Where do the days go?
Is there a big bin
filling up with all of my spent days?
Can I dig through them
and pull out one or another
special one
to review, relive?
Can I pull out one
that wasn’t much used,
like a piece of paper,
and write on it
again?
So as not to be
wasteful.
Or do all the days
just drop away
falling out of
time?
A quick shift of the mind
can put you in a better place,
while a quick shift of the body,
after
a certain age,
could put you in traction.
So, I wish you
a positive mental shift,
and a gradual
physical one, my friends.
This is for dVerse Poets’ Pub where Mish asked us to write a quadrille (44 words) and include some form of the word “shift”.
Take a walk around the lake
and think about things
Not your heart rate
or your calories burned
but the things you push out
of your mind
all the rest of the time
Like where have all
the years gone
how much time have you
exchanged for cash
and when will you begin
to live?
Somehow my baby
turned thirty
last week
and her big brother
will be thirty-two
next month
Once I thought the
sleepless, pacing nights
would never end
as I carried one
then the other
trying to sing away
nightmares
and colic
But I closed my eyes
and dozed off
and somehow my baby
turned thirty
last week
This is for Hedgewitch’s FF55 Verse Escape
I have trouble
with time.
It is constantly sneaking
away from me,
hiding in the folds of a book,
under a cup of coffee
or behind a daydream
Like a cat,
it stays just out of reach
until I turn my back.
Then it rubs against my legs
nearly tripping me up
Particles, sprinkled on the path,
crunch underfoot
Waves, crash into me
submerge me,
knocking me down
I cannot seem to manage
this time;
so forgive me
if I keep you waiting
Devotion
To what do you devote yourself?
What do you worship?
What do you cherish?
To what do you give your time?
A short snippet composed of awkward questions, but the sort of thing that’s on my mind just now.
What is the gold standard of time?
And how do we tell time
by the sun and the stars
when the ever-constant sun
opens and closes the star gate
at different “times”
not just each day,
but each year
on the same day?
(Is that why we don’t
wear sun dials on our wrists?)
Just what is this thing we measure
and divide into smaller and smaller bits?
Who enforces this abstraction?
And what arrogance enables us,
mere specks in the cosmos,
to believe we are keeping time
not just for Greenwich
but for the entire Universe?
I think this poem probably reflects my ignorance of science more than anything, but it originated when I was looking up times of sunset. And of course, the time of sunset changes with daylight growing shorter and longer with the seasons, but didn’t realize that also, sunset is at a different time on the same day of different years. Of course it is, because with leap year the same day isn’t even the same each year. That was poorly said, but hopefully you know what I mean. Then I looked up the time standard and discovered it’s no longer called Greenwich Mean, but Coordinated Universal Time. So, that’s probably more than you ever wanted to know – but I hope it wasn’t a waste of your time!
I am no physicist
but I know about time
I know how it changes
how it bends
and folds
I know it’s not a constant
but races, then
stops and
pools at one’s feet
then scampers ahead
I know how it can deceive
What I don’t know
about time is
how to spend
it wisely
4-5-19
Bertie
is three gems
each one more precious
than the last
Spilled out of
a jeweler’s envelope
to be examined
Past Bertie is bright with surface sparkle
one might even call her gaudy
in an uncharitable moment.
Future Bertie is honed
concentrated to
a single, pure
searing
point
.
Present Bertie
has been chiseled
tumbled
polished and worn
to a clear bright
fire, yet
with substance
comfortable resting
in the palm of one’s hand
This comes from a dream I had last night. My Aunt Kathryn was talking about Bertie, and I wondered if she was a friend or distant relative or even a care-giver. (Aunt Kathryn is 88.) Then she pulled out a small envelope and shook out three largish diamonds, which were somehow the “Bertie” she was talking about.
Is the period on a line by itself too gimmicky? What do you think?
Light and shadows dance
through the ages
flashing, winking, spinning
And now the time begins
when shadows enfold the light
when we turn
to darker thoughts
with shorter days
and colder nights
when blossoms are spent
and fruits have ripened
The growing season is over
prepare your garden
prepare your soul
winter is on the way
This is for Joy, who has resurrected FF55 at Verse Escape. Go there and see what it’s all about. (Photo is by me.)
In Other Words 