Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Shook While Blogging (Upon Further Reflection)

reading posts
pondering the stuff of life
i am startled by a bang
a bird hitting the window
for the real sky

i quickly put my glasses back on
to see it fly away
for which i am
that it did not die
it and i
both shaken

knowing that i
too often
am content
to window shop
when i could be
in flight

(upon further

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

a tap tapping on my window


a tap tapping on my window
who can it be?
tis a sparrow wanting to say
hello to me

then i see the fly on the window
crawling upon the pane
trapped inside but seeking an escape from this domain

the tap tapping on the window
alas it was not for me
twas for the fly but the sparrow must remain hungry

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree, Poems

Window Shopping


The window where you used to stand with your face pressed to the glass is still there.

But the treasures within that caught your childish attention have now become possessions.

Or rather they have come to possess you.

You thought the magic was within them and forgot that it had always been within you.
You gave that special aura to them.

Now, as you stand outside that same window and gaze at those things that captured your attention long ago,
you have remembered that you need nothing else.
You already have the greatest treasure.

It is your heart.

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree


I stare out through the window.
The street lamp glares upon ice-covered tree branches,
white, spidery fingers groping toward the light.

Below, a lone figure trods slowly through the slush,
his shadow stretches across the melting snow and disappears into the darkness of a stairway.
His footprints in the mud slowly begin to fill with grimy water,
a new master since the old one has passed by,
as if an invisible figure stalks along behind him,

I wonder why he is alone.

She collapsed upon the bench,
Aged and caught in sudden pain.
Concerned gathered around.

From a window above,
a face is pressed against the glass,
his eyes like steamy seas.
He mutters not a sound.

Their eyes meet and each sees;
he, her greatest wish,
she, his greatest fear.

A smile passes between them;
she, her eyes closing, younger.
he, the tears falling, older.

The world outside my window changes.
Red sun turns to gray
and the black cloak of night
like a deadly plague
begins to cover the land.

The streetlamp,
a cell immune to the onslaught of this dark virus,
shines out a shimmering, whispering light.

The world within,
where this stony face is reflected in the cold glass
in the window panes is safe and protected.
Harm is but a breeze though the window.

Yet this dust of obduracy rises up and chokes me.
This is no life, no world,
Wanting more, I plunge through the window,
shards of glass like shooting stars scream by
and like a stone thrown into a stagnant pond,
I hit the earth,

Through the window the world is white,
old cloak traded for a fresh new one.

In the distance I see an evergreen
crowned with a soft, white frosting of snow,
purity and immortality combined.

Lone man stands
before window grand
clawing at the impenetrable glass.

The world within pales beside the world without.
Its fruit must be tasted.
Are his futile efforts wasted?

Better a prison of brick walls than one of glass.
Better to be blind than to see what you cannot partake.

Still he claws at the glass.

The window is cracked now,
red stains on the shards.

There is a price to pay for freedom.

I looked out of my window
and saw a fragile thing.
Way down below
in the melting snow,
a robin with a broken wing.

He sat alone on the frozen ground
and faced his fate so bold.
Then he laid his head down
without a sound
and succumbed to the bitter cold.