My grandmother tells me that roses are beautiful,
That common sense is all around us.
She tells me that stars float on at night and
Clouds make perfect animals
Which change upon a whim.
She has upon her windowsill
An old foot I’ve always admired.
It holds in it (like a steady hand)
Utensils ready for marking.
To its right: new words for every day.
Never a day goes by without
Her graceful way of flipping.
With all her heart the words so dear,
Hold powers of deep providence.
And from that table, when sitting to dine
Upon a chair plumped by two softening cushions,
One can see through a window of far off China mountain.
More importantly, however, a quite a bit closer
In fact – just below her window,
Is a bush grown wild from years
Unceasingly blooming so.
It’s a rose, and she knows
How beautiful it is.
Tag: window
Tiny Jewel (day 1099)
I’m asleep in a tiny jewel;
Happy, and my mind’s eye.
To freedom I’ve never given up.
A rhythm which is rhyme
And castles made of sand
Float wind swept grasses.
So high, so long.
And I am asleep in a tiny jewel;
With windows into-out-of
I crawl and drain sand,
Sifting my widowed beetroot
And surfacing divine;
Flat root / straight cut.
Enemy Guns (day 1096)
Over and over and over again,
Whispers so shallow
Cover me: a grin.
To which my reply
– Steadfast [I tried],
Tested, and true –
Climbing above
With a flag stretching high,
Hollering through open windows and sky.
Whispers in wind
Upon layers of feathers,
An angel lay me;
Scatter hopes
Like mine enemy’s gun.
Sister Curiosity (day 1085)
I missed your hand, we reached to touch;
A blossom in spring and my soul’s a window.
And we don’t need sound responses
To beckon our eyes awake now,
We don’t need a perfect sentence
To shine on down in spring’s lasting blossom.
I am aware you painful memories,
Took filtered glimpses at running water.
To be the liver of animosity,
A grand entrance with delicate personalities.
Discussion and her sister curiosity
Played the small orchestra to my memory.
Whistling (day 1065)
Today there is a sign,
A window of an opening
Whistling softly,
Dragging at my conscience.
I acknowledge it.
I sit cross-legged
To experience its frequencies
Reverberate my lifeline.
This lesson is wordless,
Perched upon low hanging ledges
Of spring’s naked birch trees.
I imagine smoke
Wafting its sacred essence.
And my peace and gratitude
Flows mingling with the wind,
Vibrating to wordless words
Whistling through my conscience.
Decisions (day 947)
Face to face with myself
And not a shout to match my anger
Gross exaggeration of ignorant ideals
Spun into webs amongst my dizzy spins
To catch me when I fall down
Strangely grasping, gasping for air
Leaning out the window at
Ninety miles and hour where
Oppression isn’t meaningless
Sunken windows blow over the moonlight
As my smile begins to fade, enrage
Standing at my post
Face to face with myself
Semi-Opaque White (day 867)
This is me sinking into the glass that’s empty
Subtle tones flickering off the semi-opaque sides
Autumn yellows and oranges from incandescent bulbs
With smiling faces shifting about the vacant spaces
Of this safe-room-white walled habitation
I was wrong when I sang your song with my sad heart
A slow beating heart like footsteps in the snow
Alone in winter’s paradise
Holding your cold hand as the glass set to stone
And too, by then the glass was empty of mischief
Labelled fun by the secret-book-black marker
That always lay beside your handy-dad bed
Wedding-dress-white sheets and matching pillows
And I was sad about falling through this time
When my step moved with falling’s grace
I was sad about falling alone without you
An early-morning-fog around my empty glass windows
For I’ll keep you satisfied if I took the time
Forever and always inside the skeleton of an empty glass
Sliding down steamed windows
Labeled Heart with stapled messages
Damp autumn orbs of wind blown tears
Settling on semi-opaque sides of window’s emptiness
Emptying my heart and welcoming winter’s vacancies
Sinking into answers in white
Silently Quiet (day 714)
It’s quiet in here
If you’re ignoring the voices
Screaming back at me
Inside my head
I can hear the dull tones
From the black box next to me
Spinning around methodically
While I go about my work
Wind blows through trees
Shimmering with a gentle sway
But that’s outside
Beyond the confines of a window
Entrapped, the house is still
Drooping plants are silently
Calling out to me
For just a splash more of water
My typing makes noises
But that sound dies
When I take moments to think
Jumping deeper inside my head
Paintings hang with memories
Time faded memories
But the image: unwaveringly visible
Clearly pulls on my thoughts
Fruits in the silver bowl
Work hardest at these times
Heat of day and sunlight curing
Hardness and tart green
The refrigerator will kick on
Every now and then
To remind me of lunch to come
Scraps of what is now left over
While I wait here
Looking at my reflection
Silently shining back at me
Curious smeared everywhere
Deep Crimson Baskets (day 658)
Shallow pools of unspoilt water
Sit below a Betty Crocker window
With hanging deep crimson baskets
That fill the air
With freshly baked flowered Mondays
Spreading out is the pony picket fence
That shines White House Tuesday
Separating the gumshoe green grass
From the oilskin decay
Of the Red Riding Hood forest
Sporting Wednesday’s haircut
Half-way there
Here’s where the country house patio
Holds the dad’s weekend project picnic table
Thursday’s moldy sandwiches
Crawls into cracks upon the Indian paintbrush deck
Where Friday morning dew drops
Freshens up the green spots
Under the Saturday afternoon oak
That tickle the fresh from shower toes
Wiggling for joy amongst the John Deer grass
Where taste tests start
Out of the Sunday brunch basket
Two drive-in lovers packed
For their dollar store romance
Fresh in from the Marilyn Monroe raindrops
Settling the shallow pools of water waiting
Under the Betty Crocker window
Awakening (day 628)
Looking out this plain, water stained window
The night prepares to share it’s darkness
Street lights flick on, awaking evening
Full of buttoned up, hand warming peacoats
Clip-cloping evening shoes dance along ordinary pavement
Where uneven walking paths skirt between neighbouring brownstones
And evergreen shrubs drip with saturation
It’s too bad on evenings like this
With air biting away at exposed skin
That stars don’t shine through overhead clouds
Instead, softening edges and colours into grays
Boutique doors close for the morrows awakening