Short Windowsill Poems
Short Windowsill Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Windowsill by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Windowsill by length and keyword.
The snowflakes drift upon the wind
And settle on the windowsill
But also on the winter winds
Comes the sting of winters chill
Form:
yellow daffodils,
a bee visits each flower - -
raindrops on the glass
written 4th March for Constance's Nature haiku contest
A coin spins once
on the warm windowsill~
thin ring of light,
quick shimmer,
a brief bright circle
trying to stay
in the day
a little longer.
Windowsill beckons,
Reading in the candlelight,
Winged fairy reckons
It's a magic story night,
A book in hand, I take flight.
Alone the demon sleeps–
Alone the demon weeps.
Last night mother died–
Last night father cried.
Yet here I sit by the windowsill,
Watching the doves fly by.
i keep a mirror flat on my windowsill
to watch the sun reflect
and stretch across my ceiling
in the evening
when it’s golden
we’re all children being bathed
Listen to poem:
thunderstorm approaching
coffee cup in hand
with bated breath
i await the sign
you are there
within my reach
and all will be alright
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
A dozen pretty tulips
grace her chateau
Ten yellow daffodills
on her windowsill
Eight bright-red roses
in a floral vase ~
Tickling her nose
queen anne's lace
I left my window
open every
night but you never came
to the windowsill
like you always promised
you would
and it's not
that I mind really but did
you forget?
Hurting and wilting.
Silent.
Indifferent.
Boring and never moving.
I am a flower on a windowsill.
People are kind to me.
But I am lonely.
Because flowers don’t have friends.
Wild flowers gathered on a sunny windowsill.
A modest vase keeps the focus there.
Meanwhile rays of sunlight dance the minuet.
I give thanks for another summer day.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
a green garden snake
slithers in the apple orchard
mother crys
rooster puffed chest pride
caged birds lay hollow eggs
fox father red eyed
pies baked on the windowsill
long shot gun in the shed
Margaret's fingers clasped and still
white wings upon her windowsill
silent doves that came to rest
sleeping now upon her chest
each settled bird that came to land
will fly no more from Margaret’s hands
Bought myself a cactus plant
With flower on the top,
Such a dazzling orange
It seems phony, like a prop.
Set it on my windowsill
So light and air will fill it;
Wonder how long it’ll take
Before I start to kill it.
I awoke this morning, in a depressed frame of mind.
The Sun not shining, the weather unkind.
My cover lay upon the floor, the room was quite a chill.
A cross looking Robin upon my windowsill.
I think I'll sleep in.
Form:
Reflections of dawn
hued on a windowsill canvas-
Sun peeking through morn’
as the hazel light meets with fawn.
January 12, 2017
Old jars on the windowsill,
collect the dust from arid days
when the sun beats down on them,
making labels fade away like
memories of long ago when hearts
were younger and the logos were
brighter and easier to read.
A mockingbird sits on my windowsill,
Eyeing the shelly beans I am cooking
He snaps open and shut his sturdy bill
So intent is he in his window peeking,
He fails to see the black cat sneaking.
written July 8, 2021
Time and enough world. But we had
memories came, which lace at ends;
weaves that space 'tween callused derma.
Evokes at it's windowsill dust
particles. Life, I cry out.
Our story would take another;
falling into love was enough.
Moonlight rests on the windowsill~
a pale blessing poured without a sound.
My open Bible glows faintly~
its pages holding the night like a calm breath.
Outside, a lone owl settles on the fence~
a stillness deep as prayer.
Midnight:
The gentle patter of each drop unfolding on my windowsill.
Morning:
The smell of freshly fallen beads like diamond glitter upon the grass.
Thunderous:
Where the clouds hold notority but cry tears pure and plain.
Windmills
standing still
no wind
empty windowsill
minds
at sleep
a death
of another time
heartless
flowers that never grow
no wine
tears fall silent
fragments appear
shooting stars at night
dispersed onto the dark
windmills of my mind
The fog thickens
streching up and over
the edge of my mug
leaning on the windowsill
draped in wool
waking slowly
A deep breath
to rid the morning frost
From my chest mixing
with mint green
and honey
so sweet
remembering your eyes on me
lifts the fog
She is called Little Princess
And the reason is very plain
Her charming personality
Is her claim to fame.
To sit on a lap is to feel pure bliss
But beware!
For you may feel her kiss.
A windowsill becomes a palace throne
Upon which to watch her family grow.
Form:
I learn to live
with the silence.
Thoughts echo
in the empty house.
I transform your room
into my space,
place
candles and shells
on the windowsill.
Your books are still
on the shelves –
old friends
who keep me
company
and speak of you.
August 13, 2018