a shy drizzle touches the tired, parched earth
lawns lift their heads, remembering green
dust loosens its grip on windowsills
air cools, carrying the promise of change
porches and people breathe easier
Dust rises when the light moves~
a faint shimmer lifting from the floorboards,
the world exhaling
its smallest, oldest truth.
It gathers on windowsills,
on the lip of a forgotten jar,
on the spine of a book
whose story no one touches anymore.
It is patient.
It knows the direction of all things.
The wind lifts it,
a quiet rehearsal of our undoing~
how even the strongest bone
will one day loosen into particles,
how names will thin
until they are only breath
and then not even that.
Dust remembers what we forget:
that form is temporary,
that the body is a brief arrangement
of borrowed minerals,
that every heartbeat
is a negotiation with impermanence.
Still we rise each morning,
carrying our small certainties,
while the day leans close and murmurs
its gentle reminder~
return,
return,
return.
Oh Tux, you were a tiny tyrant
tiptoeing through my childhood’s quiet corners,
a black-and-white blur of whiskered wonder
who ruled the room with a regal, ridiculous grace.
You were a soft-stepping shadow,
slipping between sunbeams and secrets,
a silky sentinel perched on windowsills
watching the world with wide, wise eyes.
You carried mischief like a medal,
chasing invisible crumbs of chaos across the floor,
pouncing on possibilities only you could see~
a knight in a neat little tuxedo.
And yet, beneath the antics,
you were comfort made fur,
a warm, wordless lullaby
curled against a child’s uncertain heart.
Oh Tux~
you were the small, steady magic
that made my ordinary days soften, shimmer,
and feel just a little more enchanting.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Midnight shakes frost
from his whiskers~
Chester the squirrel
slips into the chimney,
claws click on brick,
tail a question mark
in the soot.
Inside his sack:
acorns wrapped in tinfoil,
stolen sprigs of holly,
a walnut cracked open
to show its golden heart.
He leaves them
in boots,
on windowsills,
behind the dog’s water bowl
(just to watch him sniff).
Dawn finds Chester
back in his oak,
giddy
with sugarplum
theft,
dreaming of next year~
Maybe I’ll learn to drive a sleigh.
Listen to the wind sweeping autumn leaves,
pirouetting amongst a citrine sunset.
Whilst light rain collects at corners of windowsills,
illumination from a crackling fire
bounces upon unpigmented mourning walls.
Silent weeping occupies microcrevices,
confined within the splintering memories.
The creaking of an antique rocking chair
melds with the restless nocturnal atmosphere,
of time no longer waiting in the shadows.
Sheer onyx fabric draped over photographs—
death came much earlier, not from hate or spite,
but to erase the endless suffering,
of years wreathing in perpetual chronic pain,
locked within fragile bones and a trapped mind.
So do not curse the gods, my dearest love,
nor get lost in voids of sorrow oblivion.
Know peace has now been brought to my tired soul;
I wait patiently until we are one again.
We talk small in big spaces
Leaving the words around us empty
helium balloons floating
Wasn't my voice atmospheric
It's disappearing into the clouds
My muffled thoughts, my meaningless mumbling
Enter the room before me now
lagging emotions left in the windowsills
The sighs escaping my lips etching their homes in the fog forming on the glass
Vanishing quickly
these fleeting feelings
And me always dragging behind
Perched in a leafy tree
sipping on poetry
eyes trained on rolling hills
toggling ‘tween windowsills
points of vantage as yet unimagined
heretofore ne’er examined
Dare one say ‘the thrill is gone’
~ leave him listless lie on languid liquid lawns
Blackout
I sit in a blackout
What can I do
Wind is a howling
The rain's angry too
Windowsills rattle
High up on my floor
I live on the seventh
And hear every roar
I'm starting to find
A still quietness
Mixed with a thunder
Of solitudeness
I sit in a blackout
What will I do
I'll sit here and bask
In my gratitude
Bill MacEachern December 18, 2023
Alberta has pulled me many miles,
her hoofs are placed one after another,
But on this night of Christmas Eve,
She pills a load of hay behind her.
So many young smiles with laughter,
Candles flickering in windows,
With snow deep upon the ground,
Alberta pulled all behind her,
With Christmas songs being sung.
Fireplaces lit with stockings hung,
Sights of snow drifting to the ground,
Carolers singing at each door passing,
With smells of turkeys cooking,
Apple pies on the windowsills cooling.
Alberta an old friend of mine,
A cold winter night but still she trotted,
Trudging through the snow,
All for the faces with glowing smiles,
She kept her hoofs moving until the end,
Then sat in the barn with wondering eyes,
her hoofs tender hoping that someday,
They will invent a gas-powered wagon
This week, snow is expected in the hills
A bitter cold Halloween like I remember
Thinking about it gives me the chills
Mostly the looming winter heating bills
It’s time to caulk up the windowsills
Against a blustery, blizzardly November
This week, snow is expected in the hills
A bitter cold Halloween like I remember.
Written October 16, 2022
Tulips fronting daffodils
Azaleas in pots on windowsills
Rows of rainbow chrysanthemums
Mingle with orange geraniums
Bright pink peonies ready to pop
A bird of paradise sits on top
Still ~ Red roses always make my day
Arrange them in a sweet bouquet
curious little humans
attacking flies in mid air
tapping the air with tiny paws
sitting on windowsills
watching birds
I welcome the silence of falling snow
the virginity of pure crystalline flakes
gathering to frost my windowsills
But I watch while snuggled beside a fire
a cup of cocoa and soft rock playing
A warm hand to hold is all I need
Succulent lined windowsills
Coffee seasoned air
Crimson colored daffodils
Home, rich of boho flair
Silky, velvet, puppy tails
Pup breath to peer the vibe
Pleasing sights, delightful smells
Assure me, I’m alive
A familiar lilt, treats my ears
A melody, so fine
Hushing all my pesky fears
All demons left behind
A joyful state, my happy place
Curled tightly, in a ball
There truly is no other space
I care to be at all
Peering though their windowsills
Their diamond studded eyes glaring
wicked laughs whispered as I pass them
heeled sandals strapped Black
and leather combat boots
gleam and glow in sarcasm
never to be approached, unless custom made.
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.