We’ve made it to the fourteenth day of our 30/30!
Your prompt today is:
If this window could talk
Guidelines, if you want them:
- Posting your response is not required
- Feel free to post your response  🙂
- 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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QuillsEdge Press 
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.
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Really like the imagery and phrasing here… “Housmaid’s damp souls” wow!
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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.
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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
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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.
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this one’s a beauty!!!! great imagery and powerful words
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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.
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