Driving, I thought
Of life and death
How some folks live more
In only a handful of years
Than some who barely scratch
Life’s surface after decade upon decade
Of blood coursing through veins
A heart beating, lungs expanding,
Going through the motions
But that’s not living.
That’s marking time.
The Pull of Time
by Leslie Noyes
Nothing matters now,
With the exception of love
And the pull of time.
A hushed, unrushed love,
Long minutes, long limbs entwined;
Sweet slippery hours.
Time always intrudes,
Pleasures turn to promises
Measured in drab days.
left alone with
thoughts unwieldy
too intense for
this bright day
crushed beneath
thoughts of envy
will they always
hold this sway?
gathered close for
future’s telling
slowly ticking in
mad men’s hands
stop the clock and
start the living
mark the place
then heave the sand.
prayed, oh please
don’t let this nature,
keep me wrapped in
jealousies
sifting through grayed
grainy photos
begging for my
soul’s surcease.
we slept through the longest night
van winkle-like
forty years or forty winks?
yesterday we were young
unweathered
unfettered
maybe it was long ago
i can’t tell anymore
would we do it again
knowing what we know now?
ask us again
in another
forty years.
I. I’m good at that stuff
Marking time like a pro, so
Watch me do nothing.
II. Count on someone else
To worry with the schedule
I’ll be marking time.
III. Who might benefit
From time marked yet unwasted?
Lizards, cats, and me.
Peace, people!
Tuesday’s child,
Full of grace
Excluded from
Beauty,
Saved from
Woe, by two
Dozen hours
Or so.
Fickle time
Declares which
Gifts might be
Bestowed,
Based on a stroke
Of luck or the
Hands of a
Clock.
Tick tock.
As a child this poem always bothered me. It seemed to put poor Wednesday at a disadvantage from birth, while Sunday got all the good stuff. Hardly fair! Always interested in justice, that’s me. Oh, I was born on a Friday in case anyone’s keeping tabs.
Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace, Wednesday’s child is full of woe, Thursday’s child has far to go, Friday’s child is loving and giving, Saturday’s child works hard for a living, But the child who is born on the Sabbath day Is fair and wise and good in every way.
Peace, People!
The Kiss by David Walker
I’ll pose to you two
Questions posed to me
Does love remember?
Does time have meaning?
If he said today I’ll love you forever
Would that mean anything?
Would he remember after
We tangled over jealousy
And hurt feelings?
Would love conquer all?
Would the time we spent
Loving mean anything or
Would it be wasted?
I don’t think I could bear that,
That what we’ve had
Becomes meaningless.
Better not to have loved
At all
In spite of what the
Poets say.
A trio of haiku written in response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt.
I. Tick tock wind the clock
Carefully controlled tension
I snap when overwound.
Art by Norman Duenas found on Pinterest
II. Time out, hurry up
Life goes on without me now
Wrinkles slow me down.
III. “A Time for Us” sung
Plaintively, no dry eyes here
Save mine; mine were clear.
Peace, People
Praying for Eyebrowz 