All it took was one crack
On an already fragile glass
To send me shattering
Into a million tiny pieces
Icy frosted glass,
winter sunlight refracting,
tiny rainbows on the sill.

staring out the window.
Crystal Freda Feb 13
Not a sliver of glass
is broken around her.
Every inch and corner
has covered the mass.

Below her as she walks
the glass breaks and cracks.
Her feet bleed
and bleed through her socks.

Only people could see her
but she could not them.
She heard their laughs and words
and her emotions began to stir.

Why does she have to stay still
and watch every move she makes?
Why does she have to hurt
and have to yell and shrill?

She wants to breathe, not grouse.
So her feet can be free
and she can be alive
out of this glass house.
Nose Prints…by Jessie 2/07

Little nose prints on the glass
Evidence of curiosity
Mesmerized by goings on
Intriguing and captivating
Holding long bouts of attention
Ten little finger prints on the glass
Stationing, for a closer look
Starving to see more
Intensely interested
What charms tantalize the senses?
Focused in daydream
Invisible to those who see you
The moment has passed
You are on your way
Left behind… little nose prints on the glass
If you have ever gotten angry from cleaning glass your kids touched...think of this.
Menagerie…by Jessie 6/06

Too many days are all the same
The will has left, the inert pendulum silent, no longer marking time  
Glass menagerie collecting dust
A ghost town of frail figurines
Lifeless the sheen, pail from coatings of yesterday
Not even the trace of a fingerprint to announce interest
Tawas a time, excitement from the prospect of a new-collected piece, while much deliberation was given to its placement
Diligently, maintenance provided, dusted and polished
Imagination carrying fantasies of amusing situations and images  
Laughter recounted when viewed by innocent eyes
Now the foundations mirrors will not reflect what was or what is
Each days accumulation, another layer, each layer a little duller
Soon the only connection, a web, thin and translucent, linking one to the other
Paralyzed fragile pieces of glass, drowning in a sea of negligence
Your name whispered into a box of mementoes
Awaiting for renewed curiosity of another generation
some have totally rejected
the protocols that were
carefully written down
choosing not to heed
their intent
taking the approach
of we'll follow
an unconstrained

the conventions state
in a transparent glass
never of our purpose
should there be
any unpermitted

adhering to terms and conditions
isn't an arduous task
they're so concise in respect
of what they ask

some enjoy free wheeling
though it will come at an expense
for not to remain within the parameters
means a quick despense
A work colleague and I were talking about our work place protocols. After the discussion, I decided to pen a poem on that theme.
This temporary emptiness
feels equivalent to a million wine glasses.

You're fragile, drunk, and dying.
That's a lot of alcohol.
Over a glass-floor ballroom
A sparkling chandelier hangs
Reflecting everyone on the floor
All of those too proud
It shows what they truly feel
And if one should act
On their true feelings
Release what they have been dying
To say
The chandelier should see
And hear all
If it shall turn sour
And the chandelier falls
All of the true feelings it reflected
Shall be released
And show to them all
Just feeling frustrated
Aston Lopes Jan 31
Life made up of glass box.
Made of love, joy, happiness,
anger and pain.
Easy to break with a dark word.
No one's box made the same.
Everyone's glass cracks differently.
Some think out of it and some within,
yet they try to keep it clean.
When light falls,
Some absorb,
Some reflect,
Some transmit.
Fogging the walls with the haze
of heavy breathing.
Eyes squint searching for love
Hoping for rays that turn your box into an exquisite rainbow.
No matter how hard you try it's out of sight.
I hear the wind changing,
The aoeling sound reminding me I'll not see you again.
Is it even fair to be Happy?
when you're left, all alone, dying in your own pain?
Daniel Magner Jan 29
Glass, shattered, scattered,
blasted over the concrete.
A forgotten ketchup packet,
never knowing the sweet release
of being squeezed over fresh fries.
Bricks printed with names, donors,
good deeds in memory.
A bustling street, not crowded,
but busy, whirling and rushing.
The occasional feet, sport-shoed
or slippered, or booted,
crunching past the shattered glass.
Daniel Magner 2018
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