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Kitt May 2018
I sat by the window and gazed out
at the rain falling down
in torrents and sheets.
The night was black as ink, save the stars;
barely visible behind thick storm clouds,
pinpricks of silver in the ebony scape,
as the rain continued to fall.

I thought of you, of the deliberation in your face
etched into every feature a painful, wavering resolve.
The decision before you:
two fates, the ending, or the prolonging of the time before the terminal predetermined.

I grieved as I remembered the pain in your eyes.
I know you too well. I have seen too much of you
for you to hide this from me. I broke
-a silent cry of realization, collapsing my furrowed brow into a contorted countenance
as I realized that you were gone
not just for now, but for good.

And so there I sat that night,
after I removed the gold chain you rested around my neck
after I scrubbed away the makeup
after I traded my lipsticked smile for a mourning countenance
-I sat, alone in the dark, and gazed out the window into the rain.
I wondered where things had gone wrong.

And so, May showers
drove away April's flowers.
It was all I could do to cry quietly,
face soaked with the saline of sadness
that dripped now on my chest.

Now, I sit again at the window
and the same song plays that had consoled me before
'you'll feel better when you wake up'
And I did.
The sadness stayed safely at the bay
while I tried to channel it again
But this time it wasn't the same.
Though I duplicated the mood down to the clothes I wore,
the heartache was no longer fresh
and my face remained dry.

Sure, I felt sad. But it was not from you.
It was not from a heartbreak or a brokenness.
It was inorganic sadness, brought on by my own need for closure,
the thirst for a goodbye that burned my throat in agony and sorrow
that my parched lips would never find.
Song quoted: "Wake Up" by EDEN
You are the almost-silent
of my coffee-stained summer.
You are the clear and tender
plucking of guitar strings
on a lazy afternoon;

With sunlight streaming through
the painted window,
just bright enough to fill the room
but gentle enough to fall asleep to;

with the smell of everything we love—
caffeine and chocolate and banana muffins—
seemingly coursing through our veins
with every breath we take;

with the daydream of
what-could-be lingering
in the haze, in the silence
it sits,
it waits.

I proceed to the only thing
I know how to do
at this hour of day:
I stare at the cars passing by,
all the while wishing
I was staring at you instead.
Alan S Bailey Sep 2018
It doesn't really change anything,
regularly I would despise the work of this poem,
the sight of blank paper is easy to fill,
but it's such a pain when at a pointless window sill.

I vaguely recall when I lived in joy,
Now people see me I'm lost in my thoughts,
Everyone thinks that I don't want to listen,
But the truth is that money has always been my problem.
I know this is not a fun poem, but I may one day find reason to express  my happy time feelings sometime soon
Chloe M Teng Jul 2017
"Mama... Mama!"

Mama sometimes doesn't wake up when I want her to.
Mama must be dreaming about the ocean.

And there are waves in the ocean.
And the waves are outside my window.
And I hear them.

Swoosh... swoosh... swoosh...

I draw the waves for Mama everyday.
They are squiggly and big,
like the messy lines on Mama's forehead.
Mama's forehead is big, big!
And the waves are big, big like Mama's forehead!

They are blue like the sky.
The sky is blue because blue is your favourite colour.
I like blue too, because Mama loves blue.

I want Mama to know that there are waves outside our house.

I can hear them swooshing outside the window.

Papa says: "It's just the wind."
But he's wrong, Mama.
Wind doesn't swoosh like a wave does.

I know, because I hear it.

You hear it too, right, Mama?
And you dream about the waves too.

And in your dream, the waves are swooshing outside your window.

They are squiggly and they fill our room with the big ocean.
They can even touch the sky.

And the window can't hold the ocean anymore,
and their hands go-
BAM!

Mama mama,
The waves are coming into our house.
Wake up.
They're coming.

They're coming in Mama.
The room is so small, and the ocean is so big.

Wake up.

Isn't blue our favourite colour?
Don't you want to see the blue sky again?

The waves outside our window are coming in.

And you sleep like they don't.

Mama.
Do you know?
I can hear the waves in you
Deep, deep inside you.
They are big, big like your forehead.

Bigger than the bed you are lying on.

Sometimes
you don't wake up when I want you to,
But it's okay.

Mama must be dreaming about the ocean again.
red Aug 2018
as clear as ice, in night or day
reflecting faintly, a soulful reverie
reminding its presence subtly
dewdrops dripping rhythmically

standing in the way, an invisible wall
trying to reach the distant horizon
of which, birds appear and disappear
like speckles of black in orange canvas

eyes—blank and expressionless
mournfully staring in quietude
of the distant mountains and hills
and clouds floating idly

in monotone silence,
a hand reaches out only to be impeded by a cold caress
Jaslin Goh Jul 2017
Windows high or low, windows sing or woe (if they could effect sounds)
Windows are protestants of peace; often the mediator between the inside and the out
They tirelessly shield us from the rain and sun, the dust and even noise, sometimes the wind itself too; so things don't topple over
There are times you open them, when you look out and think of an adventure out
There are also times you close them, when you seek some respite
Windows, if anything, are the forgotten heroes of time
They are your guides, your decision-making helpers, as is the Spirit
Their panes (pains) are to be taken care of, wiped regularly for absolute clarity
They nudge, with the help of wind sometimes, dying not to be ignored
They crave interaction with its user, oh if only our owners knew they cry
Knowing how to operate them for full utilisation is truly, a skill
Notes on the Holy Spirit
Pagan Paul Jun 21
.
A rose from a window
looks like any other rose,
but as the old lady stares
out through the thin glass
a fondness develops,
begins to form a memory,


reaching back,
grasping the past,

that very slowly forms
the image of a rose,
proud in an old garden,
upstanding to catch the eye
of a young girl
staring out of a window.



