Posted tagged ‘time poem’

Time Poem

April 9, 2022
Time Flies

Time

I think about time
and picture a stream bed,
in which I put my hands to catch something—the water?
Sand?  Minnows—

All I get is glow—
my hands wet in the flow—you can’t stop time, hold it—
even when you wade right in—it only makes
your whole body shine (maybe) for as long
as you can stand
the rush.

But often, I avoid thinking about time, as if that might make
time stop.
I spend hours, whole days, weeks,
in a little moving box that tries to blank out time, blanketing
its windows (my little moving box has cut-out squares)
but time doesn’t stop
just because I’ve not thought about it—

And then I picture time as sand, endlessly falling sand—(that comes, I guess,
from hourglasses) and why
I wonder, do I imagine the fall of that sand
to be endless?

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Another draft poem for April.  As always, pic and poem mine.  All rights reserved.  Stay well!

Stitch

August 16, 2015

 

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Stitch

Time–she had a stitch or nine,
because she ran so hard and fast;
it sewed itself along her sweep
until she slowed her pace at last;

and all of us who tie our shoes
and dash our morning faces wake,
slippered into sudden sigh,
though carapace began to shake–

By that, I mean our peanut shells
so welded by centripety,
their brittle case won’t whittle down
even under battery

(though we don’t batter much our shells
for arms are thoraxed tight within
and Time’s bright gait so blurs our view
we miss the spinning at our end.)

But as Time slowed, if for scant breaths,
the dervish dance cast by her draft
unspooled and drooped, and feet adrift,
we swayed, then lurched, as on a raft

that washed up from a sea of notion–
each own’s idea of what this ocean
of floating storm is made up of,
this life we row, this row we motion–

Next landed on a slant shore’s sands
and while Time’s hands massaged her side,
we, creatures of a patterned beat,
assayed a waltz through lapping tide–

Soon enough, Time ran again,
with seams unstitched and hands a’scissored–
in her upswings how we whirred,
and at her strokes, how quivered, quivered.

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A draft poem of sorts–meaning freshly written and little edited for my own prompt on Time on With Real Toads.   The drawing is an old one, not perfect for this poem,  but my laziness makes me a believer in recycling–

 

Giving a Minute Its Five Cents Worth

March 7, 2014

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Giving a Minute Its Five Cents Worth

We try so hard to save the day,
might better worry
how to spend it.

Me, I’ve stored too many–
days projected dry
lain away against the rainy;
hours wadded
like the folded storm bonnets
women used to keep
in their snapped-shut bags;

imagine hosts
of halcyon years–sheaves of wheat
that bow beneath warm skies–
freedom still to come, always–
while I’m feeding this here minute
into a slot cold
as a nickel.

Manifesto: roam fingers
over sides
before slotting;
feel for buffalo.

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Here’s a belated poem for Gay Reiser Cannon’s post on dVerse Poets Pub to write a poetic manifesto–mine is not exactly about poetry, but good, perhaps, for a coin collector.  (Ha.)

For those who are not from the U.S., a buffalo nickel is an old style nickel–with a buffalo on one side–they often tend to be fairly valuable.