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Miranda Renea Jun 2012
I saw a raindrop fall,
Right on my windowpane.
I gave him a name,
Called him Fred,
Pretended he was my little friend.
But his life was short-lived;
Soon he fell-
Never to live again.
It made me think, though,
My little Fred.
How short is time-
How singular;
Just one short thread.
One short line,
Crossing other raindrops,
Picking up speed,
Racing through life,
Never taking heed of those before.
How silly is this?
Such clipped life-
Crisp.
Hmm-
Silly Misanthropist.
It happened again. The vulture came and perched on the sill.

But this time, unlike all the other times, it pecked on our windowpane. I unbolted the lid, lifted the frame, and offered some bread crumbs. It didn’t stir. I scattered the morsel on its feet, which it picked like fallen friends.

Aside from this long deserted corridor and abandonment lingering on my exhausted underwear, I wonder what I would have for breakfast.

I half expected that the stars would be reborn after its embers had disembarked. Like a dying flame on the grate, every night when you stir the coal and feed me with lies. In your flicker I have placed my heart, and let my flesh, my bones, my thoughts, be extinguished by its tongue. Only to be molded again, like months, like years, like centuries of false promises and interminable greed. All going on, forever.

And today, the sun had burnt itself into cinders. The ashes is everywhere. On our bedcover where we set the world aside and built an new one. On the wall which witnessed those infinite hours we had, those minutes when my bounty was as boundless as the sea, those seconds when you stared at me before you sleep. It lingers on the fabric of the clothes you last wore, before I heard the creaking steps of your departure, of which you were stationed in some distant place, of which you were told that your country was in grave danger, of which your patriotism is highly requested. Of which you complied. Of which you never returned.

You met another woman, I heard.

I hadn’t cleaned the room for ages. I desire to preserve your scent. Layers of sawdust are now resting on the looking glass, which had witnessed both our everlasting days and hideous crimes, which had shared my fear of you going, my anticipation of you coming back home, and my pain of learning that you were killed in the war, which the government had plotted in order to save the country’s dying economy.

You met another woman, I heard. And told her everything about me.

The vulture came everyday. I have known it for ages, had even fooled myself to befriended by it. The last time it perched on the sill was the last time I saw you, after you had received an order commanding you to join the military. Of which you cannot refuse. Of which, in this continent, we have no choice, but to abide.

And now, it’s here again. And had perched again.

The country requires the service of our eldest son, I heard.

The vulture told me.
~Lacus Crystalthorn 2012
Tara Marie Nov 2014
Skies are hues of sullen smoke,
pavements glossed in rain;
falling softly, picturesque.
Where does the water drain?

Hands of many compromises,
eyes engulfed in pain.
Washing worries with off-brand soap.
Where does the water drain?

The daydreams, they are staring back
irises of shame,
that only scrutinize themselves.
Where does the water drain?

Tears are not expelling,
the force of strength; insane,
God swims inside them somewhere new,
Where does the water drain?

The only one who's ever seen
my soul beyond a windowpane.
A mist, a fall, a downpour,
but *Where does the water drain?
Waiting.

Swallowed by ochre sheets,
watching you
reveal the stars playing under your paper skin,

Outshining the ****** streetlights
peering through my
windowpane.

Calling
like sirens of melted viridian
from the shores of my doom.

Drifting,
(apparition? wraith? spirit?)
your halo of fire
splayed along my bed
Illuminated.

Moving
to the tempo
of telltale hearts
Conducting
an orchestra of motion
Strings and tendons stretched
Vibrating in harmony

Two frail bodies
Colliding
in the night, louder than
the most impressive percussion
Holding the last note on
a heavenly fermata
And the conductor never said stop.

Ringing
from the concert hall
bedroom like the sigh
sounded from a thousand
symphonic suns.
Fading
in the evanescent eruption.
The tendrils of night
Weaving
dread threads
into our heartstrings and
Plucking
their sour tune -
maiming our melody
and
hacking our harmony
til the piano
was but firewood
to an empty flame.
Copyright 2010 @ Tyler Ryan Rodriguez
Kelly Rose Jan 2017
I apoligize for not reading your posts. I have been battling my depression and have not been online .  I have written a poem about it (of course lol).  I hope you enjoy and I hope to be online tomorrow.

