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What I see from my window Part 1 : From my french windows

I have been meaning to write a poem on what I see from my window. I thought, I’d do one for each window in my house. And I thought I’d ask you’ll to do the same. It would be fun.
At about the same time as I was contemplating with the idea, I received a prompt to write a poem based on what you see from your window based on Mary Oliver’s poems. Isn’t that a co-incidence-like a sign to go ahead? So without further ado, I got to it.
So here’s the first in the series of ‘What I see from my window?’ I decided to write the absolute truth of what I see; no imagination. Shows poetry is all around us.

From my french windows

Beside my bed

I see the sky

And with my eye

I trace the clouds

From where I lie

 

I see the sun

Peep through

A hole in the fluffy whites

Bull’s eye –

There one moment

And gone the next

 

I see the steeple

Over the blue dome

And birds circling –

Tiny ones and big ones

Perching for a while

Before they fly

 

From my french windows

Beside my bed

I see a canopy of green

And in between

I spot blue tarpaulin roof-tops

From where I lie

 

Now tell me what you see from your window in the form of a poem and #whatIseefrom mywindow. You can paste a link to your poem or the poem itself in the comments box. Let’s get poetic 🙂
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18 Comments »

  1. I get a sense of dreaminess from the way you describe what you see Smitha – the clouds, the ‘bullseye’ of light, the circling birds. Now, I don’t do poetry and the view from my front window isn’t very poetic, but just for you, here’s what I see 🙂

    I long for an open view
    but there is only old brick, glass and wood
    Rows of tall houses huddled together
    The amber gleam of a neighbour’s porch light

    Sparrows chitter in the gutters
    Crows squawk and forage among the shingles
    Gulls swoop at sunset
    when the sun gilds their wings

    Liked by 1 person

    • Your comment made me smile Andrea. Thank you for writing this poem, for me. I’m honored❤.
      The view from your window is so different from what I imagined to be…thought it would be full of flowers and birds and butterflies…I guess I just assumed based on the walks you write of and the sea mentioned in your posts.
      This little poem shows a different view of the place. Btw, I loved this first poem😊 ‘amber gleam of a neighbour’s porch light’ and ‘ sun gilds their wings.’ While you don’t do poetry your prose is as beautiful as poetry or more. Hugs

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Your poem flows naturally Smitha. I have written quite a few on the topic but never mentioned the words “from my french window”…my window has a magnificent view of sunset from the living room and of sunrise from the bedroom. What more can we ask!

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you for stopping by and sharing the view from your window. I guess I too have written a lot of poems based on the view from the window without really thinking of it. Being locked up indoors thanks to the monsoons made me want to dedicate this series to the windows😊. The view from your windows sounds perfect- to be able to witness both sunrise and sunset- that’s amazing.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. Nice. I’m a writer but no poet. Still, you prompted me to write a few words: Upper Peninsula overcast when the sky can be seen at all through the trees, the windows floor to ceiling frame a wood stove, the view a welcome respite from my 88-year-old father’s home where the view consists mostly of witnessing his battle with Parkinson’s and heart disease and COPD—but here in my own living room I’ve hardly seen this summer—eighty-foot white and red pines surround the “camp” –anything off the grid up here so-called, though it’s our full-time home — the only difference from one window to another is the Little Two Hearted River on the north of our 35-acres running inexorably to Lake Superior, (not to be confused with Hemingway’s “Big Two Hearted” which also dumps into Gitchee Gumee –ferns turning a crusty dry brown, scrub maple trees just inside the rim of evergreens already showing traces of crimson and orange, so early this year, earliest ever: “I want to see it one more time,” my father says, as if it’s a rush, it’s going too fast– “I love that place,” he says, and so we clear the room of anything upon which he might trip– he has to sleep on the couch here and this is exactly his view out those floor-to-ceiling windows but where I will see the stain on my leather sofa, urine-soaked, forever; something darts quickly past, and I’m not sure if it’s a squirrel, a brown hare, probably not a grouse since it wasn’t big enough for a deer or a bear and ‘had the move on” as Dad would say—“It’s still,” he says as I help him out of the couch and into the big easy chair—“ no wind,” he pronounces, since the weather or boating report has been his major topic of conversation for my 60-some years—“no wind”–he says, falls asleep and I listen for HIS wind as I do constantly, so slight and shallow at times. The leaves sway just a bit in those trees. Not still yet.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. If I can write in a poem form what I see from my window,
    Well….it would have been great .The view from my wi Dow is beautiful ,blue lights of the dome of pineapple bldg ,ligh,twinkling lights and faint hue of burj Khalifa….
    You know Smitha what I ‘m talking….

    Liked by 1 person

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