lavender rain
fingers windowpanes.
the old clock
forgets directions,
letting autumn storms
wander through
its hands
This blackout was edited from one of my own poems.
Dismal ¦¦¦ my mood tonight
¦¦¦ a tempest ¦¦¦¦ howls outside
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ the truth I ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ confide,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ I’m filled with fright.
Rain ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ down my windowpanes
¦¦¦¦ fingers ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ reaching for me,
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ demons who have no empathy.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ their ¦¦¦¦ desire is to drive me insane!
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ thumps ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ on the roof.
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ the reaper has found my home
Or ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ a wee evil gnome ?
¦¦¦ what lurks ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ I have no proof.
¦¦¦ confrontation ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ I should dare
Have I ¦¦¦ courage ¦¦¦¦¦¦ to open the door?
¦¦¦ can’t stand ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ anymore
¦¦¦ I’ll face what holds me in its snare
(Blackout of ) my poem, 'What Holds Me in Its Snare'
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 have learned the language of water
how it speaks in percussion on tin roofs,
in whispers against windowpanes,
in the slow saturation of earth.
Each drop carries a latitude,
a longitude of sky it fell from,
mapping its descent through cumulus,
through the territories of wind.
The puddles become mirrors of inversion,
where trees grow downward into depths,
and clouds lie trapped beneath our feet
like continents we'll never walk.
I stand at the boundary of wet and dry,
that shifting border where the world
divides itself between the fallen
and the falling, the soaked and soon-to-be.
And in this interstitial space,
I am neither sheltered nor exposed,
but something in between, a witness
to the patient rewriting of the land,
one syllable of water at a time,
each one a word in an endless poem
the sky has been composing
since before we learned to listen.
The loneliness of night cloaks a desolate sky.
Drizzling rain clings to devitalized windowpanes.
Staring, longing for an escape from reality.
Ruminating thoughts keep sleep at bay.
The flicker of the television hums in the other room.
Dragging myself, I sink into the doldrums of a discarded sofa.
Turning up the volume, the weatherman describes a tempest coming from the northeast.
Burnt out, silhouettes of notions run rampant.
Even the soft glow of the TV has become too much.
The wind is starting to howl now.
I can feel it whip around the boards of this old house,
Like ancient bones rattling through the ages.
The porch blinds suddenly, violently thrash.
Getting up, I close them before slipping into my pajamas.
Preparing for something just out of reach,
Always a centimeter from my grasp.
I lay in a desperate bed.
Ever-expanding darkness shrouds me.
Yet no relief arrives.
Swollen eyes no longer produce tears.
Vocal cords no longer produce sound.
Just silent screams going unheard into the mattress,
As sanity finally slips through the threads of unyielding fabric.
Written: January 18, 2026, for a contest by Brian Strand
************
frost-lace
on windowpanes,
a fragile filigree
fragrance of forgotten winters—
silence
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
morning light slants gold
through venetian blinds, slow as honey.
summer stretches its limbs,
yawns across the porch swing,
and time dissolves like sugar in iced tea.
hubby’s hand in mine—dry warmth,
the rustle of leaves underfoot,
a conspiracy of squirrels.
the woods don’t care about our plans,
and that’s the gift~
nowhere to be but here,
no clock but the sun filtering down.
December arrives wrapped in laughter,
a tangle of mismatched chairs,
too many forks, not enough plates.
someone always burns the rolls.
the carols rise anyway~
off-key, overlapping,
a chaos of joy sharp as pine needles.
blank pages are kinder
than mirrors.
They never judge~
only wait.
My pen bleeds
stories, coffee stains, and
ink smudges like bruises
I’m proud to carry.
the wind howls its complaints,
rattles the windowpanes.
I let it.
the mug warms my palms,
steam curling into the air
like a ghost of comfort.
The cocoa is too sweet.
I drink it anyway.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Christmas Eve, the air is crisp and still.
the house is wrapped in darkness and damp cold.
the tree stands bare.
no tinsel gleams,
no ornaments glisten~
just a skeleton of expectation.
