Rick Leddy

I’ll Open the Window

 

I’ll open the window, she said

The quiet will overtake us

Moans becoming chanted prayers

The metronome of our hips

murmuring low rhythmic sighs

You will put your hand over my mouth

To contain the night screams

I will become a diamond beneath
the crush of your body

Sweat sliding skin on skin riding river rock

Mute velvet howls lingering in moon shadow

The silent explosions behind our eyes

Imprisoned in shudders

 

I’ll open the window, she said

If my parents are awake

I will say hello and goodnight

But, they won’t smell the fear and anticipation
clinging rainstorm hard to me

Won’t sense the vibrating ache of longing

disguised behind my billboard smile

They are so used to my lying
it has become a childhood melody

filled with half-forgotten lyrics

It is a place I have felt safe for too long

This door covered with the whorls of childhood

A portal leading to stale adulthood

A bedroom become a cold, empty vacuum
yearning for the seduction of danger

 

I’ll open the window, she said

I will close the door slowly

Then slip into bed

I will watch you climb in like a thief ready to steal

what is already yours

Grey on grey

Phantom fingers whispering as you undress me

Your hot breath staccato against my neck

I will arch as your eagerness presses into me

Lie to myself it’s the first time

The curtains will dance slowly to

the hint of a cool summer breeze

The light of a billion hidden suns will engulf us

And I will pretend that we will never get old

or grow tired of one another

Make believe that I will stop telling lies to strangers
I have known forever

 

I will open the window, she said

So, one day

I can escape

Shih-Fang Wang

Through Her Window

 

She is locked inside her apartment

Her door is bolted from outside

The entrance gate is shut with wires

During pandemic lockdown

 

In this high-rise building

Through her open window

She hears wailing and yelling

Coming from others

 

She can only view

The west side of the sky

In the late afternoon

The sun rages with fire

Then sinks sadly into darkness

 

She longs for the rising sun

A fresh day with free air

She misses the other side of the world

Holds people she can only hear

 

She anticipates the day

Walking out her front door

To reenter society

But for now she can only

Dream about flying through

Her open window

Maria A Arana

Open Window                                                            

 

It’s not easy to say this

through an open window

secrets remain

they splinter our hearts

while the rest cry

and you wonder

if finding the right words

will bring back the memory

without these words

the only breeze

is from a happy soul

 

 

 

you watch me from your window…                                      

                                               

you watch me from your window

forgetting I am smoke

 

whose embers

still burn

 

all that touch

my image

 

can you see the change

and want the same space

 

 

 

like two bulky legs…                                                  

 

like two bulky legs

torn by wind

from the rest of its body

it stands

magnificent rock

red-orange sunset blends

with its exterior memory

of what once was

now a window to another world

an arched stone doorway

the possibility crossed your mind, too

from here, it looks the same from there

yet, through it

another world opens

maybe one

where the remains

of the top half of the body lies

or the scattered pebbles

of a heart lost in time

Gia Civerolo

THE BONES OF THE BLACK CROW WERE CAUGHT IN MY THROAT

The cracks of the porch cried lined tears

when they butchered the shade of the Elm tree

along with every face in its bark

 

Spitting small pieces across the lawn that

no longer wanted to be green

 

Excavating the twisted roots

wrapped around secret

underworld pipes

 

Squirrels tight rope walking on

the telephone lines

condemning the chainsaw

wielding weathered tan men

who were just glad to get paid

 

I could not look out the window

Nothing remained the same

Grieving

Wishing

they had killed the

dilapidated house instead

while the bones of the black crow

were caught in my throat

GAZING THROUGH THE WINDOWPANE

  

There was so much pain

spinning

outside the windowpane

 

She felt like a Dickenson

heroine, quietly watching

deliberately listening

 

death and a fly

one in the same

buzz by

 

in the comfort

of her home

all alone

 

Thoughts reflecting you

across the glass

Does the sky remember being blue?

