Poems of windows

For your truth I'd search forever to your trust I'll break it, never. To your thoughts I care to know in your arms I feel us grow. It's your eyes that I am captured it's your form that I'm enraptured. In the stars I catch your view how I dream to fly with you.

Like 5 4 Enjoyed it Lovely Amazing! Like 5. Window view without any limitation, Withdraws past events mental pain. When a hydrogen bomb spoils lives, Who are died must cry of their wives.

War ends again peace among friends, We forget past pain again joining hands. Window view means that past painful fact, We feel as pleasure remembering the past. Wise person forgets past and greets present, Well said good present must offers future best.

Word bank in name of anti word bank excellent, With "stop" sign bans 13 words within poem spot. Like 1 1 Keep on it Inspired me Clever write Like 1. American Poets Magazine. Poems Find and share the perfect poems. When the cow died by the green sapling, her limp udder splayed on the grass like something from the sea, we offered our words in their low calibrations— which was our fashion—then severed her horns with a pug-toothed blade and pounded them out to an amber transparency, two sheets that became, in their moth-wing haze, our parlor windows.

They softened our guests with the gauze-light of the Scriptures, and rendered to us, on our merriest days, the sensation of gazing through the feet of a gander. In time we moved up to the status of glass—one pane, then two—each cupping in proof of its purity a dimple of fault, a form of distortion enhancing our image.

We took the panes with us from cottage to cottage, moth-horn and glass, and wedged up the misfitted gaps with a poultice of gunny and wax. When woodsmoke darkened our bricks, we gave to the windowsills a lacquer of color—clear blue with a lattice of yellow: a primary entrance and exit for light. And often, walking home from the river and small cheese shop, we would squint their colors to a sapling green, and remember the hull of that early body, the slap of fear we suffered there, then the little wash of recovery that is our fashion—how we stroked to her bones a cadenced droning, and took back from her absence, our amber, half-literal method of sight.

Flight Osseous, aqueous, cardiac, hepatic— back from bone the echoes stroke, back from the halved heart, the lungs three years of weightlessness have cinched to gills.

The physician cocks his head and taps—exactly as a splitter halves his slate, the metamorphic rock chisel-shocked, then shocked again, halved and halved, until a roof appears, black as space. Linda Bierds Burning the Fields 1. In the windless late sunlight of August, my father set fire to a globe of twine.

At his back, the harvested acres of bluegrass and timothy rippled. I watched from a shallow hill as the globe, chained to the flank of his pickup truck, galloped and bucked down a yellow row, arced at the fire trench, circled back, arced again, the flames behind sketching first a C , then closing to O —a word or wreath, a flapping, slack-based heart, gradually filling. To me at least. To the mare beside me, my father dragged a gleaming fence, some cinch-corral she might have known, the way the walls moved rhythmically, in and in.

And to the crows, manic on the thermals? A crescent of their planet, gone to sudden sun. All of a sudden I heard there a pop, Wind may visit your window keep the window open! Morning yellow rays may seek permission to enter in keep both door and curtain of window open!

The large window was sunken Into the wall at the end of the quiet room, Or did it just sit there? It depended on the perception It is said life is one big circle which begins with our first breath the circle then completes itself the moment of our death Many of us begin our circle…when but a little time has passed In the window, in the mirrors, In the moments between windows and mirrors, My dad lost in reflection.

Window of honesty, And through this window I can see all. Any new ideas or thoughts lately? You don't want to tell. Ok, so You have closed up your mind like a window, So the rain and the wind could beat on it. Writing a poem is not about bringing some words together to create some charming sentences.

It's so much deeper than that. Writing poetry is a bridge that allows people to express their feelings and make others live every single word they read. Poetry is to educate people, to lead them away from hate to love, from violence to mercy and pity. Writing poetry is to help this community better understand life and live it more passionately. You can read as many as you want, and also submit your own poems to share your writings with all our poets, members, and visitors.

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