My Dark Tale (A Sestina)

It is a lovely time of day for tea
As I sit curled up to the song of rain
Memories arise of a deep dark pain
Storm clouds gather within my heart, darkly
Dimly, I am aware of rainbow’s hope
Wanting dreams infused with Rosemary and Thyme

Out of work, I suffer from too much time
Overeating and drinking too much tea
Depression worsens, stealing all my hope
And all my dreams shatter in the cold rain
Leaving me empty in the bitter dark
As I stare out of the broken windowpane

How I long to conquer my bitter pain
If only I would organize my time
I know then, I would rise above the dark
Instead, I get caught in cookies and tea
And sink deeper; chaos supremely reigns
I flounder once again, losing my hope

I am tired of losing precious hope
Letting despair and worthless bitter pain
To take control and determinedly reign
Structure! Will that allow me to use time
Positively? Cutting back on black tea
Getting needed sleep to fight back the dark

Rested, I can push back the hated dark
Strive to capture peace and beautiful hope
Learning once again to enjoy my tea
And not as a crutch that causes me pain
While I mourn the loss of wasted sweet time
Instead, I would see rainbows in the rain

I yearn to topple depression’s long reign,
To walk in the sun’s light, not the cold dark
Eager to greet the day and enjoy time
Pursue my dreams, infusing life with hope
Do away with doldrums and bitter pain
Relaxing and enjoying Earl Gray Tea

Envoi

To sum up, I yearn to enjoy my tea
Overcome my darkness and pain; to feel hope
While I take time to enjoy the sweet rain

Kelly Rose
© January 5, 2017
Wednesday Aug 2015
Art
Marble.
Smooth granite, melting, molding.
Lust making my legs heavy like I am fighting quicksand.

This is my call.

Seduction is an art, just like my body.

With curled toes and an arched back I fight my woes.
I can scrub their hand prints off with hot water,
douse my body in bleach and wake up clean.

My soul is one of the few things harder than my heart.
My soul is a brick through your windowpane
in the dead of a black night.

They call me names they do not know the meaning of.
I do not mind this,
they do not know how lonely I get without fingers exploring me, painting me like I am a canvas in need of
the perfect finishing brushstroke.

I am a woman, not an exceptionally beautiful one,
but I can still make your head turn when I walk by.
Not exceptionally personable,
but i know the power of a compliment,
and I will shower you in them until you think you have won me over.

You have not.

I do not belong to anyone,
I do not even own myself.
Remember you will never truly know me,
so go on and forget about having me.
Daisy Chain May 2016
I can't stand this nonsense, this indifference  
this moat around the edge of my sight. My life.
I can't stand this overindulgence,
this unfettered decadence,
while the rest of the world isn't even given the privilege of weeping.
Of sleeping.
Of light.  
Insistingly,
I can't sleep - my dreams too a world without dreams.
An unfiltered montage of my insecurities playing out the reality I feel behind the forced optimism. The fanaticism,
for the smoothly ironed pressed.
Life.
I call out my own name -
behind the darkened and forgotten windowpane,
is the version of myself, angry, lonely and free.
Free of the freedoms that suffocate me.
Apparently I'm free to choose my fate,
my desk, my jacket, my dinner plate.
Yet where is the queue for self-expression?
For social justice? For unadulterated streams?
I am waiting, and getting rather impatient
with this facade
that we call 'the way it is.'
Dreams of Sepia Sep 2015
night rain scratching
at the lonely windowpane

a house spider crawls
to the safety of darkness

cars chase stars
down hollow highways

I now believe you meant it
when we said goodbye

the last blackberries
rotted in the garden

someone said recently
there are other universes

other than ours
I believe them
dafne Nov 2013
The fact that I am inferior
Is etched into my brain
A weakling in this world,
Just a speck of dust on the windowpane

The other girls beauty
Radiates farther
And the intensity of their
Bleached white teeth
Outshine my metal mouth

It's like the how the colors
of fall leaves
Attract many
But no one enjoys
The simple green chlorophyll
Inside their spring and summer veins.
Marieta Maglas Oct 2011
Giving or not giving voice to the heretical words...

Understanding that the true love is a scarification.....

For being or not being....

True love inundating the conundrum
Like that sacred river of longing,
Sometimes flowing swiftly through landscapes
Astounding the lurid heart.....

The sound of silence passing...
Passions galvanizing the wounds and painful mares for enduring...

Trying to heal the injury...

Flying gulls beneath the lower bow, touching the blue waters of the ocean.....
Waves and sad memories dancing on the golden sand....
Shying away from the horizon line....
Vessels screaming and shouting their hearts out....
Swimming across the ocean of red burning coals,
Searching for that golden threshold.....

The colors spectrum giving the necessary senses to the lights of absolution,
When their senses turn inward.....

Gazing the mountain from the windowpane...
From the indoor side of that rain-rinsed windowpane.....
Sitting on that mountain and gazing at the stars....
Birds gliding across, like rainbow rising, spreading their wings, streaming..
Those birds flying in a variety of ways, ranging from gliding to soaring to flapping....



The crystalline steeping slopes of the mountain multi faces....
Being decorated with climbing ropes, heavenly as seen from above....
And the crystalline waters, steeping cliffs, hidden lakes and lush forests...

A sign of a divine love...

Understanding that love is like the Earth and the gravity,
Inseparable.....

Groans and moans leading to mortuaries....

Life being like walking in the middle of the park,
Embracing the crouch air,
Or embracing change by resisting the defensive crouch.....
And going deep into the human system, feeling like being born again....


The smile on face painting an episode of the past,
Engraving our hearts with golden debris,
Like a golden pyramid, contracting pyramid.....
Generating our consciousness and chasing away insanity....

Sounds of silence passing...

Being like a blue ocean...
Lorelei Adams Oct 2011
I caught you in the dark.
The reeds bending with my footsteps,
the wet grass chilling my toes as my
breath hung thick- close to my face.
I reached with the glass jar that my parents  gave me and caught you.
And closed the lid.
I took you into my room
-the place I'd never let anyone go before-
where you lit up the dark
and made shadows dance on the ceiling.

I kept you safe a snug in that jar
watching your controlled beauty light up
my dresser,
then my bed,
then my jewelry box,
and showed you all the prettiest parts of my room-
they got even lovelier in your presence.

but then You got out of the jar

And flew around my room- rediscovering
my dresser,
then my bed,
then my jewelry box
with a celestial freedom and a fullness I didn't know was possible.
And it was beautiful.

But then you flew into my closet
and under my bed
and behind the doors I keep closed
and buzzed around my ***** laundry.
It was ugly.
But I couldn't control you, and I couldn't put you back into the jar again.

While you lit up my entire room, my shame grew larger than the night sky looming on the other side of the windowpane.

So I opened the window
and waited for you to fly away from my ugly
believing that you would join the stars
not really how I normally write. I like how simple it is though
Nik Bland Jul 2016
Hello good son upon my doorstep
Have you gained your old man's respect
Or rejected trivial things
Has the boy become a man?

Hello good son, are days kind
Have learned teachings eased your mind
Will you take this world one hand at a time
Or have you found no ground to stand upon

Hello good son in foreign lands
Does a lover hold your hands
Have your demands been met with silence
And tell what you'll do be heard

Hello good son, rise again
The morning sings through your windowpane
Each note singing of choices new
And you have so many roads to take

Goodbye good son, I'll see you once more
Another time when you knock on my door
To ask the questions life has yet to teach
And fall upon the words I offer you
Nathalie Dec 2017
i remember when the trickling sound of rain frightened me; pattering against the windowpane in the dead of night like creaky fingers belonging to my fears.
first, they were the dark, and roller coasters with skittish tracks from old-timey days, and monsters under the bed with long arms waiting to wrap me into them.
those changed, quite how most everything does, into those of melancholy love, and unrequited love, and the constant worry of fairytale endings rattling in my mind until it turned into gunk and spewed out my ears, doing anything i can to get it out, out, out.
my dear, i await the days where there is nothing to be afraid of, though they may not come soon.
we are impatient beings not designed for the way the world works on its own; outside of who we are.
and yes, my fears remain, but no longer am i afraid of the rain.
an oldie of mine
Jon Tobias Feb 2012
You are so much bitter music you dancing devil
Like a last minute psalm for freedom
One that you have memorized so carefully
You don't recite it
You feel it
The buckle of your knees bends you beautifully in prayer
So many words in your perfectly timed gasps for air

Breathe on my neck again
Bitter sweet beer breathed passion
My fingers dance
Because I need so many ways to say unrequited
So many ways to say
Patience is something I can do without

And I stand still like a tree
Like the wrong tree
And I am barking up it

This is hot mess remix love
Through faulty filters
Burning up my coffee lung
Fingertip singe nailbite frustration

This is bitter music
Full of flavor for all the wrong reasons
A happy accident proximity
Of misunderstood gyration

Hands like dead tree branches
Fingertip curl to write
Sounds of late night windowpane taps

The songs dont match
Though the music ends at the same time
Shoulder shrug and careful backstep

My friends are waiting
It was nice meeting you I guess

You broken bone remix
Of passionate smile
Right foot forward fire
Perfect pitch like a ***** psalm for freedom

And bitter music
Had to christen my new computer with a poem before I did my homework. This was inspired by a poem titled "If I Controlled the Internet" by Rives. If you happen to know it, or listen to it, don't ask me how that poem inspred this one. I couldn't tell you.
Spanish

Fuera, la noche en veste de tragedia solloza
Como una enorme viuda pegada a mis cristales.

  Mi cuarto:…
Por un bello milagro de la luz y del fuego
Mi cuarto es una gruta de oro y gemas raras:
Tiene un musgo tan suave, tan hondo de tapices,
Y es tan vívida y cálida, tan dulce que me creo
Dentro de un corazón…

    Mi lecho que está en blanco es blanco y vaporoso
Como flor de inocencia,
Como espuma de vicio!
  Esta noche hace insomnio;
Hay noches negras, negras, que llevan en la frente
Una rosa de sol…
En estas noches negras y claras no se duerme.

  Y yo te amo, Invierno!
Yo te imagino viejo,
Yo te imagino sabio,
Con un divino cuerpo de marmól palpitante
Que arrastra como un manto regio el peso del Tiempo…
Invierno, yo te amo y soy la primavera…
Yo sonroso, tú nievas:
Tú porque todo sabes,
Yo porque todo sueño…

    …Amémonos por eso!…
    Sobre mi lecho en blanco,
Tan blanco y vaporoso como flor de inocencia,
Como espuma de vicio,
Invierno, Invierno, Invierno,
Caigamos en un ramo de rosas y de lirios!





              English


    Outside the night, dressed in tragedy, sighs
Like an enormous widow fastened to my windowpane.

    My room…
By a wondrous miracle of light and fire
My room is a grotto of gold and precious gems:
With a moss so smooth, so deep its tapestries,
And it is vivid and hot, so sweet I believe
I am inside a heart…

    My bed there in white, is white and vaporous
Like a flower of innocence.
Like the froth of vice!
    This night brings insomnia;
There are black nights, black, which bring forth
One rose of sun…
On these black and clear nights I do not sleep.

    And I love you, Winter!
I imagine you are old,
I imagine you are wise,
With a divine body of beating marble
Which drags the weight of Time like a regal cloak…

Winter, I love you and I am the spring…
I blush, you snow:
Because you know it all,
Because I dream it all…

    We love each other like this!…
    On my bed all in white,
So white and vaporous like the flower of innocence,
Like the froth of vice,
Winter, Winter, Winter,
We fall in a cluster of roses and lilies!
Silver Wolf Nov 2013
Now you know why
I’m afraid of flying high
How can you leave everything
So far behind
Forget your problems temporary
Then fall back down flat on your face
And have a fist fight with reality
That you tried so hard to escape
To defy
To deny
All those years
I feel trapped
Claw at the fogged up windowpane
Tempted to shatter glass
Make impact
Leaving marks
Imperfect streaks smudging
The view
Blurring the scenery
Until everything fades into
This oneness
This Monotony
And everything appears
To be the same hue of gray
Even the brightest shades of
Colors wash out over time
Years later no one will remember
Forget the history their lives
Forget the daring leaps she made
And smoky ash litters the ground
A residue of what could have been
Ashlei Cottom Apr 2014
Calm down Little Seeker,
I know what you're searching for.
Happiness. Peace. Love.
Calm down Little Seeker,
Your destination's waiting for you.

You've been waiting for so long,
Like raindrops on a windowpane;
Hoping for an end.

An end to the search,
An end to the false hope,
An end to the disappointment.
It's there Little Seeker, take it.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Jordan Rowan Aug 2015
I fell asleep on a runaway train
Trying not to go insane, oh no
I felt alive but couldn't decide
If I wanted to live or die
Or spend another night / without you

I boarded as the sun went down
And there was no one else around, oh no
I slept against the windowpane
Hearing dreams and the falling rain
As I ride towards nowhere, without you

The endless fields go on and on
Like the pain when you said so long, oh no
I held in my weary hand
The letters of a lost romance
The words all seem empty, without you

As the sun rose in the East
From my dreams I've been released, oh no
The rhythm of the railway car
Makes me wonder where you are
And if I'll be alright, without you
These are lyrics for a song I've written. Heartbreak is good inspiration.
Christine Ueri Feb 2015
A pair of crows streaks the skyline. I watch their graceful flight above bare treetops, concrete, and steel constructions, on a backdrop of exhaust fumes.

One crow alights after the other; their claws grip the bars of the signal tower a few feet away from where I wait for the next bus home. I wonder if they built their nest on that giant, manmade constellation of angles . . . From there they would have an exceptional view of the surrounding area, and few predators would dare to go up there.

"I found a dead crow, tangled in a wrought iron gate, once." His voice taps inside the nerve hollows of my mind, and I am unsure if the loud, clicking noises coming from the crows, and the perfectly synchronised squeaking of the bus' brakes, amplify or dampen his tone.

The bus driver greets with his usual, "Hello, Sweetie." I want him to be the bus driver, instead. He would never be late, he said. He wouldn't make me wait for what sometimes seems like an eternity. I mumble an almost-civil reply, biting back tears as I stumble forward against the pull of the engine to flop down on the nearest seat. I avoid eye contact with the other commuters; my gaze fixed to their reflections on the windowpane -- doppelgängers obscuring my vision -- a zeitgeist of movements . . . "Don't look at the window, look through it, silly . . . and don't miss me, I am just far away . . ." I always miss him more when he says that.

The coral trees are in full bloom, adding robust warmth to the faint copper glow of the winter sunset. Are their flowers the same vermilion colour as the 'fire tree' in his garden? Above the coral trees, I spot a pair of magnificent wings: a sacred ibis . . .

Fly south with me, Sacred Ibis. You are a goddess. White wings, neatly trimmed with a pearly black hem . . . when will you come down again, so I can show him what Isis really looks like? I won't be able to capture your image in flight, although he would love to see you like this -- spread-eagle . . .

The Ibis remains within view until we reach the nature reserve at the foot of the mountain. Here, the road forks into choices; I have but one -- keep left. The driver has a heavy foot and the next stop is mine. I get up from my seat and stumble down the narrow aisle towards the nearest exit, my hand tightening around a canary-yellow handlebar as I brace myself for the ****.

The hydraulic hiss of the opened doors spit at my heels. I leap from the bus, onto the pavement; my feet meet the concrete -- a long, silver-grey slab, slapped onto dry, red clay -- with a thud, dust settles on my coat in a whirlwind of the bus' departure.

Pigeons. Too many to count. They line the flat roofs of smog-stained, one- and two-storey buildings. Could they be soldiers? "No, my Love. Doves and pigeons are peacekeepers . . . and there is war in the Gaza Strip . . ." Yes, but what about the buildings? I walk on, thinking about the mourning dove he nursed; the one that followed his smoke rings . . .

We found an abandoned laughing dove squab last summer -- he, or she, made it. Sam was hand-reared, survived, and flew away on one of those bright summer's afternoons . . .

At the corner, I wait for the dust to settle further and the traffic light to turn green -- there are always those who don't need saving.

Turn right.

The Chinese maples are bare. Their deep-red autumn leaves have returned to the earth for redemption.

An Egyptian goose honks, calling his mate from the top of the church tower on the other side of the road. Perhaps, after so many chance encounters, he recognises me while he spreads his wings, flapping them slowly, without rising from his position, in what I imagine is a display of empathy.

