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The Picture Window

The vista view never changes but daily.
The naked eye, registers the same distances,
resting objects unmoved, modest alterations
of wind and water are noted, but for intent,
for purpose, the watercolor one would paint
be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp.

The  subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky
stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as
I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing,
from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know.

Alive & Awake? Yes.
Breathing steady? Yes.
Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro.

My soul?

Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the
picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry,
yet intact, making discernible the changes in light,
temperature  and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments..

The picture window internalized, much the same,as
the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated,
are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy.

Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster
and uncertainty is it’s own principle.

But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter,
that more than less, where less is more, this picture window,
ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy,  where disorder minimal.

My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow,
what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill,
new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different.

Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter
the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the

5:50 AM

P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging,
then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.
Sun Jun 4
You look like you could use a drink
Heavy pour of whiskey as you sit down and think
Seems your mind is on the brink
While all the other ships around you sink

High tides and heavy goodbyes
I can see the emptiness in your eyes
Stick around longer, we can all get high
Our minds are destined for the sky

Familiar faces now enter the space
You forget why you were in such a dark place
Add a splash from the tap just in case
Makes it all easier to chase

The window is open so don't sit around
The breeze will help push you when your ships run aground
The laughter in the air is an uplifting sound
Seems what you're searching for has finally been found

This takes place at a pub in Liverpool
Shofi Ahmed Jul 2022
I know an abyss is
between you and me
seas and oceans billow
the overlooking moon
is untouched like it was before.

I know drifting off onto
a moonlight polished pillow
is not everyone's lucky go.
But not that never
once or more
did a star one or two
among the zillions
across your lunar brow
peeped in my dream
sweetening my nap.

But I know no sleep never
can made me forgot
my only moon-dew firefly glows
tuberoses shine by my windows!
Farah Taskin Jun 2022
I was greeted by
or stellar light

I'm hypnotized by
the evening clouds

I espy
the busy
or the silly

The round
earth doesn't pause
Proxima Centauri
doesn't pause
Ursa Major
doesn't pause

Colours change
The game

I close my
This is how I can perceive
the sound
of silence
This is how I meet myself
I'm neither
a nihilist
a hedonist
I'm simply
a monotheist

A gust
of wind blusters
My gossamer
scarf flutters

I open my inquisitive
I discover the mysterious
neth jones May 2022
uncut grass
   casts long shadows by night
animated on the inside
   of our basement windows
elongating and dashing away
   projected by the passing traffic
no mow may (May 2021)
Bipolar Poet Apr 2022
Crackling; it cracks, and cracks,
shaking the centre of glass,
Shaking the voice of words to comprehend.
As like in the ocean's centre,— undermined of where
it begins or ends.

Falling to the ground; a strike through darkest
weary clouds. It falls to the ground; loud as Lucifer
had fallen out of Heaven,— as with all those angels
kicked out.

Rumbling, and rumbling, falling lightening like
mountains. Rocks that are tumbling, tumbling,
and tumbling to crush.
A crushing feeling is on my skin; peering through
clear glass shadows.

The first echo of thunder; has left a crack on my

Bipolar Poet Mar 2022
The many moving things,
moving scenes; that are stuck in between my eyes.
Look at life; and it's fragile creations,
through the window's glass.
Held on the weight of time,
those holding onto their past. But it all must change;
from the old seasons to those anew.
The many winters of cold, soon surpasses on the grass.

So many pictures, so many little things,
and so many moments. All caught in the prettiness
of an everlasting flower.
A tower plant, trying to kiss the glorious sun,
the Son of Man, and the sweetest rose.

The holies of all holies; resides inside of me.
Walking the testimonials upon my feet.
For how far have I gone to seek?
I've seen blackness, as a changing tide of darkness.
A ***** sheet; barely covering the littlest sin. But there's
still the greatest of all light within.

A Christ within me.

How are my eyes shut to the window;
and their curtains covering itself on a dream?
A dream to be free.

Freedom of will.
Freedom of speech.
Freedom to choose peace.

I scratch the tiny hairs under my chin,
biting the collar of my shirt with my dry lips.
There's no duty to being empty all your life.
No command to live that way, or any sort of drill.

But there's a thirst on my tongue,  
running down to my heart. My spirit's cup is waiting
to be overfilled. And to go on and spill.

I as myself,
only long to be spirit filled.
Holy Spirit come inside of me.

A thousand pictures in the window,
and I only long for the one picture of Him.
neth jones Mar 2022
gallows on the rooftop
where window washers go
                            to suspend
metal gibbet
            quick hinge, raise and lock
secure against the weather

  combed and packed snow
    ice crusted dunes
strain the winds over the buildings roofing
                                 an extreme combing exposure
they'll be no labor done today

On the seventh floor
i watch from behind
              an environment sealed window
              wolfing my lunch on a short break
                                in the warm fire escape

i watch
a solitary worker is ejected from a hatch in the exterior wall
                                      cuffed by a spasm of wind
he descends a short bolted ladder
              and makes a geared approach
his weight against the wind  
          he drags a heavy kit
            mummified in protective clothing
              passing my spot and he then heads outward
                    towards the bounds of the rooftop
he mends a stable stance
one foot close to the edge
the rest of him
in a low defensive pose
clips his harness to the gallows
stands to take a confident beating
            of the breath stealing
                      brawling winter gale
he radios for the gantry to be raised
Jade Wright Jan 2022
I am the light between the naked branches.
You stare out at me for answers
but this is only a slow morning
not a requited prayer
You see the birds, benevolent
and we smile at their freedom.
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