Tracking Time

Take

this day

It is your starting block

to hurtle into tomorrow and tomorrow

and ten thousand tomorrows.

More if

you’re lucky

Minutes, hours may drag

but the years screech past

relentless as a train

Meanwhile, you have these

empty days

to fill with

colors, bright or muted

music,

white noise or a

frantic cacophony.

You choose

today

On Time

I have this skein of time

to knit into a 

life unraveling

faster and

faster each year

each season

each day

tangled at my feet

This if for Karin's challenge to write about some aspect of time, at the Imaginary Garden. 

Cosmic Egg Roll

    Cosmic Galaxy Egg by Andrew Logan

Time swirls across the cosmic egg;

what wonders will it hatch?

and what came first? the question begs.

Time swirls across the cosmic egg -

come roll with me on this next leg,

grab all the moments we can catch.      

Time swirls across the cosmic egg;

what wonders will it hatch?

Over in the Imaginary Garden Lolamouse asked us to write a visionary poem about an image from The American Visionary Art Museum in Baltimore, MD.  I chose the Cosmic Galaxy Egg and wrote a sort of Triolet.  This is a stanza poem of eight lines. Its rhyme scheme is ABaAabAB: the first, fourth and seventh lines are identical, as are the second and final lines, and often all lines are in iambic tetrameter (though not this time).

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. 

tenWord Winter

    Photo by Mary Bach

Tracking my grief

through winter woods

this all looks familiar

       ~ ~ ~

Time stops

in the winter temple

drifting at the door

       ~ ~ ~

We shiver

in the winter room

while dreaming of green

       ~ ~ ~

As dusk curls

around my shoulders

stars beckon me, "Come!"

These are ten word poems about winter, sort of.  The tenWord from is in response to Victoria's dVerse prompt.  The form itself is from another member, Brian, who (rightly) stated,     "...after ten words no one is listening anyway." The subject of winter is from Fireblossom at Real Garden with Imaginary Toads.  I'm not sure if I quite captured the human emotion she asked for but, oh well!

Queen of the Stone Age

     Museum by Tess Kincaid

Let us not concoct
healing potions for the dead,
nor invent
new colours
for blind eyes.
     -Hilda Doolittle

I dream

that I am on display

I have no privacy

except inside my own mind.

So I go about building an

inner life of vast spaces

empty of people

with wind and sun and

nightjars

singing me into bed.

Meanwhile

I stare blindly past

the gawking people

past the marble floors

glass doors

past the

streetfuls of cars and crowds,

buildings, bridges

mountain ridges

past the curve of the earth

past Moon, Mars,  Pluto

Milky Way,

out and out,

past a thousand galaxies

through time itself.

Written for Magpie Tales where Tess Kincaid reigns as Queen of the Manor.  Click on the link and join us.

Happy Birthday Kate!

My girl is 24 today.

Yesterday she was 7

Last week she was brand new.

8 pounds, 13 ounces,

round and red

with a perfect 

rosebud mouth.

What happened

to all those years?

My best advice -

don’t blink!

Don’t even blink…

My amazing daughter Kathryn is 24 today.  The poem really says it all!  I have no idea where all those years went, but I am so proud of the young woman she has become.  PAD and NaPoWriMo day 14.

Skipping Past Time

     Image by Mike Worrall

Next year,

when we were children

we loved

skipping time:

double Dutch forward,

peppers back,

criss-cross applesauce 
back and forth again.

Who could keep track

of when we are?

Not the jumper,

or swingers,

or those in line

waiting their turn.

This is for Grace in the Imaginary Garden.  She asked us to write about one of the many, delightful paintingsof Mike Worrall.  And it's also for Mary's prompt involving childhood toys or games over at dVerse Poets Pub.  Click on each of the links for more responses.  

Recurrection Reunion

     Resurrection Reunion 2 by Stanley Spencer

What the hell?

Here I am, back again;

dirt up my nose and in my ears,

amid all these crazy people

in woolen stockings.

When time bends over, double

and we step

across the fold

to back-here-again,

then dinosaur oil slicks

knit back

into shining, bone-hard whiteness

covered over in leather-flesh

filled with being.

Dusty tombs

fill with reconstituted blood and juices,

fresh flesh,

so succulent and tender,

lips again kissable

tongues speaking, shrieking

hands pulling aside

death shrouds.
And feet,

my feet,

in woolen stockings

amid all these crazy people;

dirt up my nose and in my ears.

Here I am, back again.

What the hell?

This is for the The Mag creative writing group and also the Nobember PAD prompt from Writer's Digest.  Click on the links and check them out.

On Time

     Image by crilleb50

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

I wait for the 12:15 miracle.

It’s late,

but still I sit and wait.

How else will I get to Schenectady?

Written for The Mag creative writing group.  Click on the link and check it out.

After Dark

    Image by Daniel Murtagh

In the long winter nights

when time eclipses thought

and dreams bleed into waking

I question the turning of the stars.

Which of them is already dead,

how much longer until 

their lights go out, 

and how will I navigate

through the treacherous dark?

Spooned into the hollow of your arms

I count on your tenderness.

The image above was provided long ago by Tess Kincaid as a prompt for The Mag.  I never managed to write anything at the time, but the image haunted me until I recently paired it with something I wrote for G-man's FF55.  Check out both of these links for some wonderful poetry.

Days of Our Lives

Darling

in your hands

mortar and pestle

 are used to grind time

to a fine powder -

80 grit

to fit

in the hourglass 

figure, in the tarnished 

sliver frame on the mantle.

But sands gather at our

waist and hips, as we

give lip service to the good old days.

Here are 55 timely, shapely words (including title) for the G-man at FF55.  

On Time and Space

A fixed point

cannot be altered,

but with a wrinkle

of fabric

parallel lines intersect

between you and me

Image by design-char.com


This is posted at dVerse Poets Poets for their writing prompt about undercurrents.

Lack of Time

Tic, tock, tic -

Hurry.  Stop.  Hurry.

Tyranny

of small clocks,

imposed patterns, divide us

keeping bliss on hold

Image by Daryl Edelstein

This poem is done in response to a wonderful photo by Daryl Edelstein.  This picture and others and the written responses they evoke can be found at IGRT (Imaginary Garden w/ Real Toads).  Also, the poetic form I used is a Shadorma, which consists of 6 lines with the following syllable count: 3/5/3/3/7/5 

In Time

Tick

tock

you must

make a choice;

every minute you

delay opportunity dies.

Your world, your future depend on it - but no pressure...

This is called Fibonacci poem (or Fib) is a multiple-line verse based on the Fibonacci sequence so that the number of syllables in each line equals the total number of syllables in the preceding two lines.  There is no set number of lines, but of course, it's more difficult with each succeeding line so most are 6 - 8 lines long.  I learned of this form through a wonderful  example by Annie Perconti.  (Photo by ice891)

Time Passed

In the frosty morning

each grass blade coated, silvery,

crunches as I step.

A leaf falls

and another

and a thousand.

They are so lovely as they die

When did this happen?

I wasn’t paying attention, then

I turned and summer was gone. 

Days diminish;

November closes in

dark and stark and raw.

This was written for Mr. Knowitall's Flash Friday 55.  To see lots of 55 word poems and stories click on the name.  Try one yourself!

Better Late Than Never

If I could save time

in a bottle

I would,

cause I can always use

a few more minutes.

Late

is my fashion statement -

but oh,

that last minute

Is always the most

productive!

Written for Sunday Scribblings weekly writing prompt.  Click on the title to go there.

Shadorma

My muse deserted me for awhile. I'm trying to lure her back with short, little treats. Today I learned a new poetic form called the Shadorma, thanks to Anne Welch at One Stop Poetry. This form is, "...a 6 lined poem (sestet) of Spanish descent with no set rhyme scheme. The shadorma is a syllabic poem with the following structure: 3/5/3/3/7/5." So here is my first attempt:

Counting time
on the calendar
each day an
agony
moving towards what?
I have become the waiting