As with all things it began small,
As a whisper, a glint, a glimmer
A distant chickadee giving voice
To a sun that rose ever silently
And a morn that seemed ever,
And ever more promising of wonder
Fleeting westward the veil’d stars
And rolling thunder
Dappling tears
That shed their gladness
The growing light abate the fears
Wrought, the wet groaning night.
And it seemed a slow standing ovation
A clatter of chirps, cars and school children
Beginning their ritual’d day
A smattering of clouds forming and deforming
As the orchestra began to play
And my window became a ringing call
Beckoning me to my door,
To turn the knob that had secured me before
Symbolizing a threshold—of a freedom
That lay beyond—
And more.
Sometimes pain overcomes
Through the shadows dark
Doubts assault, fears prevail
And life feels so hard
But I can feel. . .
Sunlight through a window
Moonlight through the pain
I can see the rainbow
Hope shines through again
Troubles may not vanish
Life keeps going on
Darkness spreads its gloom but
Soon will come a dawn
And I can feel. . .
Sunlight through a window
Moonlight through the pain
I can see the rainbow
Hope shines through again
Even when I give my best
Life may not applaud
Shattered heart, tears flow but
I've got faith in God
For I can feel. . .
Sunlight through a window
Moonlight through the pain
I can see the rainbow
Hope shines through again
Yes, I can feel. . .
Sunlight through a window
Moonlight through the pain
I can see the rainbow
Hope shines through again. . .
Hope shines through again. . .
15.09.2026
autumn leaves scatter across the sill,
their colors soft as brushed velvet~
russet, gold, and a whisper of fading green
that still remembers summer.
a small breath of steam unfurls from a cup,
steeped with cinnamon and leaf-soft calm,
settling lightly over the open book.
outside, amber leaves drift and circle
before touching the clear stream,
each one landing with the gentlest sigh~
the whole season has paused
allowing you to rest within its tranquility.
Poet’s notes: this poem was written for this week’s poetry challenge: Write a poem with exactly seven lines.)
water rises in the clear bowl, a small cosmos gathering itself.
bubbles bloom like breath returning to a long-quiet body.
copper and blue tiles hold the warmth of forgotten mornings.
on the sill, bottles keep vigil — lotions, perfumes, small reliquaries of touch.
the faucet’s flow feels ancient, a quiet force older than ache.
the sky beyond the glass window moves in pale currents, clouds drifting close to the sill,
and I lean into the moment, letting the water’s rise settle something unnamed.
red sun streak on pane,
shroud of wild pink violet,
blooming eye catcher
Given a choice between
mirrors and windows,
I would chose windows;
final answer.
Like night and day,
Mirrors and windows
Are contrastedly
Different.
Looking into a mirror,
I see an image of me.
Looking through a window,
I see the real you.
Rain drums softly
on the little apartment roof,
thunder walks across the sky
like an ancient village festival drum.
Lightning blooms for a second,
silvering the lonely room.
Far from family,
far from familiar streets,
a young man sits by the window
with a cup of hot tea in his hand
and for the first time,
his loneliness does not feel empty.
It feels like life
quietly teaching him
how to become his own home.
HOPE
HOPE
thin light
gracile flame
27 years in stone
cold air danced on the floor
he smiled through broken prison glass
"hope survives even in the smallest cell"
Gracile
thin cold air dances where Madiba sits on the jail floor and hope smiles through broken glass
I searched for grail across rails
looking deep without sleep
at the last clean harbour
frequencies
bleeped …
secrecies
sacred
naked I folded silvery
drops scattering dreams
….
Scattered dreams lay
a c r o s s
the last clean
harbour (...)
it was blue-green before ascent
reminiscent of Andromeda’s
coves where frequencies
danced
translucent gold across
pebbles speaking —-
…..
Naked fear rapped dew
pane
it shook with pain of
Love
L o s t
dimpled her toxic flesh was seeking
the last clean harbour at
my window where
quickly
I drew
drapes protecting victories
gained
at the last clean
harbour ~
_____________________
9th Placement: August 26
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Glaring blues on night window,
Flute and piano bearing glow,
Crickets chirp a music slow,
Outside nocturne flow.
The years have been kind
and through the window of her memory
she sees all those long-lost days
when life was carefree
then times were not the same
it was a fun-filled game
nearly long-forgotten
as if tucked away in an old armoire
remembering herself light on her feet
as in a painting by Degas
Artist: Henri Matisse
Painting: “Open Window Amalfi Coast Lemon Tree”
Canvas Art, Impasto Italian Seaside Town, Positano
Bright, vivid colors splash the Amalfi Coast
of a summer day in Positano, Italy.
Beneath the warm Italian sun, brushstrokes
capture the charm of both mountains and shore
dominated by the splashes of bright, golden fruit
that hangs from the fertile lemon tree.
Vision leads to a cluster of village homes
topped with terracotta roofs, contrasting
the pristine white siding, all nestled on the hill.
Heavy, textured strokes wake the sparkling sea-
the Mediterranean, dotted with sailboats
reflecting upon shimmering blues and greens.
And past a cobblestone path, which reflects
the vivid splashes of beaming, sunny colors,
boldly capture, with the Impasto technique,
suggested reflections on the water, pathway,
and building, bringing forth a feeling of reality
amid a dreamlike atmosphere of artistry.
Hard-etched frozen windowpanes
never two adorned the same.
Soft morning light filters through
setting jeweled fronds aflame.
Bitterly cold arctic winds
blustered around overnight,
spattering frigid patterns,
ornate brush strokes of delight.
A silver sylvan forest
where fairies carouse and dance
beneath bright crystal fern flags,
an impromptu frost romance.
Sharp icy fingers crackle,
poking downward from the eaves;
a short few hours of magic
then the glory melts and leaves.
July 16, 2026
For Pattern Poetry Contest
Sara Kendrick, Sponsor
I stayed for the sound
that came after the light.
Now I open the window.
The storm leaves rain
on the old wooden steps,
and the night smells of earth.
Lightning finds the trees
for a moment,
showing branches
through the window.
I stand in the doorway,
listening as it rolls,
my hand still resting
on the wooden frame.
The rain keeps falling.
I let the night stay awhile.
I listen a little longer.
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