"windowsills" poems
I come from New Orleans where the swingers hook up with the singers, and the boxes have a person inside who speak to you through a thick horizontal slot in the door. You come from Minnesota where the most aggressive sentence is “Hi, how are you” and you’ve attended church every Sunday of your life, even though you don’t really believe in god.
We came to the West to skate with the surfer junkies. But then the harbors got bombed and we moved out East to see the hipsters and the artists beggin on the streets. We went to the South with the racists and bigots were dying for a good show. We moved up North to escape from the 70s, and with the 80s on the rise we figured we’d best stay away.
The 70s were rockin’ with **** and LSD in parks and concerts, and on benches on the streets. The smoke in the air was everywhere, from the slums in Wisconsin to the cities of Dallas. Even the poor were lost in the haze.
When the 80s arrived with Rock ‘n’ Roll and techno beats from windowsills upstairs. The music was groovin’ and the ladies were fine. We saw billboards of our names in neon orange lights. The *** was replaced by coke, and the LSD with ****** singing and swinging with delight in our eyes.
When the AIDS broke out we were sick in our beds listening to Pink Floyd and Elton John, and still we were singing. The 70s got us high while the 80s made us die
We lived through wars in Vietnam, and Korea; we fought back the communists with red ink on our hands. We broke down the door into China and got them to arrive in the present and join the world. Although their chairman sits on a chair of lies he leads them with an angry fist in the air pumping “three cheers for Mao”. “Three cheers for Mao”.
When the Soviets launched themselves to the moon we responded with our money and flashed our shiny new machinery in their faces. We marked our territory and claimed triumphantly that “We’re the best”. And we launched our war nukes and pinned them into intimidation. Then the Cubans sought revenge for the death of the Pigs on their Bay. With rifles in hand we stormed the beach and unearthed Castro and his regime.
With our beds soaked in blood, and our dreams covered with fog, hand in hand we lay. We recalled the dances in the backs of old Cafes where the passwords were as simple as three quick knocks and two slow ones. We remembered the guns that pierced the heavenly chorus for the negros in the south. And we thought about the music of the 70s and the death in the 80s and I thought about you for a minute more.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
I picked up flowers in my garden before first days of autumn, dried to save them from black magic of winter and cold breaths of sky. I put them between warm rays on my windowsills in arms of cozy home to bring spirit of life forever in their bones. I saved compositions of their scent on my lips, so you will feel endless, enigmatic, healing symphony in my kiss. I will leave sweet taste in your mouth little by little until dark mirror of your thoughts and wounds break into innocent fields of flowers full of butterflies and indispensable, clear-eyed raconteur of happiness speaking in every fragile petal silences your fleeting and long-lasting demons endowing your shadow with seductive light, tiredness with aliveness of grass, broken dreams with ubiquity of creation, fears with ineffable tranquility. This is how I love you. I will save you from the worst. I will never let you die inside no matter how cold are your days. I will fill your soul with air of metaphysical love of past eras and magic of innumerable, free-flowing joys not based on any circumstances. I will fill your thoughts with romantic myths and insatiable fantasies and old-fashioned poems. I will cover you to sleep with my dragonfly soul no matter how cold life could be.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC
the world sits on the wing of a dove
being swallowed whole by a fiery goddess
descended from heaven on a chariot of ivy
i am incarcerated by shaking flesh and itching cloth
the road before me is giant and knows no bounds
the graveyard is warm and wet with spirits and dew
and red clouds are born from fire in the dawn
there is an intelligent horse being ridden by a snarling insect
and this man has come to claim our souls
our sunset blood burns boils blisters until a million animals wounded
i'm still alive, transfigure me into a creator
choke up my nostrils with the scent of your ***
invade my lungs with the burn of your god
caress my toungue with the infinite promise
enter my brain from above, and regurgitate your anxiety on me
slimy worms devour a psychadelic tomato laughing
into transendency, an eyeless eel has dissappeared into a pocket
i speak from balconies, from terrible heights, from hastened windowsills
in a million desperate quarrelling cities
this is where i **** up illusion, i give up to despondency
i ring the great iron bell that resounds with corruption, with hatred, with hideous *** and admiration,
i scream and cavort on rooftops alone with a black & blue midnight
covered in electric lights and gunpowder tongues
here comes the disintegration of my mind
disgraced by the eye of the earth and spat into
a realm of salivating light
i am swimming through digested heartbreak and melancholy livers
sickened by madness and homemade bombs and ******
the rainclouds carry a truckload of babies' hearts
and it's raining eyes over the city now
the cry of the mind escapes from waving mouths in impotence
as millions of bacteria invade the brain
may these lines be answered by the bird of the sun
by the worm at my ear
by the sight of my skeleton
by the stench of ***** in the air
by the dead gong shivering through midnight
by the bleeding eye of abandoned dreams
by the prophets in proclamation
by the god of all my sorrows
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 9:55 PM UTC
i am running out of
air
i am running out of
scrapes on my knees
running out of
new corners to cross
in this neighborhood
we are growing up in the same houses
with the same curtain of trees draping
their limbs over our windowsills
we are sleeping in the same bedsheets
wrinkled from the imperative
tossing and turning
of adolescents.
