With paper towels and a spray,
I cleaned the window panes today.
It’s not a chore I like, but hey –
It’s what you’ve gotta do.
I wiped the window sills, as well,
Though, at a glance, you couldn’t tell,
But those who in Manhattan dwell
Know schmutz likes to accrue.
Of course, once cleaning had begun,
I dusted all the frames, each one
Just waiting ‘til they all were done
And propped back up to view.
Assorted bowls and vases, plus
Some tchotchkes that belong to us
Required, too, a little fuss
So they would look brand-new.
At last, my windows, nice and clear,
Caused my apartment to appear
Like it’s all good until next year
When guilt will bubble through.
I wonder if my eyes have the strength to carry the dusk of my dearth.
They say eyes are the window to your soul.
But could the silhouette amplify the accosts of my void you claim with tangibility?
Could you name the poverty of my shadow within the dilation of my pupils, as they expand with a willingness unseen beneath anything but the weaves of your labyrinth?
Could you caress the convolutions of my heart, so twisted by the absent twinkle that determines the lifespan of my irises?
They speak a language so extraneous to the snarl of desperation; a hope clinging onto a surfeiting glut of insomnia.
They speak in syllables of a pitiful, pathetic articulation; a fleet of a cascading deluge.
They speak in a dialect so degrading to the ponder of my wondrous conclusions.
Not the ones you see in classrooms.
Not the ones you see in lectures.
But the ones you wish to lapse into; something as condescending as the melancholy of my amber.
And something as demoralising as the delinquency of my destiny;
The windows to my soul.
You start out thinking wisdom
arrives with trumpets and fanfare,
maybe even a marching band.
Instead it shows up quietly,
disguised as misplaced keys,
creaky knees, and better priorities.
You learn to savor the slow days,
the soft chairs,
the way sunlight behaves in late afternoon.
And here’s a truth no one mentions:
the older you get,
the more you look out your house windows.
hand crafted culture
forged by hands, glass and metal
a voice from the past
we stand in silence
awe struck
amazed by color, form and shape
in any room
we are transformed
into a kaleidoscope of color
as sunlight breaks through
each glass piece
a masterpiece is formed
a medium of expression
telling a story
through great craftsmanship
of love and creativity
creating a work of art
My title - the culmination of a recent ad on TV
from a company well-respected in my home town.
They offer a nonpareil chance for those who think "free".
I take issue, feel vouchsafed and venture to frown.
"No interest, No payments for twenty-four months"
Enjoy the wide-open window of opportunity.
A bit incredible which makes one suspicious at once
this sugary-sweet offering must have finer print to see.
It brings divinity to mind, remember that puffy treat
made of whipped egg whites and sugar, maybe pecans.
Unsubstantial candy, so-named to sound so sweet --
My advice, be sure you check out all the pros and cons.
"We don't want your money!" (at least for right now)
"Go buy a pony!" how whimsical does that sound?
Ponies need space, 1-2 acres at least and lots of chow;
or you can board them at costs which truly astound?
I've gone on long enough about commercial fare.
A rarity once in a blue moon, too good to be true;
hidden catches and scams are out there everywhere.
It's the teasing of viewers with proposals beaucoup.
Eyes seen as the windows of soul
Can be open or uninviting and closed
Can be blind yet the mind knows
How to enlighten with wisdom and hope
Fog in one’s life lack of growth
Fog in eyes lost goal left exposed
As I stare into this empty glass,
slowly, an outline of a figure appears.
Sluggish movements, incapable of structural integrity.
An exhausted sigh of relief fills the air.
As the day dwindles into night,
reflections from a puddle mirrors the window.
A sudden shift, cracks abruptly spread.
Grafiti hides a section of the glass,
a pitiful display of raw emotions.
A soul evicted from its home.
Distilled water infects the glass.
The cracks? The stains?
What an embarrassment.
This quality and shape,
I can hardly use it.
Pieces of the glass here and there,
Reflections that no longer exist.
I can't see anything.
I don’t recognize myself.
Despite everything, it’s still me.
IN THE NATURING OF LIFE'S WINDOWS
You truly allow light
To pass through,
Giving visions
Of the world:
Its beauty
As well as
Its not so
Beautiful
Self:-
Though you will allow
The warmth of life’s nature,
To quietly enter from without,
You’ll shout out its freeze;
Yet, opening to receive
Its cooling breeze:-
Opened or closed,
The mind’s eyes are
The windows
Of the soul:
Capturing truth’s light
Without as well as within:-
My windows in winter are cold enough,
Sometimes, I doodle your name with mine.
I don't know how long it takes to banish,
I scribble and rewrite it again and again.
Winter! Season to make love, long way.
Long way to remain close to your heart.
Woods turned into ashes the morning,
It's your hug which kept me warmest.
I never cleaned my window
of the spot that wouldn't budge,
reminding me of the buzzing fly
reincarnated as a smudge.
Wounds, like windows,
when opened,
let in light and the breath of something new.
But it takes courage
to unlatch what pain has sealed shut.
We board them up,
plaster the cracks,
pretend the draft isn't there—
but silence has a smell,
and you can only hold your breath for so long.
Sometimes, healing sounds like wind
whistling through what broke—
a quiet reminder
that damage doesn’t mean done,
that ruin is not the same as ending.
Air moves different through a wound,
cool against what once burned.
Dust shifts in forgotten corners.
And the light—
not blinding, but patient—
lingers,
touching the rawness
without demanding repair.
Let it.
Let the ache speak.
Let the light crawl across your ribs
and settle into the hollows
you tried so hard to erase.
Wounds, like windows,
don’t have to be beautiful
to be open.
They only have to let something in.
I want the windows to face the sea
Saw the back of a woman standing near the setting sun
The woman wore clothing that pleased God
Which makes me happy to see the excitement from here
hints of change in a drink
the juice is bad information
for reasons are gone when
sunshines change and turning
grows into my spelling
Mom teaches me lies about
rules and while i wake
up my angels die from
the worlds upset about sleeping
people yell and run off heavens songs
jumping cars into the explosions
and gods just happy
to hang out and scream back
spraying the cities in christmas threats
people are supposed to work somehow
at home huh?
A crooked cobblestone street of windows
A maze of windows - creating a mournful meandering mirror
Watching, waiting, and wishing to be magical and magnificent
The brilliance of becoming something more
And as misty darkness undressed the Day
As luck would have it - wish granted, and it was a Monet.
Have you ever noticed?
Noticed when everything changed
When all the sudden
Everyone has something to say
Everyone but you..
We all know everyone has changed
That's a part of growing up
But when did it start
When did we all start caring about what people had to say
Cared about what thought
What they thought on your life
Your decisions
Your choices
Making your path for you
Slowly but surely
Closing all the doors you had open
All the windows
Anyway you could possible get out
It's easy to say just don't listen to them
But it's hard to do
Its hard when they have control on your life
Really you know you can make your own decision
But all you want is to be liked
To be wanted by someone
One day things will change again
Again for the better
Or worst
But we won't know
Know until that time comes
The time when everything changes again.
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