 

VOYEUR SPIRITS LIKE TO WATCH

 

They opened each other

like a window

letting light shine

as shadow black

tree branches

stretched across

the centuries and

your body

voyeur spirits watching

as you

beckon me

 

Jeanne Marie Spicuzza

Open

You are 

a work of art —

so radiant

beautiful 

precious 

and resplendent,

I may never 

close my eyes

again.

Heartbreak

Now I know what heartbreak means —

Chest splits, exit wound opens

Bleeds beneath the sheets

Everything turns red

The pain is excruciating 

The organs cannot breathe 

I have sung this song once

Many times and again.

When will one come

And cure this arching,

Mend the trenched concave

My bones liquid all over.

The mystery of time

Blinds my eyes

And shucks my senses 

I cannot find solace

I wish I could disappear

Instead of this anguish. 

What will become of me?

What will become?

Tohm Bakelas

distant stars illuminate nothing

It is September, no October,

and for three days the rain 

hasn’t slowed. Except now,

now it has stopped, when

just before it was steady.

You can see the river has 

risen, far higher than it had 

been all summer. And 

summer, a season now gone, 

is a place you no longer wish 

to remember—too many losses, 

too many heartbreaks. Summer 

grows shorter as you grow older.

But here in this autumn, you

hear crickets talking amongst

themselves, talking about things

you will never understand. You

wonder where all the birds have

flown, is it to some place south,

some place tropical where the

sun always shines? You wonder

why you were not invited, but then

you remember you are not a bird.

And tonight, outside your window,

you will watch the moon disappear 

behind grey clouds in the inky sky 

as distant stars illuminate nothing.

september night, october morning

She buys Sensodyne for my sensitive 

teeth and a new blue toothbrush

because my old one was used 

to clean crud from beneath 

her son’s dirty fingernails…

At night we crack windows open

just enough to taste autumn,

just enough for the room to

grow cold for our bodies 

to become one in sleep.

And in the morning 

we begin the day 

by making love. 

Afterwards we talk 

about life before 

eating breakfast 

around one pm.

Denise Dumars

Window Dressing 

 

I was a girl 

when the world was 

midcentury modern 

and the store windows 

in downtown L.A. 

wore fantasy each year 

at Christmas. Elves 

and happy carolers, 

fake snow and icicles 

made from lead instead 

of ice, color wheels 

on aluminum trees, 

the amazing array of toys 

we never got to play with. 

 

None of those windows 

ever opened, and for good 

reason. Late at night 

under the sodium streetlights 

those Steiff bears and Barbie 

dolls and felt-capped sprites 

ran rampant; no one was safe. 

Janitors locked themselves in 

restrooms, security guards 

hid under their desks. 

Come daybreak all was  

safe and normal again. 

And you wonder why 

those windows didn’t open. 

 

Dark Window 

 

If the purpose of windows 

is to see, what have we 

to say about a dark window, 

supernatural matter gone and done 

with crushing glass and a mad dash 

through the frame, Alice down 

the rabbit hole, Neruda’s  

quiet-boned graves, 

but coffins once had windows.  

Imaging being buried, 

screaming out  

the small lozenge of glass 

with no one to hear. 

If we open the window 

to the dark, what will rush in? 

The dark is already here 

and panes of glass  

whether open or closed 

cannot keep the dark out, 

its energy eclipsing all that light. 

Kimberly Cobian

The Fishbowl Goodbye

 

You held your tear-stained tissue

In a tight fist

As if it were your heart you had

Squeezed out the pain from

We’ve said goodbye millions of times in my lifetime

But never like this.

 

Leaving your warmth behind

At the Security Check  

With all the clocks’ faces from around the world watching,

The umbrella in my dry palm

Awaiting the imminent torrent 

My dad’s smile a dike of pain

I could tell his dimples were faltering.

My eyes, levees crushing under pressure

Yet only a tear like tree sap

Deliberating, growing, remained indecisive

Unreleased in suspension.

 

We were separated by a wall of bulletproof glass.

I swam with the other fishes

Of children, mothers, fathers

Drowning in the shared memories 

before they are past.