we inflate our chests
and float away like red balloons
a freckle in the pale complexion of the sky
for this love affair with the pavement
has lost its edge
this slipping on
slimy banana peels
has stabilized
we have bitten and scratched and stained
the doors of your fingers
studied every trail of your fingerprints
we have grown older in the palm of your hand
your fists raised to the sky
it is time for you to open them.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 3:33 PM UTC
I keep finding peaches
Peaches
I don't think it's possible to not smile when you say the word
they turn my cheeks the same color as their skin
it makes me grin and laugh to see them sunbathing on the banister
lining the window sills like shining trophies
on my porch like children climbing to Set upon the tallest object They can find
beaming as children do
Maybe it's cuz I grew up in the south
Knowing you have to set them out And wait for them to be soft to
the touch
let them ripen in the Sun so you can then pick your fruit that up
until now has been forbidden
it's like a little fuzzy ball of gold Sunshine warming your face and
your mouth
I love the word peaches
maybe it's the memory,
the name,
Peaches
“chin up, peaches”
it carrie's such an innocence such a light-hearted, free-spirited
happiness.
something warm and welcoming and something I could only find at home
maybe it's the breakfast
peaches and cream
three ingredients
so happy, so creamy, so sweet, smooth, summary, comforting
it's what my grandma would give me
so sugary, yet so filling
it reminds me of her
it tastes how she act
it is her hyperbole
peaches and cream is a grandmother
it's as sweet as her voice
as comforting as her touch
as filling as her hug
and as smooth as her skin.
maybe it's all three
either way
this time of Peach field windowsills will come again next year
and the year after that
and the year after that
until I am the grandmother they represent
and every year, I will smile.
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 11:41 PM UTC
It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders
everyone to 'dig in, everyone!'
Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan.
Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either.
Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults.
In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift.
Ahha!
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
He wore a purple knitted cap.
He had a carrot nose
This snowman figurine wore skates
with black buttons on his clothes.
His cheeks were daubed a cherry red
His bootless feet looked cold.
His smiling was perpetual
His was a hopeful soul.
Yet now he lay out near the curb
He was destined for the trash
His mistress found a figurine
that had a bit more flash.
He looked back sadly at the house.
The only home he'd known
His colleagues, perched on windowsills
looked out at him alone.
The trash-men came
and grabbed the bags
hydraulics crushed and smashed
One trash man took the figurine
and put it with his stash
The trash man and his little girl
since Spring had lived alone.
It was hard since Emma's mother died
but he tried to make a home.
With no insurance and one salary
his house this year looked bare
Where once they'd had a festive Spruce
now a pitiful fake stood there.
Such decorations as they had
were pilfered from the trash
of folks with little sentiment
and too much spending cash.
In his workshop in the basement
He made the snowman shine
His silver skates were polished
He repainted every line.
Little Emma loved the snowman
When she saw him near the tree
He is no longer called unwanted
since he found a new family.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 10:19 PM UTC
Children awake to sizzling butter and fresh eggs
Birds chirp and settle on their windowsills
Greeting them with the sound of nature.
How lovely it must be!
Childhood is all about the games and the play, they said.
Buttons are pressed,
Video games begin,
because violence is but a pixelated projection for them.
Two extremities of this earth are facing each other now.
Darkness lies on the opposite side.
What a shame!
Home now bleeds images of destruction.
Childhood is non-existent there.
Children awake to the nauseating scent of gunpowder,
Anxiety has filled their minds,
The future remains vague
Lives hanging on a thread
The drones set off missiles to cut it.
They are worth the entire world to their mothers
Young souls who are the lens from which their parents see happiness
but sadly,
survivors scrape the rubble off their ****** feet
scavenging for the roots they once tried to protect
wetting the ground with utter despair.
Home now bleeds destruction
and constant chaos.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 6:34 AM UTC
i belong to the daybreak
when humans with sleepy eyes
and mousy morning hearts
are brave enough to face
the scarily mundane world once again.
i belong to nature
to the hidden wonders of the world
there's unknown modern hanging gardens of babylon
and the secret sanctuaries
where the teenagers of the megalopolis
go to rest.
i belong to the ocean
in the deepest trenches
no man has seen
where it is quiet and still
and darkness reigns supreme.
i belong to outer space
in the galaxies who are
strangers we'd like to know
there's dark matter that swirls
space dust coalesces
and stars are born to die all over again.
i belong to the rain
when the sky cries and
the typhoons turn to drizzle
the water runs through
empty houses and thrift stores in the gutters
and on and on, to underground,
to God knows where.
i belong to the night
to the time when the busiest people
submit to slumber
but a few who are not
bothered by lightyears
sit by their windowsills
to watch the stars.
*i belong to the world
and the world belongs to me.*
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
The wind whips
and scrapes the walls
like ivy looking for its foothold
round windowsills
and rotten wood
winter chills a new years cold
scouring for the way in
rolling barrels of fury
tumultuous spasms
unrelenting open hands
slaps the face of every bush and branch
with each pass
the lawns and meadows left
rippled like a poorly tacked carpet
the scaffolding of men rests on brace and bolts
and handshakes with the granite walls
adornments flap their benign capes
eddies of grit spiral, walking tall
Inside I watch you
like a ****** staring at the passing crowd
but not knowing where to look;
only you are everywhere
blankets and lights and even the TV
are curtains to pretend your not outside;
I need not venture out yet
at least,
not until morning
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 9:37 AM UTC
Oh Baby,
These still pictures seem to be running free
Tell me why your eyes have begun to move through mine
Just you, in a field of flowing flowers
The red and blue tulip hues
Wish and wave before your legs
And there you are, in full bloom
I am not so mad, that I believe I can touch the past
But I can feel, still today, the warming rose color upon my face
See, nothing ever truly gets washed away
We linger still
In a longing look just beyond our windowsills
My tortured rain has gone away
For these rolling fields and riverbanks, you have my thanks.
Jul 28, 2021
Jul 28, 2021 at 5:17 PM UTC
tie me down
crowing about a crown of flowers
curl my palm into the hollow of your cheek
(oh my god drown me)
and here we have the soldier
hands covered in blood and knives (and something
else;but
we don't talk about that)
look how the blind man cries tonight
see these bones on the grass
frost building in the cavity between your ribs and
your skin
SCREAMING ****** IN THE HALLWAY
(THIS IS THE ONLY WAY YOU CAN HEAR YOURSELF
THINK
THIS IS THE ONLY WAY ANYONE KNOWS WHAT YOU ARE)
you, love, you, goldfinch
climbing windowsills
creep in the dead of night, cicatrix spiderwebs
here, here, here, in the small of your back
(can you feel me, here, crawling into your skin?can
you feel me sewing our palms together, goldfinch?)
"and the world will revel in wonder and delight--"
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
RINZAI BOX
Had to have a psych eval
at the box factory
a human resources workup
to make sure
I could handle work again
making cardboard condos
for little mammal prisoners
of the pet trade
who live on hot windowsills
until someone comes to love them.
