A Broken window dreams

tired dried tears upon the pillow

as the wind rustles the leaves

of the knotted gnarled old men

cracking bark stained knuckles

against crushed transparent  sand

and the rain stained reflection

ghost like haunted

chewing the knife edge of a

slice of jagged moon

and the timpani dance of the deluge

dismembered hand print fading

stained cathedral glass-like

a tainted stigmata leaking sawdust

only smashed firmament makes reflection die

is gone

sucked into the nefarious night

and the only sound

the cough and the rasp

and the rata tat tat

of watchers unseen

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

such wonderfully harsh imagery in this...i feel the woodpeckers outside the window...peering in at the disintegrating old man...texting the other animals that a human is in the midst of his demise.

disease ravages those of an older age...just attacks in the quiet of the night...
others can only watch.
really terrific poem here, gram,
j.

[gram linski]

thanks, j. wasn't a woodpecker, but I understand with the leaking sawdust thing was a raven, as is my wont, lol, great review as always,

[Eilis]

I saw this as someone having just punched the window and the window reporting the scene. But this window has a bit of a poetic mind and creates a scene that lets us in on the story, not just the action.

Some of the language made me think of the sacredness of cathedrals. Or perhaps the sacredness of experience. Each experience being individual.

Odd connection I know, but the window lends a sympathetic portrait of the plight of man. At least for me. And like the Sistine Chapel moment when God and Adam acknowledge one another, there is a sense here that the window has a depth of knowledge, a sort of connective knowledge—past, present, future, where the man is mired in the anger and sadness of the moment.

I really enjoyed the descriptions. The wind breaking through into the human world of the home and rustling the leaves of the man. And the blood dripping down the glass becoming a symbol of stigmata. There is weight in the moment and the window is philosopher and interpreter. The jagged sliced moon is quite evocative.

I felt like the window understood the man. The sense of night feeling like a force in itself and looking for ways to eat the vulnerable up. The unseen watchers outside become part of the chorus of naysayers. But the window, still partially intact, remains a barrier between the two worlds. To some extent anyway.

Maybe a weird interpretation. But I like the idea of familiar, inanimate things being sympathetic and mildly protective. But, it’s 3am, and who knows what I’ll think in the sun-hours. A cool poem, Gram.

[gram linski]

not a weird interpretation at all, once again you are spot on with your insightful views, thanks again for the great review, Eilis