 

You and Dad walk closer up to the glass

Tap it to get my attention.

You place your whole hand on the glass

I, longing to touch you like moments ago

Reciprocate 

‘Mija,’ you supplicate, 

“Por favor cuídate mucho. 

Que Dios siempre te cuide, y espero vernos pronto.

Te amo. Eres un pedazo de mi alma.”*

 

You prayed these words to me as you forgave me 

For being a fish out of water, 

You knew deep in your heart 

That I was no longer and that I now swim 

In a new ocean of my goals.

Despite all the times 

You recaught me in your net of parental love

I found a way to butterfly stroke 

Out of your world,

Out of your home,

Out of your control.

Till then, you did not realize 

What harm you were doing to me.

 

I don’t want you to forgive me

But accept who I am today, 

And what I will accomplish in the future,

That is the best gift you can give me,

Consider this my prayer for you.

 

You and Dad wave and blow kisses 

Goodbye from the escalator 

Soon to return to your vessel

Leaving me in my open sea 

Wishing, for a moment

My fins transformed to wings.  

 

“My daughter”, you supplicate,

“Please, take care of yourself”

May God always take care of you, and I hope we see each other soon

I love you. You are a piece of my soul.”*

Luke and Mark Stilwell

OPEN

OPEN UP

OPEN WIDE

OPEN SEASON

OPEN the door

Open your heart

OPEN YOUR MOUTH

OPEN HEART SURGERY

OPEN SESAME

OPEN A CAN OF WHOOP ASS

OPEN THE DOORS TO PERCEPTION

OPEN THE GATES TO HELL

OPEN YOUR VEINS

OPEN DOOR POLICY

OPEN FOR BUSINESS

OPEN A RESTAURANT

OPEN A MOVIE

OPEN HOUSE

OPEN AND SHUT

OPEN MARRIAGE... COME OUT IN THE

OPEN WITH IT WHY DON’T YOU? YOU’RE AN

OPEN BOOK, YOU FROSTY MOTHERFUCKER BUT

YOU DON’T HAVE AN OPEN MIND, CRACK YOU

OPEN AND TRY... OH MAN, THINK I

OPENED A CAN OF WORMS ON THAT ONE... HE

OPENED A FUCKING PANDORA’S BOX ON ME

OPEN THE FLOODGATES OPEN SEASON ON ME

OPEN THE DOOR TO MY DOOM

OPEN SECRET...SHUT IT PLEASE...

BUT WHEN ONE DOOR SHUTS, ANOTHER

OPENS... AN OPEN-ENDED QUESTION...I AM

NOT OPEN TO THIS SHIT OPEN FIRE

OPEN MYSELF TO CRITICISM... I HAVE

OPENED THE WAY FOR SOMETHING

HORRIBLE... BUSTED WIDE

OPEN... BLOW WIDE

OPEN OLD WOUNDS

Open new wounds more

than likely

OPEN UP SOME DEEP TRAUMA

but you greet it with

OPEN arms... BE

OPEN TO LOVE...THE HEAVENS WILL

OPEN UP AND THE

ANGELS SING

YOU THINK IT’S GOING TO

BE THAT EASY?

YES, YES

I DO

—From the graphic trilogy, THE DARK BACKWARDS by my sons, Luke and Mark

Stilwell

Pamela Shea

Airing Things Out

 

A window opens

New ways of living starting

One year after tragedy

 

Death can come too soon

When one hides within dark rooms

Keeping secrets better shared

 

With windows shuttered

The past cannot be undone

And sunlight cannot be let in

 

Yet actually

The past should not be undone

But dealt with and forgiven

 

For who can judge sin?

Vice and virtue both exist

Truth and lies lay side by side

 

A window opens

Letting in both dark and light

What must I release tonight

Before new days can begin?