I got too depressed once
when I found tiny bunnies
mewling in a dumpster
their only refuge
yes
a box I had made
you could tell
it said assembled with care
by Kevin
and I missed a month of work
and got written up
for just being sad.
The shrink diagnosed me
a cognitive distorter
a predictor of worst case scenarios
but I disagreed
since I saw the sad bunnies for real
and he puffed up like a blowfish
stammering you’re the patient
I’m the man.
Well I’ve been around the zendo
so I challenged him
smartypants answer this…….
Do bunnies in boxes
have Buddha nature?
Irrational and pointless he said
hmmmmm I said
how do you know
maybe you’re a narcissist
on a psychobabble fugue
echoing in a therapy box.
But I have Buddha nature
and I put that in the boxes I make
and the Buddha bunnies go in the boxes
and you here in your Buddha office
are not separate
just uniquely boxed
and the label on the bunnies' box says
assembled with care by Buddha.
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
The Amstel. Christ.
Kilner jars full of fireflies
on redbrick windowsills.
Hormone therapy. Jesus.
Angel boys from Europe
trailing around behind me wondering -
and not caring - what the hell is in my pants.
Cold morning breezes
on scarred chest tissue and needle puncture marks.
Rows and rows of bicycles
and a fluttering pink scarf in the wind.
Roaring screams and sexless smiles
cold split knuckles and nonchalant breath.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
And I wander why I'm here
And your there and there's nowhere inbetween for us to go
And why if there was
You couldn't take me anyway.
Wind mills in our skulls
So fast we can't get a grasp on.
Pretty pills
As we stare out
Of barred windowsills
You tell me you don't understand,
as you hold my hand and demand to know why.
And I sit and cry and tell you I wish you could, I wish you understood
But how can I expect you too
When I have no clue?
Cos your mind isn't fractured
Into hundreds of unrecognisable pieces
Creases
That they try to iron out
And glue together with
Sedatives and weight gain
And cognitive behavioural therapy
That they insist will numb the pain
&fix; the problem.
But i don't know the problem
Because I've skipped in and out of diagnoses ever since i was
Placed into this space
A taste of hell and heaven all at the same time
Where it's okay not to be okay
But it's not okay to be okay
And you get named and blamed and excused and used as examples
For nurses to observe
You're a learning curve
In their degree. Or for a student studying psychology
And no matter what anyone says
It doesn't curb the reality
That you are sick.
Too sick to take care of yourself
To keep safe your health
Your body, your mind
To hold yourself
Together,
An it's strange because
They try to rearrange
All our thoughts and processes
But they don't undress the primary cause
They caress plaus-able reasons
Excluding your explanations
Satisfied with their own gratifications.
2013 ©
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
Blossomed daffodils
gracing windowsills
bluebells bloom
lighting the gloom
fields of green
lush and serene
silver birch trees
whistling in the breeze
natures glory
never-ending story
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
I miss that place
Where I used to be:
My childhood land
With the lilac tree.
I miss that grass,
And those golden fields,
The times we used twigs
For our makeshift shields.
I miss that pond,
With the brand-new deck,
Where we’d use a canoe
To make our trek.
I miss that barn,
With the musty stalls,
Which I never minded,
Never minded at all.
I miss the house
On the big, tall hill
With the dark green shutters
Above the windowsills.
I miss our swings
And the climbing tree
That stained our hands
And feet and knees.
I miss the horses
And their comforting smell
With sparkling eyes that
Held my secrets well.
I miss the path running
Through the woods
Where I skipped and laughed
As lively as I could.
I miss my grandfather
and his good ol’ dogs
and doing chores
and catching frogs.
I miss my grandmother
And her sweet smile
As I sat in her kitchen
And did dishes awhile.
I miss those strays,
The cats we had,
Whose kittens we’d catch
And get scratched real bad.
I miss those days
As we lay in the sun
Soaking up all the rays
And just having our fun.
I miss those cats,
And their colorful fur,
Especially Buttercup,
My favorite, her.
I miss dear Grandma
And her warm hugs
And her talent and her laugh
And her homemade rugs.