A spider descends~
its eight legs tapping a silent beat
across the chilly, wooden floor.
it glides its way up the tree.
with silken thread and delicate grace,
this tiny architect
weaves a silver web of wonder
across bare evergreen branches
thread by thread,
a delicate geometry unfolds~
one spun from moonlight and instinct.
no plan, only the patient unfolding
of silk and silver hope.
morning arrives.
the sun brushes gold across
frosty windowpanes
striking the spider’s web
and igniting it.
no longer bare, the tree shimmers~
a spectacle of interwoven
silver and gold light.
This is how Christmas magic works~
not with fanfare, but in the quiet,
turning absence into lace,
turning want into wonder.
Fluffy sparkling, brilliant white flakes
Join on their way down to earth
A White blanket tucked the woods to sleep
Giving a pure look to everything
The wind whistled through the trees
The serene sounds of winter
Gently knocked on the door
Frost danced up the windowpanes
Making designs of unique precision
A cozy glow of red flames
Contentment to those within
How inspiring this peaceful season can be
A time for Reflection and gratitude of life
Comforts the soul
"Minnesota Sleeps Beneath a Quilt of Silence”
A poem by Alan J Winters
The wind carves elegies in the snowdrift’s spine,
each gust a ghost of prairie time—
frost etching lace on windowpanes,
like memory’s breath on glass.
Cardinals flare like embers in bare trees,
red sparks against the hush of white.
Boots crunch through ice—
a rhythm of resilience,
each step a vow to endure.
Moonlight spills silver across frozen fields,
where silence blooms like wildflowers
beneath the aurora’s spectral dance—
green ribbons tangled in the cosmos,
entangled like hearts across distance.
Minnesota sleeps beneath a quilt of silence,
stitched with sled tracks and chimney smoke,
where childhood laughter echoes
in the crystalline hush of dusk.
Each flake a whisper from the sky’s cold heart,
falling not to bury, but to bless—
a transformation in stillness,
a journey wrapped in frost
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Like leaves falling from the trees, November days fall. Sun rises and sets in fast-forward mode, is if it’s in some hurry to reach winter. Although the sun is still bright and vibrant, it is cooler even on cloudless days. Soon the trees’ vibrant colors will be nothing but a fading memory.
the scent of damp earth
bare oak limbs etch twilight sky~
geese write farewell notes
frost paints windowpanes
sunrise melts night's silver veil~
birch bones hold last leaves
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
flour dusts her apron
sunlight spills through windowpanes—
soft hands knead the dough
steam curls from the pot
her laughter stirs the broth's warmth—
scent of thyme and home
knife halts mid-paring,
her gaze drifts to fading light—
stillness fills the room
DEMENTIA CASTS LONG SHADOWS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
sunlight fades from the window ledge
hands tremble, reaching through
mist where memories dwell
her memory – a moth-eaten shawl
whispers cling to dusty frames,
familiar faces blurred
like rain on windowpanes
keys forget what doors they knew
chairs hold ghosts’ warm weight
the clocks hands swim backward
through forgotten dates
footsteps echo in empty rooms
long shadows cast where memories pass
here comes spring d
o
w
n
p
o
u
r
e y e s trained on the windowpanes ~
tapping of raind
r
o
p
s
When secrets rest behind each moon
between the lines of hidden tunes,
my hope is that you'll sing along
oh singer of my heartfelt songs.
Envision what was born through you,
create romance with just one view.
Caress my mind with sultry songs,
nudge me when our morning dawns.
Reveal the treasures of your dreams,
enlighten all when daylight gleams.
Write melodies of nighttime's best,
all dreamers rise to vision's quest
Inspire tunes again to ring
in every newfound offering;
while nature plays our heart's designs
come dance with me between the lines.
As willows woo the windowpanes,
sounds of nature's slow refrain.
Please listen to all the silent screams,
those exclaimed in scribbled dreams.
Surrounding you are mystic hues,
please pay attention to the clues.
Come manifest your spirit's call,
then sense a silent feather's fall.
While angels sing and pick up flight,
share the whispers of our night.
As memories walk another mile
our dawn awakens the morning's smile.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.