Subway entrances congest
Yellow cabs begin cacophonous warm-ups
Like an orchestra of out-of-tune instruments
Their blasts are met with the inescapable “Taxi!” “Taxi!”
Deli workers spread cream cheese
Warm Bear Claws
Brew bad coffee
Wish their customers “have a good one”
Keeping secure their jobs
For another day
Returning home
Five flight walk up
One’s feet beg relief from the morning roam
A pull on the carton of OJ
A flip-on of the two-burner
The water to boil
A drop into the drug-from-the-dumpster-couch
Chock-Full-Of-Nuts in waiting
Want ads front and center
A few deep breaths
Just another day
Surviving the city
Ever have one of those days
where you just have to get away
from the daily work grind...
where you can just kick back,
relax a little,
and finally unwind,
tomorrow is that day for me
because I took a personal day,
where I'm going to sleep in till noon,
wake up and shower and dress
and watch a little television
if I'm in the mood,
then eat a leisurely lunch
with a lot of crunch,
and savor every bite,
afterwards have a nice dessert,
like some sherbet,
that'll really hit the spot,
then drive to my appt. in town
and get massaged by a masseuse,
go get a manicure and a pedicure,
shop for a new dress,
and go get my hair done by my hair stylist,
later at home check my e-mail
and see whats on the soup,
laugh at some of the funny poems
because they can be so humorous,
read some of the serious ones,
and feel the corners of my mouth suddenly droop,
then after that I'll maybe take a walk
and stroll around the park,
but by then it'll probably be getting late
and the dusk will be turning to dark,
so I'll go home to my family,
and I'll say good night
and go retire for the night,
where I'll go into my sanctuary,
change into my pajamas,
watch some t.v.
and turn off the light,
but I know most if this is just a fantasy,
but it really doesn't matter
since I'm not really into all that glamour
why I'm just your average Josephine,
like a lot of folks just trying to stay afloat
by making ends meet,
Because when I look around
there's 1001 chores to be done,
especially the housework,
where I'll be washing dishes,
feeding the cats, dogs and fishes,
cleaning windowsills,
dusting and vacuuming,
mopping floors,
wiping down doors,
doing the laundry,
and shredding some old bills,
But hey, I'd rather get these mundane
chores out of the way on a Friday,
so then on the weekend
I can do what I want
and go out and have a fun day!
We Live By Time
By John Herlihy
We live by time
And not the eternity that is its envelope.
We live in space
And not the infinity that gives the universe its scope.
We live by hours, by days, by weeks
And not the timeless wonderland that everyone seeks.
We search for answers to the universal questions.
By examining minutiae through the lens of a microscope.
We see the miracle of God’s unity but dimly and darkly,
Through the narrow end of the telescope.
We thrive on lies and dreams and illusions,
While Truth’s reality lives in eternity’s day.
We ask questions about our origins and purpose,
Religion answers, but we pay no heed or say nay.
We live our lives as a series of questions,
We take baby steps through nature’s infinite expressions.
When we awaken in the morning,
Only questions escape from our lips,
That have accumulated during the night’s long sleep,
With the coming of dawn, over the horizon they creep.
The interrogatives awaken us,
They are abounding:
How . . . when . . . where and above all who?
Like a trumpet they are continually sounding.
Why do we fret and take ourselves to task,
When nature herself has no questions to ask.
Everything she displays but a veiled mask,
To protect the radiant mystery in which they bask.
To reveal sun beams and moon glow in God’s pay,
Light rays and night shadows on windowsills at play.
Let us live our lives as answers,
To questions even nature never dares to ask.
When we from our slumber awaken,
Sing praise of another day and set about our tasks.
Time moves in stages one second at a time;
Otherwise, everything would happen at the same time.
Time is a necessity even if it is fraught with pain;
Our lives burn by the scorch of individual flame.
Relentless time turns fire into smoke with ease,
That rises in the air and dissipates into the breeze.
We live by time
And not the eternity that is its envelope.
We live in space
And not the infinity that gives the universe its scope.
We live by hours, by days, by weeks
And not the timeless wonderland that everyone seeks.
We search for answers to the universal questions.
By examining minutiae through the lens of a microscope.
We see the miracle of God’s unity but dimly and darkly,
Through the narrow end of the telescope.
We thrive on lies and dreams and illusions,
While Truth’s reality lives in eternity’s day.
We ask questions about our origins and purpose,
Religion answers, but we pay no heed or say nay.
We live our lives as a series of questions,
We take baby steps through nature’s infinite expressions.
When we awaken in the morning,
Only questions escape from our lips,
That have accumulated during the night’s long sleep,
With the coming of dawn, over the horizon they creep.
The interrogatives awaken us,
They are abounding:
How . . . when . . . where and above all who?
Like a trumpet they are continually sounding.
Why do we fret and take ourselves to task,
When nature herself has no questions to ask.
Everything she displays but a veiled mask,
To protect the radiant mystery in which they bask.
To reveal sun beams and moon glow in God’s pay,
Light rays and night shadows on windowsills at play.
Let us live our lives as answers,
To questions even nature never dares to ask.
When we from our slumber awaken,
Sing praise of another day and set about our tasks.
Time moves in stages one second at a time;
Otherwise, everything would happen at the same time.
Time is a necessity even if it is fraught with pain;
Our lives burn by the scorch of individual flame.
Relentless time turns fire into smoke with ease,
That rises in the air and dissipates into the breeze.