NaPM April 20th 2019
Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month. 

NaPM April 20, 2019

Topic: a poem inspired by looking out your window.

Form: any

Line Requirement: any
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara 
That Day

The same hands that cradled
my newborn head
tore through damp cardboard,
on the front step since Christmas.
Silent between beads of sweat,
eyes burning from something
I pretend he hoped I'd never see,
but I heard almost every night;
tucked in too tightly,
forehead kiss sometimes missed.

Excuses of mice nests and invading insects
freed him for just under an hour,
outside air cool against raging temples
that stoked the embers of thoughts
he probably thought would never ignite,
while I stood on a chair,
safely behind glass, warm as a light bulb,
to watch this man, my father,
who left when I was twelve.
Time is the best editor.
Fools, Drunks, and (Motor) Babies

Outside my window, rightward,
this big twenty-something guy
swings his legs from where he sits
atop a Japanese sedan’s hindquarters
looking down with interest on
a shoebox-sized, red-and-yellow Jeep.

At some point he’ll decide
to ride it. That’s the downside
of hyper-battery technology:

neighbors have already streaked around
on electric micro-motorcycles
at astonishing velocities–
they looked as if they’d gripped
a bulky, whining roller-skate
with their fundaments.

None’s been injured so far, not
for want of trying.

You really can't make this stuff up.  One look out my front window, and God's got his work cut out for him today.
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
I love the way the trees move.
We got so lucky finding this lot
Barely outside a megatropolis
Surrounded by traffic 
And department stores and
Every other house we found 
Has other houses and fences 
Outside each window.
Every morning feels like camping
A fresh wake up to a hectic work
Week and gentle caress to sleep
For bed each night
The city decided recently this plot
Of land would be great to extend 
The creek, saving neighborhoods
From future flooding.
If I don't sell, they could decide at
Any time imminent domain, take 
It for nothing.  I love the way the 
Trees move. I love it.
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
Out there a deep red sunset
of a flaming falling ball
between the high-rise houses
when the darkness comes to call.

from the fifteenth floor i
watch the fire slowly die
and then a trillion crystal
lights start laughing in the sky.

curtains close in other homes
folks retire to their bed
many of them hope like me
tomorrow's sun is red.
In a suburbia of firsts,
my room's on a second
floor. Its window faces west.
Evenings I climb

down stairs my parents
are too old to climb, the sun
burns through even the thickest

curtain as it descends,
shadow swallowing
the eastern door.

The world ends
for everyone: the old
and the unproven.

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