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Tag Archives: poem about time

Pressed For Time

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It’s back to the harried life,
the one where I wake the alarm clock each morning,
rouse it with harsh reminders
of All We Have To Do.
I drag us through the day,
haul its ticking body everywhere,
poor little clock.
When it slows or worse,
threatens to stop,
I speak to it sternly.
There is no time for that nonsense, I tell it.
Then I wind it tight and give it a little shake
to squeeze out every captive minute.

Peonies

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This only in summer—
Time opening its dense flower face,
An old rose or here, a bright pink peony,
All day passing with others of its kind,
Basking in sun, rain, cool nights, the
Particular quiet of mid-afternoon
When even the birds
Whisper in the heat
And the peonies dream their flower dreams
Of stretching themselves
Into blossoms.

Consumed By Work

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An enormous animal
Lumbering through days
As if it has
All the time in the world
To give to the chase.

Or a towering clock
Gears and dark wood
And veined marble, heavy
Tilted off center, leaning
Ready to fall.

Or a mountain
That must be climbed
Though feet slip, can’t
Get past the scrim of loose rock
Here at the bottom.

Or a weed, some invasive species
With a short, intense season
Covering everything it touches
In a mass of tangled vines
Impossible to cut through.

Unplugged

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Breathe
is the prescription
when all my cords are frayed
from being wound so tightly
and I no longer remember
how to,
when clearly there is
Absolutely
No
Time
for a refresher course,
busy as I am
in this hectic, important life.
But that tiny part of me
that is not insane,
not addicted to the word
frenzy
Calmly writes this cure
in the margins of novels
I want to read this summer,
writes it across the top
of the dusty picnic table
waiting in the yard,
writes it in sunscreen and lemonade
across the wide lawn
till it meets the trees.

Fabric

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These days, the fabric of Time
is thick burlap that chafes
and snarls itself into knots
even as it unravels at all its
Edges. It stays awake all night,
watching for Summer.
There are stories Time heard, oh
long, long ago now, of what
will happen when Summer arrives—
Tales of transformation, highly
fanciful, hardly credible, nothing more
than fables really, myths that promise
Transformation.
but so the story goes that Time itself will
Change, become bolts of green silk,
unfolding in luxurious swathes
over this whole world, swaying free
to the music of water and wind chimes
till it covers the ground
in smooth, soft waves
for Summer to float on.
Or so the story goes.

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

The Sketchbook

MOSTLY MONTREAL, MOST OF THE TIME

Red Wolf Prompts

I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice

Writing the Day

A Ronka Poetry Practice

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment

leaf and twig

where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry