That smiley exterior
Onwards from morn
Once you had worn
Now drabbly overlayed with
Its own sort. Lorn.
I refer to this manor.
Old; ghostly blown
Tempts none; be known!
Droopy, empty windowed. Of
Ravens outflown.
Sits the monkish owl.
Beneath its own cowl.
If not candled and windowed, lit as
Soft, meditative.
That, wakeful, before
Sinks, wearily, more.
Grass-burnt, sunned life. Flashed too lewd, pranced through.
Dawned; hell-reactive.
My world now
is lensed through a few
walled and windowed rooms
and a garden held within
a high fence through which
I take in views of the universe.
Galaxies turn in the swirling
motion caught in the gravity
inside a coffee cup
and further out, way past
the edges of a table,
ancient constellations flicker
still fuelled by embers
left by the fires of creation.
I see the boundary
of all that I know ripple
and diminish to a still,
stop at a point past which
my feeble instruments cannot go
and confront an infinity
that lies beyond
and plummets inward
towards the very centre
of myself.
It begins with the breath, a simple, rising tide,
The only clock that tells the honest truth.
It asks you, for a moment, to reside
Beyond the reaching hunger of your youth.
To sit within the center of the storm,
And watch the lightning strike without a flinch,
To let the tangled thoughts begin to form,
But never let them gain a single inch.
It takes a hunter’s patience, still and deep,
To track the way the light falls on the wall,
To wake the senses from their heavy sleep
And hear the silence underneath it all.
It is the scattering of your burdens on the floor,
Not casting them away, but letting go,
To stand before a wide and windowed door,
Content to simply watch the river flow.
You must be gentle with the wandering mind,
As one would guide a lamb back to the fold;
To leave the bitter stresses far behind,
And trade your iron chains for threads of gold.
For mindfulness is not a mountain peak,
Nor some elusive prize you have to find—
It is the very stillness that you seek,
The quiet home you carry in your mind.
Days then, were they longer?
Minds then loftier?
Speculating, on whose time's need
Could but have raised this!
Divine, that which lights up
For awe our faces.
Believer's and unbeliever's!
That mercifully
Passing, as it does, and plainly
Through God's own Earth-life.
Glass page on colourful glass page.
Fades not to dismiss.
The sun wakes slow, a golden yawn,
Stretching light across the dawn,
Soft and warm, with rays that creep
Through windowed eyes from gentle sleep.
It drifts and dances, dips and hides,
Plays peekaboo with clouds that glide,
Bright beams spill in scattered showers,
Kissing earth and blooming flowers.
It tricks the colors, bends the hue,
From green to gold, to deepest blue,
Tickling the air, it stirs the breeze,
Whispering life through grass and trees.
In rain’s soft veil, it finds its place,
And paints a rainbow’s fleeting grace.
With every tilt, each shining glance,
The sun invites the world to dance.
So bountiful, it spills its light,
Yet wanders off come gentle night,
A lazy friend, unhurried guest,
Gifting warmth, then taking rest.
Windowed, Windowed,
Wax, Wax, .... Wax!
Voices Fun Of Cheer's
.... Syntax!
In a deep indigo night, bright
sliver moonlight shines across a barren land.
On a lonely hill, a manor stands…
its windowed eyes to a world blind.
Staring into the void, sublime
wind tumbles desolate sands.
Broken, old, dried skeletal branches sway
the last fleeting remains of a harsh day…
A figure bare in bones n thin pale skin
standing in the pouring rain.
The ancient station grand…
The rusted hulk of a train haunts
this arcane barren land.
Deep in the infinite indigo night, bright
sliver moon rays fall on bleak house
stands in a blind world with broken windows.
As eyes of a shadowy form watch
as windows call for the coming storm
old skeletal branches sway.
In the humid night
in a deep indigo night.
A lonely voice echoes…
Reflections on my television, from my window late last night
Had the moon and stars on it, and it made it look all white
Reflections from some raindrops, from the window on my door
They were painting drips like chocolate chips, on my polished floor
Reflections all in colours, from my hanging crystal ball
They were scrambling like a kaleidoscope, on my windowed wall
Reflections of trees swaying, rapid when the wind blows
Made it look like dancing leaves, were tangoing on my windows
When looking for a quack with spiked rates
Some try the Windowed Office of Bill Gates
Coz right on the spot
He’ll give you a shot
But be prepared to accept his dictates
His business, Microshot, you may know
Needled itself ahead of every foe
With billions of bucks
To create deluxe
Vaccine versions 2, 3, and 4.0
Yet there are many who’ve come to razz him
And treat him with deserved sarcasm
Like those who’ve found
Themselves wheelchair bound
Though Gates claims it’s just a back spasm
Now Gates wants to vaccinate the planet
With help in tow this is how they’ll plan it
By changing genes
With secret means
Which to me sounds more or less satanic
Yet there are those who want to be first in line
To get their shot with a chaser of wine
Well here’s to their health
Or rather Gates’s wealth
Which must be baked in his evil design
But when at Bill’s door you hear the death knell
That is your vaccination alarm bell
For more than malware
Coz once in his lair
You’ll know why they call his shop ‘Gates of Hell’
Of windowed light, what's let in
Summer's, may you blind.
As to what eyes' truth, behind
Numbly, coldly stares.
Stay wary, through butterfly's
Flame-speedy deceit;
In the form of this conceit
Everyone, in joy, fares.
Trees weep when I write
knowing they pay a price
for each word, each line
each crumpled thought.
They cry as pencils,
worn to nub-like points
are cursed and banished.
Recycle barrels are not impressed
for racoons do not read poetry
fail to grasp the metaphor
of transient words
the alliteration of rhythms drumbeat
nor does the alley cat
serenade the windowed house cat.
An itinerant wind
may carry my poetry
crumpled in its pocket,
drop it somewhere
and by chance
a passerby take a peek.
And knowing this
I still write to sate
the insatiable appetites
of a guileless muse
for she knows not of the trees
or the oceans
lest I explore them for her
with her, because of her.
For we are lovers
of places only we can go
feelings only we can share
moments spent alone
exploring the blank pages
of poetic wondering.
John G. Lawless
©3/3/2020
Curtains of despair draw around
Light and joy seldom dawn
Down here where the sullen lay
Tired sighs for a dreading fate
Fall ye! King of tyranny
Bringer of pain, sired to me.
Dwell with me where misfortunes meet
Far from where my endeared could see.
"Eyes hollowed windowed to soul " Said he
"Blamed am I when beckoned to thee
Float and flit I will if you cut your ties
To endless gloom and a resigned life "
Pulling myself from the brush
thorn ripping tictures in skin and cloth
a mumble from the darkening clouds
whisper traces of slipping rain
before me stood a battered domain
its windowed eyes
unwelcoming and barren
turning the path behind me swallowed
by decaying leaf fingertips
once again surveying the hovel before me
my eyes darting between shade and light
hoping for a trace of life
Gratitude was my first reaction!
Then joy came skipping along
Humility hit me so very hard!
"Why me",hummed a loud tune
Then~I realized, I was cradling
and reading you under the light of
a winter moonl
It was a warm, close feeling.
As if I were in a mosaiced ,windowed
church at peace.
So many, dear poets, I did not know!
Nonetheless, you made my soul full
and with Christmas season's glow.
This is a thank you to the poets in it.
My poems are nothing compared to all
the great souls in it,
So much more real you are to me.
By the fireside's light~ the best, loving,
creative community.
12/11/2020
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