Alarm

We must not allow the clock and the calendar to blind us to the fact that each moment of life is a miracle and a mystery.  -H.G. Wells

I dread the ticking of the clock,

it dogs my steps, it shreds my wits,

and stabs my life with each tick-tock.

I dread the ticking of the clock

it’s both a weapon and a lock.

that snips my future into bits.

I dread the ticking of the clock,

it dogs my steps and shreds my wits.

This is my poem for Day #3 of PAD.  I got the idea of writing a "machine poem" from Robert Brewer of Writer's Digest where he is providing a prompt each day of April. 

Choir Loft

Tuesday is funeral day.

I sit above

and watch the pews fill

with sober, black overcoats.

They recite dry words

with mouths

already half-full of dirt.

Too many grey heads

nod and bob below,

though one less

than last Sunday.

The old rites

are blowing away

in the February chill

as we sing this soul home.

This is for G-man's FF55.  Late, so to speak.  Sorry for the dreary topic on Valentin's day, but I sing in a little country church choir and a funeral on Tuesday for a man I don't know at all got me thinking.  I'm still thinking, but here's the first bit.