poetry and prose about place

the glassed-in porch

with 2 comments

My grandfather lived in a big white farmhouse.  It had rooms and rooms, but the focus of life was the kitchen.  On rainy days, we could play there quietly. 

Sometimes we were allowed to spend the afternoon in the glassed-in porch just off the kitchen.  It was whitewashed, and had filmy white curtains and wide window ledges. 

On those ledges was a fastinating collection of knick-knacks and trinkets.  Examining these items was very entertaining although we were not really allowed to touch anything. 

I have tried to emulate this magical jumble of artifacts in my own home, but some spaces are impossible to duplicate. 

a collection on a window ledge


glassed-in porch in rain


rainy day glassed-in porch

tall windows and white step

down from the kitchen

to linoleum     wicker table    a cot

never-used porch door

at the windows, white ledges

keepsakes and trinkets

‘look but don’t touch’


big clock in the kitchen ticks

red-eared slider frantic against

the frosted sides of his bowl

rain taps at the window


irresistible urge to give the turtle

respite, lift the curtain to admire

the rain, lift the velvet lid

of the purple box, Port Maitland

iron pyrite safe inside, encourage

dippy bird to tip and drink

from the glass of water, blue tulips

and a chip in its rim

nudge the red and yellow-flocked

parrot above the cot, swing him

on his metal perch, rearrange ceramic chicks

to peck at whitewashed window ledge

focus rose bowl ruby light

on china pig, puzzle out flowers

and holes on his back, turn the bud vase over

‘where is Occupied Japan?’

pour buttons from the jar, sort

and match Meteghan sea glass, marbles

in a coffee can, take a ship with scallop shells

for sails along the sill 

trace paths of hesitant rain

droplets on glass


© Jane Tims 2011

Written by jane tims

August 31, 2011 at 7:17 am

2 Responses

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  1. Another great poem Jane but it somehow leaves me feeling anxious … too much stuff to contend with 🙂



    September 3, 2011 at 8:22 pm

    • You may be right. Part of being a poet is knowing how to edit and let go of some of the images. Even though they may be dear to me, less is often more… Jane


      jane tims

      September 4, 2011 at 7:57 am

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