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Open Poetry #47
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The Window
| Open Poetry #47 |
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The Window |
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Michael
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-13
Posts 7666California 
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The Window I see the sun moving at a barely perceptible pace, Completely still, as I watch the others caught in her rat race. Time loads the gun I have deduced, while watching the edge of Night Blanket its will, (a darkness loosed), without so much as a fight. The fingerprints on frosted glass remind me I have let go. I turn to tread the dread morass of home, lost from the get go… Cast my two cents unto the dark – a whispered voice of hope Falls to the dead, an easy mark for a billion lost things to grope. Letting the silence speak to me, I lay down my weary head… Close my eyes to the vanity of no longer using a bed. But damned to try still reach for sleep, a wish known to be tainted; For as I do, in dream I creep back to that window – painted. I wake ‘the middle of the night with a chill upon my skin… Eyes peeking at me through the blinds and an awareness grown thin To things forbidden unto me, making my way to the door As they all scatter – they all flee to hide in their “Nevermore.” In reaching out, I feel a throb, recognized as ambition – That diremost sin, with hand to knob, coming unto fruition. Standing devout, swing wide the door, feeling naught but bitter Night; I reach deep in my pocket for that last handful of sunlight. A timeless charm, this trinket held – I’ve suffered long in waiting… Look, mystified, still yet compelled to die for love unsating, But cock the arm, let my love fly toward darkness never-ending. …Walk back inside to the glass I will face ‘ever pretending. Beneath the calm surface, I rage, “If only I had the will…” But sorrows wrung, ever the phage, leave me with naught but a chill. Placing my palm, emotion staid, once more to pane, implying… Requiem sung, the dream inlaid, I but await the dying. Michael Anderson But dreams — of those who dream as I, Aspiringly, are damned, and die EAP [This message has been edited by Michael (10-07-2011 06:50 PM).] |
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| © Copyright 2011 Michael Anderson - All Rights Reserved | |||
suthern
since 1999-07-29
Posts 20723Louisiana |
A timeless charm, this trinket held – I’ve suffered long in waiting… Look, mystified, still yet compelled to die for love unsating, But cock the arm, let my love fly toward darkness never-ending. …Walk back inside to the glass I will face ‘ever pretending. We think of windows as a way out, a break in the walls, a way to let in light... but they can also be a frustrating view of the unattainable... a portal for cold drafts instead of warmth. This is as superb as it is sad... and completely wonderful! *S* |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Oh, you have Poe down so well, yet your own art has taken on the tome of his will passed on, and indeed, he did well to pass it on to you. I have a dog named Poe. As I read this aloud, he looked up to me, listened, nodded, and bent his head back down to his paws, satisfied, that you did good.  |
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ice Member Elite
since 2003-05-17
Posts 3404Pennsylvania |
Yes, Poe, Sunny...but what I also feel in this is a bit of Robert Frost, when his mood was heavy. Well done, Michael. Love the language. You put the reader in a light trance, that is you make them examine their own feelings on the subject while they read, by its proseful phrasing. |
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Michael
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-13
Posts 7666California |
Ruth, I know exactly what you are talking about. Karen once told me about a lizard that died in her windowsill, staring out at the unobtainable… I related on an all too personal note. Thank you for the phrases that kick started my muse, btw. If you send more, I promise I won’t use them all in the same poem again.  K., ah, I got to have a picture of your dog now. Can you email one? My dog I resignedly named Einstein, for his absolute brilliance, running into walls at 100 m.p.h. and the like… and his shaggy white poodle half-breed hair. Except for the hair, I think he’s a lot like me, in an all too slobbery kind of way. Ice, That’s quite a compliment. Thank you. And to give credit where credit is due, “moving at a barely perceptible pace” is the phrase I had to build this poem around, and that came from suthern… along with many others in here. She provided the puzzle, I just made the pieces fit. Michael |
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