I notice that I'm standing on the same patch of lawn where I found the barn owl's feather, months ago. Owl feathers ought to be kept in the dark, away from the day birds'. . . In the distance; I see the grove of pagoda trees that lead the way home -- beacons, providers and protectors. I follow. 

An assortment of feathers, haphazardly stuck into the wooden frame of the French doors, welcomes us home; fragments of unlocking and entering are placed on the dining table where we do everything.

Textbooks, dictionaries, software manuals, bird guides, the salt- and peppershakers -- guano has lost its value; it's all pink, organic Himalayan crystal salt, now. My children's empty cereal bowls were left on the table in the morning rush; they remind me of the years we have to catch up to -- I dissolve gunpowder pillulets under my tongue: Homeopathic medicine for this virus.

Balance -- like the flamingo, or the blue crane in the bird-guide-photos. On one leg, I reach for the light switch . . .

He glows in the weak ambiance -- electric bulbs cast a sepia vignette that invokes the scent of burning rose petals -- something akin to the gestalt of Rama, or a Buddha in blue . . .

Supper is a bland affair; I think of the Krishna temple I haven't visited in over a decade. How do they do it? Serve such exquisite meals on donations (feed the masses and the masses will feed you) . . .

Dishwater drips from my hands and runs down the inside of my arms as I absent-mindedly reach for the crow's feather, hidden in between the wrought iron candleholders on top of the grocery cupboard -- a gift or a donation?
 
I have donated my life to causes and movements, as a bird gifts its feathers to the earth, and to feather collectors, but will it be enough to sustain our future?

 

Aug/Sept 2014
Aug/Sept 2014
Haven Collie Jan 2013
the thing is
I could hate myself
but what would be the point
when I was never so happy
as when you tried to light my cat on fire
with your cigarette.
your ice blue eyes sliced with stripes of gold,
dressed all in black and grey,
we laughed up to the tops of the pine trees,
folds of navy blue blanket all over the ground,
surrounded by brittle leaves that you had
burned holes through.
the sky was white
and life moved quickly
and the next day at school
we ignored each other.

the thing is
I could cry to the point of dehydration
but what would be the point
when I was never so happy
as when we sat in a café filled with ***** people
with dirtier thoughts and pure smiles
and you told me that there's no such thing
as writer's block.
we sipped our rice milk tea
and you said to go ahead and write that love story,
because every love is different.
your pet fish sat on the table
as we laughed on the couch,
eliciting hidden smiles from sad people.
the sky was blue
and you walked me to my car
and you were embarrassed
about your forbidden muse.

the thing is
I really could **** myself
but really, what would be the point
when I was never so happy
as when I felt you behind me,
drowsy in the night,
and I could feel you kiss the back of my hair
and your fingers clutch the fabric
on my stomach,
someone else's golden curls and soft skin
against my cheek,
remembering your sparkling emerald eyes
reflected along with the wire metal fence
and the white orbs of light
floating in the water of the porcelain bathtub
drinking tea and sleeping with the blanket of love
and scalding water
encasing us.
and as crickets sounded outside the windowpane
and I felt your hand melt into mine,
the smell of strawberries like ghosts sleeping in blankets
and I thought about how much
the absence of my first love resonated
in my lungs,
the sky was purple
and I never wanted to leave your embrace
and I've never loved anybody so quickly.
thank you. I've never had the pleasure of finding so many wonderful people all at once.
Jack Groundhog Oct 2024
A dark clay raven hung at a windowpane
to ward off bright songbirds from glass.
It never spoke a word, nor did it feign
to know of a departed late lass.

I asked it my questions, expecting more
conversation than it had on offer,
but plainly it found me a tedious bore
for it stayed quiet. Not much of a talker.

The brief encounter left me po-faced
as I’d been led to expect more from him.
So I turned away, belying a trace
of disappointment weighing within.