Mary Mayer Shapiro

View from the Window

The old farmhouse

Once was new

Full of life

Held generations

The windows made of glass

Collected memories

Looking in

And looking out

As the glass was put together

By many elements

It held many secrets

Like Madame Defarge knitting

Joys and laughter

Holidays births, deaths

Reflection of pictures on the walls

Generations of families

A new frontier

View was changing, the family grew

Friendly Indians, neighbors miles away

As the years flew by

The window faced the cemetery

A reminder of the past

Growing larger

But not forgotten

The window weathered the storm

Hot sun, opened for a gentle breeze

Seeds on the window sill fed birds, squirrels

Closed to keep out winter cold

Enjoyed visits by Jack Frost

The old farmhouse

Was falling apart

Broken windows, like pieces of puzzles

Started to break apart

Portions of glass

Flew to the cemetery

Landing on different graves

Uniting memories

Dust Collectors

Objects on the window sill

Looking out

Scenery changes - dogs, cats, children, adults pass through

By the hour

Determined by the time

Of day

Subjected to the weather

Heat from the sun

Savor visits during

The winter

From Jack Frost

Ignored by people

In the house

Rarely dusted

Never played with, but not bored

Just objects on

The window sill

Long forgotten

Hedy Habra

How the Mirrored Pond Suddenly Speaks

  

From my bedroom window,

I watch the rain sowing eyes

on the surface of the pond,

 

each drop drowning

inside maddened ripples

funneling vertiginously

 

into its murky bottom

each eye a fallen star sparkling

dimples over dark skin

 

its mutable constellations

redesigning an alphabet

for me to decipher.

 

SETU MAG

 

 

 

A Dream, Uncovered

  

I planted indoor bulbs doubting they would ever sprout,

and now mini-daffodils emerge out of a terra cotta mug.

 

From an elongated crystal vase, tall green stems rise,

immobile flames swelling into white fragrance.

 

As I face the emptiness of the white page, a desert to cross

says Bachelard, a solitary road, cold as the porous crystals

 

on the deck outside my window. I imagine words are dormant,

            awaiting the right conditions to surface.

 

Last fall, as I dug deep to plant tulips and narcissus,

            I found a limp frog, eyes half-closed, as if half-drunk.

 

I rushed to bury it again as best I could, hoping

            she would reenter her interrupted dream,

 

But I no longer see the earth with the same eyes. 

            grass, bark, my own hands, have become foreign,

a field yet to explore.

 

 

First published by Parting Gifts

 

Awakening 

 

Rising earlier each day, the young girl watches dawn budding in

warm colors through the lace-curtain veils covering her window. She

opens her hand to stop the light beam piercing the semi darkness,

yearns to touch the glimmering motes of dust, watches her fingers

become transparent, a white glowing lining surrounding them, thinks

of anemones’ fingers playing an invisible underwater instrument as

notes fill the space, turn into words rushing from every corner,

crowding the room. She senses the air has become dense, heavier:

she moves slowly as though in a dry aquarium while her one-eyed

fingers grow in size, gaze through the window as the walls close in

on her, enveloping like a tidal wave.

 

First published by Danse Macabre

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)

 

 

Immured

 

I live in an underground house, in the flank of one of the pyramids

of Giza. I breathe heavily the enclosed air, so thick it rubs over

me. I think of the doomed priests of Egypt who were buried alive.

 

This house has a secret wing, I move in it like in a dry aquarium.

Crystal and pink marble chandeliers cast a faded light over the

damask Louis Seize chairs. I address the elegant seats as if I expect

an answer. I am amazed at the impeccable condition of the room.

 

Delicate tapestries and old oils cover its walls. Carrara pink

marble tables tiptoe over pastel Persian rugs. This part of the

house is never used. No one knows of its existence, not even the

maid.

 

I have a sleep-in maid—she has no face, like in Mexican muralist

paintings; she spends her time sweeping the floor, an automaton.

We work together incessantly. I see endless corridors, a maze of

rooms waiting to be cleaned.

 

There are no windows. No one knows the house and I exist.

I live only for the house, a victim of the Pharaohs’ eternal curse.

 

 

First published by Linden Lane Magazine

From Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013)