© Pagan Paul (19/06/19)
.
writerReader Jan 2015
Cat
what do
you think it's
like to be
a cat looking
out the
crystal window wondering
what it's like
to be
free
zumee Oct 2018
She stands at the window
a fine white stream of goodevil knowledge
trickling down her chin

Lungs heaving against the pane
Lungs heaving against the pain
She longs for a killer breeze
from the die-hard fan.

The yellow-eyed seconds slither out the clock
hi S S ing in rhythm as they crawl.

On the table lies the used core of a once
juicy red delicious
hourglass figure, cyanide hearts and all

She is aware of her own nakedness.

The moon watches on
bleeding silver
from stab wounds by dagger-branches
waiting for a crack in the window
through which to enter

The Tree of Life towers menacingly overhead.

He walks in
AdamAnt
intelligent-designer suit: businessgod attire
briefcase in hand
brief case in point

He knows.
She knows.
Time knows.

An Electrified goliath stirs in the depths

The Ego awakens
lifts its rod
beckoning to the waves of children behind it,
parts the folds of red sea
charges head on.

It rides long and hard
hooves pounding the riverbed
Ready
to pull out on the other side

But the branches find their crack.

The Enraged goliath stumbles
suffocating
Ego trips
relentless walls closing in,
It goes under in a seizure
frothing at the mouth
drowning
as its children swim.

Time holds the twosome breath in its constricting grip
Tree binds Life inside a cell
at the center of the evolving prison

The pane, reflecting
The pain, reflected
Window souls mirror souls Window

Branches regain their higher dwellings.

An exhumed goliath stirs
on a distant shore.

She stands at the window
a fine white stream of goodevil knowledge
trickling down her shin.
Mary Frances Aug 2018
I opened my door to someone
who I thought won't leave.
I was torn apart.
Then you came.
You let yourself in
through the window and stayed.
And I feel alive again.
Path Humble Jun 2018
left my phone unlocked
on the taxi’s back seat,
won't be the last time

called it a few times
finally, the driver picked up

he had a fare immediately after mine,
and was now headed way downtown,
and would call later
when fate returned him nearer my office

and so it came to pass,
very shortly thereafter,

we met on the street,
he rolled down  the window
and with the greatest smile of pleasure,
as if he had won the lottery
beaming,
handed me my phone

I had two $20's to cover any expense he might have incurred,
neatly folded in my hand  
and offered it right up, right away;
but the driver repeatedly pushed my hand away
as I insisted,
saying:

"No sir, no no, not necessary!

Allah sent me a fare
that took me soon back close to you, so,
  no loss of time did I suffer,
so your offer is kindly unnecessary!"


to which I replied,

"exactly!
Allah sent you to me
so I could reward you!"


and with an equally, beaming smile continued,

"our ride and meeting today,
together was pre-ordained it was


Inshallah!" ^

something he could not dispute...
or his amazement, disguise...

  we parted ways
   each believing,
   each receiving
a heavenly check plus,
each, credited with a mitzvah^^
on our
respective trip logs,
our humanly divine balance sheets,
kept by the
single
supreme taxi dispatcher
Arabic for ^"God/Allah willing" or "if God/Allah wills," frequently spoken by a Muslim


^^a meritorious or charitable act in the Jewish tradition

FYI,
NYC taxi cab drivers are suffering economically by the explosion of ride hailing app cars, many unable to pay their bills, earn a living, have committed suicide over the past few months
https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/sixth-new-york-city-cab-driver-dies-suicide-after-struggling-n883886

true story, poetry is there for the taking
Mark Tilford Aug 2018
(pulling back the curtains)

looking outside
looking for hope
looking for the way to cope
looking at a tree
thoughts of hanging a rope

the window
reflection of a widow
her head slopes

the window
lays
an envelope
the note
she clears her throat
it begins to rain
she whispers my name
with no blame
with no shame
i love you
the
same

the window
(the curtains close)
Aleena Nov 5
The light that once burned bright
Has dimmed over night,
While the ocean lies still
I ask a question,
Should I stop dreaming
And just go back to sleep?
This is a shortened version of one of my poems. So if you liked it go to my page to read the full poem, it’s called “Dreamer”.

Thanks!
Euphie Feb 2
They say that the eyes are the window
to our souls.

If that were true, then you would
still be laying next to me at my
bedside.
Egeria Litha Jan 29
Sun rays poking from the windows
I can't get my head off this pillow
stale air in this room and I'm holding my breath
anxiety attempts to control what occurs next
then a seizure erupts in my head

Hits the glitch
in my automatic mask
I show for the world
and all those thoughts
I can't hold in my brain space
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