I miss ol’ Gramps,
And his mischievous ways
and him talkin’ fast
and us balin’ the hay.
I miss that path
That meandered in the trees
Where the branches creaked
And whispered in the breeze.
I miss the horses,
And the bridle leather
And feeding them oats
In all kinds of weather.
I miss the swing,
All knotted and worn,
And the mulberry tree
Where our clothes were torn.
I miss that hill,
With our little house,
That held just us
And sometimes a mouse.
I miss that barn
With the stalls and hayloft
Where the sparrows gathered
And the hay was soft.
I miss the pond
Where my favorite horse died
And I sat next to the water
And I remember I cried.
I miss the grass
That grew thin and tall
And hid all the bugs
And stole our baseballs.
I miss that place
From my childhood,
But I’ll never forget it.
I don’t think I could.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 5:57 PM UTC
frosty crystals clung to
light shows on windowsills
they ran faster than their hands
could touch
on the run from racing time
streams of comfort left
rainy roads bare
to them,
nothing on earth compared
May 21, 2020
May 21, 2020 at 11:09 AM UTC
some winter mornings
last through the spring,
sweeping in between wind chimes
and dusting over windowsills,
until our bodies are numb
and our minds are racing
i don't feel pain in the winter time,
pain feels me,
all curled up in the fetal position
with fuzzy socks
and war paint
at the edge of my sheets
december never stings,
it burns.
a softer,
quieter,
gentler
kind of agony
that whispers tauntingly
through the shower curtains
at 5 am and says
"why did you bother getting out of bed?"
oh and how that cold, cutting voice
gets stuck inside your head...
at least until spring takes
it's last cool breath
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
As a child
Mostly I remember I loved swinging
I lived hanging out on windowsills
I especially loved the storybook corner
Today I sit in that corner
With all my characters beside me
The vivid memories of swings
Of a cheerful noise in the yard
A pillow giggle
A punch of Judy "
Come together in my comer
A storybook of childhood
A meeting of indestructible friendship to be rekindled after decades
My true family
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
I fear I've become
formulaic and dishonest
though honesty has never
flown freely when I bleed.
I instead inscribe
insolence, decadence
dolled up in demand and
hand picked participles
to show my snappy wordsuits
down this two dimension catwalk.
I've tasted the fraudulent freeverse fantasy
and washed out what I've done
years past, former lives,
servitude to scheming rhymes
and tracking down the feet
meter by meter.
See!
I own the jargon,
jot it down freely
with a casuality undeserved.
Read carefully, cause herein spouts my effort.
Slink back to default,
once in whiles,
show them that you
got it still.
Baring teeth or
gleaming smiles
differ at souls'
windowsills.
And simply so, it seems again
like pox against my aching skin
I simply substitute some time
to rhyme and let it all begin...
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
slit wrists
damp pillows
lover's eyes
vacant hearts
empty plates
twin beds
chinese temples
wooden idols
dusty windowsills
rap verses
closed curtains
angry candles
calloused hands
unopened letters
unsent texts
dry pens
spare change
crusty nails
dusty books
speeding tickets
broken crayons
black mascara
and more
sometimes
we're alike
sometimes
we're not
but we each always have
a story
to tell
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
My armor is made of sunny smiles,
The smell of peonies,
And the breeze off of Lake Michigan.
It is made of guitar strings,
Of midnight kisses,
And snowflakes that fall gently on windowsills,
My skin is made of lemon juice,
Prickly burrs,
And tree roots.
It is made of razor blades,
Suspicious stares,
And window shades.
My soul is a tempest,
An angry sea that swallows all
Who have the gall to brave it.
It is a hurricane with a human eye,
Incomprehensible and strange.
It is the wind that
Rips the sails from vessels,
That no God or man can tame.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:44 AM UTC
Sitting
in high places.
Windowsills,
balconies,
Roof top terraces.
The Eiffel Tower,
branches.
Looking
down as if
I am God.
Or just a crow?
Feeling
and looking
like art. Poised
to be observed.
Hang me.
In a gallery.
Climbing
through mud and roots.
Breathless
just to be higher.
Or I'll lean
over a balcony
and try
not to
fall.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC