Windowsill Poems - Poems about Windowsill

From the window trough lets feast on pea shoots and chives marvel at the paper whites tall and slender with magnificent perfume and grow nepeta for our cat ? Why don't we call our flat Jardin ? so we may be associated with nature ? Let our first holiday be to Giverny The ardour will unfold your artistic eyes I could talk of hollyhocks...

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Oh! How I despise dawn’s blushing optimism and dried hydrangea blooms sepia skinned and papery thin. Humdrum hands beat doldrums drum. Why won’t the summer solstice light this darkness? A gnawing hollow where my heart should be. Where cinder clouds float in negative space memories collect like nesting sparrows beneath eaves. I stray, a waif lost with my armful of loss. Your death...

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Once a bird sat on my windowsill Chirped for me to hear I opened up the window The bird just had no fear I wondered how it could be so And spoke to the little thing It looked at me as if knowing Whatever I was saying. It was the cutest bird that came to me With blue wings and some green Such a pretty...

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In the depths of twilight, in the cradle of shadows that rest on the windowsill, I call you to a mysterious reunion, Where silent lamps pour their gentle glow On the tender lines sculpted by time. Forgive me for the longing that calls you in silent whispers, Invoking vivid memories like the blossomed wrinkle on your cheek. Awaken the dormant forest...

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Two Cats On A Windowsill "Hey, Enya." "Yes, Tammy." "Do you see what I see?" "What do you see Tammy?" "Things in the air, swirling and looking like they're having so much fun!" "Oh yes, Tammy, you are watching the dancing of the dead." "Dead, Enya?" "Yes, Tammy. The leaves are dead." "I hope when I'm dead I have that much fun, Enya." "I hope...

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they don't want dramatic parents anymore sentimental they got bored of them they are sick of exaltation they don't want the vehemence of which the parents hung on convinced that it would be freedom we those with a muzzle swollen by history we look at them with trembling eyes in hidden tears we do we wake up? or die? we died we woke up but they discreetly wrap around around...

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The September days can get very hot Turn on the air conditioner, then it's not By late afternoon you are cold again Turn off the air and let evening set it The very next day you wake up to a chill Is that really frost on your windowsill Get out the sweaters and turn up the heat The days to come this...

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yellow daffodils, a bee visits each flower - - raindrops on the glass written 4th March for Constance's Nature haiku contest...

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thunderstorm approaching coffee cup in hand with bated breath i await the sign you are there within my reach and all will be alright AP: Honorable Mention 2021 Posted on July 13, 2021...

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Empty Windowsill The sun shines through, feel the warmth But you are gone now You leave an empty space in our hearts Never will be filled again Your company and all your little ways So dearly missed Such sorrow we feel, such sadness and dismay Almost 12 years, we were blessed The empty spaces where you once were I see them everywhere I can call...

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A faerie on my windowsill Carried pink roses from the hill A pirouette she gave to me Delicate dainty as she could be Locks of gold and silver too Looked beautiful against her blue Her face an oval deeply set How much prettier could she get? She smiled and blew me a gentle kiss Captivating me now, this darling miss Effervescent wings twinkled as she...

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Old jars on the windowsill, collect the dust from arid days when the sun beats down on them, making labels fade away like memories of long ago when hearts were younger and the logos were brighter and easier to read....

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My plants upon the windowsill Start dancing in delight When I open up the windows, Even if the breeze is slight. In summertime, quite often, I must keep those casements closed So to outside air their leaves and buds Are sometimes not exposed. If it’s not too hot, I much prefer A fan to the A/C; Judging from my plants’ reactions, I think they agree with...

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The rain pon the windowsill The pounding of my heart The sound that looms round the empty room And rends my soul apart The pillow next, not damp like mine unslept on lo these many years yet stained a bit with drops of wine Spilled along with bitter tears That beleaguer me and always will Like the...

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Reflections of dawn hued on a windowsill canvas- Sun peeking through morn’ ...

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