Writing Prompt 14

We’ve made it to the fourteenth day of our 30/30!

Your prompt today is:

 

If this window could talk

 

 

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Guidelines, if you want them:

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  • This is not meant to be the perfect first draft – respond without hesitation for 5-7 minutes, then keep going if you want to
  • While our prompts are geared towards poetry, we welcome all kinds of artists
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7 comments

  1. Thinking about T.S. Eliot’s Poem Morning at the Window

    If this window could talk, it might speak of that time when its paned sashes were lifted to become a muse to one poet who left New England for Old where he became a warden just down the street from St. Stephen’s and spent more than one morning looking out at tossed up brown waves of fog while listening to rattling breakfast plates amid the housemaids’ damp souls only to vanish himself along the level of London’s roofs.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Utter effacement, windows have no commentary,
    clear, transparent vehicle for interaction.
    I watch the comings and goings from inside
    as peeping Toms voyeur from outside.
    Sun shines in, moon radiates her light
    cooling, warming the spaces within.
    Sometimes reflections caught in the rays of light.
    Windows stand, barrier and not,
    the truest Tao of being/non-being,
    allowing me to use it to its best purpose,
    nothing to say, no commentary.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. peeping birds

    if these windows could talk
    birds would listen and watch
    they would never need to stalk

    nor fly so close to peep inside
    perched on the closest branch
    if these windows could talk

    birds would gather in a line
    make an assembly to listen
    if these windows could talk

    birds would know if i speak
    into speakers on my phone
    they would never need to stalk

    as they watch me walk the floor
    alone, talking only to myself
    if these windows could talk
    birds would never need to stalk

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Through the Window

    The skeleton rattles, its gray arms
    lifted to the four corners of this grayer
    world. Limbs are striated with old
    lichen, and shriveled seed heads curl
    into tiny fists, punching the sky. Double
    glass prevents me from truly hearing
    their death rattles, but I know the
    sound, a sibilance of whispers, a
    need to break out and fall to the
    ground where a beating rain might
    free new seed and breed new sprouts.
    In the Flint Hills they’re burning the
    prairie now, igniting orange fire lines
    that dance through the night, erasing
    composites and freeing space for the
    new grasses and perennials that will
    renew the soil. Here, I can only imagine
    the blackness, pretend the column of
    smoke on the horizon is above flames
    licking away the dense thatch, know its
    the salvage yard. Watch the limbs dance.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. This window lost its voice years ago,
    so cold on one side, warm on the other,
    weary heads leaning against it,
    mouths breathing on it as eyes
    seek markers of place far below.
    Its day is easier above the clouds,
    unpressured by anxious watchers,
    the hot fear in breath it must resist.
    Small, one of many, it shares
    the weight of travellers’
    longing and distress.

    Like


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