Then I heard the wind, and nothing much else
except the song of birds who’d survived
thanks to the clay raven who hung by a belt
in front of a window to keep it disguised.
Inspired by an old-fashioned clay raven that hung in front of a window in Mainz Old Town to prevent birdstrike. Having a bit of fun, too.
S E L Jan 2014
a pony ride turns hollow when unshod hooves slip and tear
lots of room for prey and avarice on the prowl
I'm hiding sad shadows in the gods' kind shade
the position you've cosseted was never yours
and a bouquet in full bloom lies face down in a trash can
and a dead plant stands in the corner of a takeaway outlet
your shadow came to talk to me when you fell into deepest asleep

a frosted windowpane is sandwiched in snow
a slick oil spill in a cat's hungry paw
incredibly, convo is created in terse debate over a teaspoon
similarly, two ladies sit and sip in evening caps

amarna letters get torn or burnt to maintain the unknown
Keith Wilson Apr 2016
While I was asleep last night
Someone's painted the whole world white
They've turned the raindrops into ice
Like pretty jewels they look so nice

Pretty patterns on my windowpane
Perhaps the fairies have been again
Icy flowers and ferns are there
Fairy foliage everywhere

The dormant garden sprang to life
A pretty picture overnight
See the trees and bushes all
Decked as for a fairy ball

Daddy says it isn't so
Fairies disappeared years ago
If they were ever here at all
It's just the harsh winter weather, that's all

Mummy says “They may have been”
But I shouldn't delve into things unseen
I'll be watching out for them all right
They may return in dead of night

Keith Wilson
Ego
His voice cracks in the thunder’s peal
My ego failed me in life’s each deal
Never did see what the other saw
Too blind to notice my own flaw!


In the candlelight his face wears a gloom
Two tremulous shadows darken the room
Forever I felt the world is for me
My viewpoints matter only!


Like a deluge pours the thunderous rain
In deafening din rattling windowpane
Focused only me only tried to get
***** in void now when egos abate!


Flickers a grave loss in his dulled eyes
Unshackled from self its obdurate disguise
*Over the ruins of ego is born in me the belief
The reward is not in the getting but lies in all our give!
I cry
Not only because I feel alone

I see others out there
Not knowing what to do

You say
You have something to offer

Please come to my
Windowpane and tap lightly

As the devil
Stands on my welcome mat

Beating down the door

What do I do, do I invite him in
To begin another round of chaos

Or do I wait for your gentle rap
On my windowpane
Mike Hauser May 2013
I inherited an old run down shotgun  shack
In a South Florida town
From an Uncle I had no idea I had
He never came around

It was the shed out back that held my interest
Filled with memories, dust, and spider webs
Was I just being adventurous
Or was I being led

Opposite the door in the corner stood a ceder chest
Covered over in a layer of dust
The latch and lock lay on the dirt floor
Long ago succumbed to rust

The inside was filled with pirate writings
Which you know is a poets dream
No maps of hidden treasures
But hidden treasures all the same

I took to those pirate writings
Like an angry moth takes to flame
Drawn in close like his life depends
On the wave of heat it brings

Page after page of high sea adventures
And far off exotic lands
I spent that afternoon well into the night dreaming
With pirate treasure held in my hands

I don't know how long it was I'd been asleep
When I woke up to a dust filtered light
Shining through a broken windowpane
In the shed where I'd spent the night

But I really spent it on the high open seas
And in far off exotic lands
Where when it gets back around to evening time
With pirate writings I plan to go again
girl diffused Oct 2017
Everything in the home is new
She curls her toes against the wooden grain of the floorboards
Rain pelts against the window pane, her fingers flex
The dog moans somewhere beyond the walls
She feels like a phantom, her feet light on every surface
Untraceable, she finds him reclining on the couch
Curled in on himself, eyes, half-lidded
Heavy with sleep, pearled water on his eyelashes
She kisses his cheek, presses her lips against his wet forehead
His eyelids flutter open, his hands pass over the thick hardcover
A poet's book in his hand, pages dog-eared on 352, he opens it
Drowsily reads a poem, her words that she'd written late at night
Dripping from his lips, not mendacious, but holding a deeper truth in his mouth

-

This is where she would end up, in this soft-white-walled home
Everything is new and bright
The cat, curled up on the windowsill, seemingly peering into a divided world
Separated by the gentle pattering of falling rain
Everything outside is gray and cloudless
The computer is on but its light emitted is muted
She seats herself next to him, folds her legs underneath her
His hand grasps hers gently, turns it over, gleaming on her finger is the ring
The quiet and unselfish promise

*

The quiet and unselfish promise
His hand grasps hers gently, turns it over, gleaming on her finger is the ring
She seats herself next to him, folds her legs underneath her
The computer is on but its light emitted is muted
Everything outside is gray and cloudless
Separated by the gentle pattering of falling rain
The cat, curled up on the windowsill, seemingly peering into a divided world
Everything is new and bright
This is where she would end up, in this soft-white-walled home

-

Dripping from his lips, not mendacious, but holding a deeper truth in his mouth
Drowsily reads a poem, her words that she'd written late at night
A book in his hand, pages dog-eared on 352, he opens it
His eyelids flutter open, his hands pass over the thick hardcover
She kisses his cheek, presses her lips against his wet forehead
Heavy with sleep, pearled water on his eyelashes
Curled in on himself, eyes half-lidded
Untraceable, she finds him reclining on the couch
She feels like a phantom, her feet and fingers light on every surface
The dog moans somewhere beyond the walls
Rain pelts against the windowpane, her fingers flex
She curls her toes against the wooden grain of the floorboards
Everything in the home is new
énouement
n. the bittersweetness of having arrived here in the future, where you can finally get the answers to how things turn out in the real world—who your baby sister would become, what your friends would end up doing, where your choices would lead you, exactly when you’d lose the people you took for granted—which is priceless intel that you instinctively want to share with anybody who hadn’t already made the journey, as if there was some part of you who had volunteered to stay behind, who was still stationed at a forgotten outpost somewhere in the past, still eagerly awaiting news from the front.

About this poem - a girl gazes into her future once, then again, in reverse.
Jordan Rowan Jan 2016
Stepping in the middle of a hurricane fire waiting for the winter to blow
Somebody was listening but you were on your way to Mexico
Down there, they won't care if you want to run around town
The women don't love you but the one you do sleeps in a Minnesota town

Can you see the horizon falling like a diamond in the middle of the violet sky?
You thought you were clear until a tear came to your eye
Everything was moving along and you had your pride in your hand
Now you've got a decision, do you run or fight like a man?

Somewhere in the city where everything was pretty, you found the windowpane
You saw her silhouette burning like a jet through the campfire rain
You shouted out and saw her open up the window to her moonlit room
As a man grabbed her waist, froze you in place, now you've gotta move on too
Thinking Doc Jul 2015
Neruda would have been at loss for words,
If he saw what I saw today, if he felt what I felt,today,
Travelling as I was on the Subway.

Am I a Socialist? A Democrat? A Bureaucrat?
A Jew, an Atheist, or a forgotten Hindu?
Reborn, because moksha is for saints?

I don't know what my soul is like, is it blue?
Or is it like a raindrop meandering on a windowpane,
Too embroiled in its grief to care about disappearing,
All the while looking like a tear on the cheek of the Sky.

I doubt Neruda could come up with words for the sight
Of blood and torn skin on the subway tracks,
The organic leftover of a poor ******,
Lost to Time.

I have no words, either, my mouth is shut
In the silence of death, because as I stepped over the threshold
And found peace, I found that I had lost my voice.
miranda schooler Jan 2014
my brain isn't connected to anything else in my body , and i think that's why i lie ..
because i honestly have no idea what's going on up there sometimes .
every once in a while there is a sting pain , and i get migraines from time to time ,
but i drink some *** and they're gone , and i am pleasant as punch .


today i helped my grandfather take down christmas lights
and every time i unplugged a set
from the outlet i thought about killing myself ..


love is lonely for almost all of us .
no one asked their lover to get a job that only lets them work night shifts ,
but we all told them they should take it .
and now we take a shower twice a week with only three cups of water ,
and we only only watch the television two minutes a day
so that maybe the bills will get low enough to the point that they can quit ,
and come home to us in the darkness of night .


the memories of that morning slide against my mind
like rain on a windowpane and i think that maybe you honestly did love me ,
but i also think that maybe ...
you can use them if you'd like .. message me your final product
Julie Butler May 2015
I just want
coffee
and a quiet
place to sit
this ain't a song about
love
it is a list about
lips
I'm not here to sip or kiss from
just sat down to listen
the art of un-touching becomes;
that self-worth preserves wisdom

there's a windowpane's screen
covered with tiny flocks of moths
without concern of any sort
I watched you knock them all off


you watched me
untuck all my pockets
ready, you let me
*give this all up
take

— The End —