On some winter day
I’d be flying high
Through the pale of grey
To the bluer sky
Never liked the height
Flying frightens me
Bring be back the sight
Of the land and sea
Of the Chilterns plain
Stretching out below
From the window pane
Of the room I know
And the rain keeps wetting
Your shirts on the line
Isn’t it upsetting
How the day goes by..
A single moth taps the window like a soft-winged thought,
and the moon, thin as a blade, rests lightly on the sill.
Somewhere a train hums its long blue note across the dark,
and the world folds itself into the stillness between heartbeats.
Out of my window
I see a robin,
Proud red breasted bird,
He's in my garden
Hopping and chirping,
No care in the world.
I tried to fix a window once,
That was partially broken.
While doing so,
I started to think about parts of my life
That also need to be fixed.
Scattered pieces in my life
Of decisions that I knew didn't fit
—
A choice to either sweep them
away completely
Or salvage what's left.
While fixing the broken window
I learned that at some point in
life,
You have to realize when to fix
yourself.
—thestreetpoet08
I look through the window of yesterday
watch the rain fall upon the world
to see dead leaves floating away
carried by currents they can't control
when they fell from limbs now barren
that have a Winter's shadow
to wipe the fog from its glass
trying to see tomorrow
lifting eyes, to see the last puff of smoke
from the last candle lit
that lingered, leaving a charred wick
in an empty room, where nothing is heard
but the sound from each tear finding the floor
circling the legs of my chair
as I stare into the thin fog painted glass
for my reflection
held like a ghost in the backdrop of gray sky
that covers my window in sadness
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
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