“I cry very easily. It can be a movie, a phone conversation, a sunset -
tears are words waiting to be written.”
There is a poem waiting to be written about Time
waiting like the rest of us in checkout lines
and holding pens, holding bellies full of hours
waiting to be born.
Water breaking, slipping through our hands as sparkling rain,
our lives written with sparklers in the air on the Fourth of July,
gone in an instant.
Seen once more, doubled in the window glass.
Doubled, twinned, symbiotes, we nibble at our years,
but Time eats us like watermelon, spits us out like seeds,
gets squashed beneath us in our chairs,
as air squeaks out from cushions.
Like bubbles wrung from laundry, the line
where we hang our pictures and past-due notices,
diplomas and dingy drawers, wet hankies and house keys
to beating time: Swim in the river, let it flow behind you,
clothes stripped before you dive,
shoes, caps, capes,
apron full of days. Flap it and they disappear,
but only as sugar dissolves
when it sweetens the cake,
sand when it fires into glass,
glass into obsidian. Into night.
Into poetry, waiting to be born.
- Gayle Reaves-King
(3 poems added 04.19.14)
editor's note: Every poet is just a mid-wife for their muse... (We welcome Gayle to our crazy confab o' Contributing Poets with this submission. See two more on ways to occupy waking hours on her new page - check'em out.) - mh
I want to make
less sense, or maybe
no sense at all,
be a base-runner
leaping from phone-box
to window frame,
hillside to hammock;
word and wordsmith
unravelling a long scarf
whose colours stretch
half way round the world,
leaping so high
gravity gives up
and we spin out into a darkness
blacker than an unlit candle,
as bright as lava
the moment before
the volcano bursts
and the people on the hillside
have no time to run,
only stand and stare
and wait for their time
- Ian Mullins
editor's note: Fire and fuel, flash frozen to burn both as art; a Pompeiian performance piece. - mh
It keeps on burning in my head.
The disguised times of amenity
The serene songs of frailty
Inflamed how they all got, so rapidly!
Until the last breath I inhaled the smoke
It blinded my eyes, filled my lungs with grief.
But too naïve I was to bury my insanity
which heaved me into the comfort zone, my peace of mind.
Peace, that gifted me nothing but regret
Peace that built an unbreakable casket
where in darkness I lay questioning myself.
No more I want to feel the weight…
This sutured life calls for an encore
But alas! The curtains have fallen already,
and my empty stage is burning black.
Maybe someday I will kneel and confess.
Unveiling a blackened soul
in desperate need of righteousness.
Will I be bold enough to face the past?
Resurrecting with vengeance,
encircling me with familiar toxic smoke!
Should I try to escape judgement
by uttering words full of piety?
Like an abused dog I cringe, for my master’s
already written the epilogue.
No angels would play their flute;
but just my deeds striking with venom,
whiplashing my body ‘till it’s bloody and broken
and my rueful soul dumped in the inferno,
evermore burning black.
- Jonas L. Rozario
editor's note: Fuel your fire to light the night. Burn bright or burn out; either way, burn. - mh
I am the metronome
mover of measures
wide . . . . . . . . wide . . . . . . . . . . . . swings my pendulum
tracing the tempos of time
a poco a presto
the strings of my mind
I am the hollow
Trickle my tunes
to the tilt of the times
The see-sawing sea
paces my sands—
murmurs ageless songs
crack my still mirror—
capture the startled sun
in splintered rays
I am the pulse of the wordless deep
constant my cadence
the play of my tides
the gravity of the moon
- Harley White
editor's note: An alter ego of significant weight. See how she swings... - mh
Millions of stars, millions of nights showerfall,
cascading down intoxicating you with light.
Your eyes pulled to those rapidly gathering them up,
shoving them in baskets, stuffing pockets.
The big ones - shiny ones - ones that sparkle bright.
Which is mine?
Darting, grabbing, stealing all around, their drunken greed
hungrily fed - frenzy - leaving you lost.
The stars are gone - missed moment – weighted air
The crickets chirp their call.
You’ve never come in crashing
your lullaby quietly mine.
Ears straining to hear - waiting for my star to fall.
- Heather M. Browne
editor's note: So much sparkle and flash. Just need one in your pocket... yours. - mh
This suit looks
my dad, home for
This suit catches
This suit clings
This suit reminds
- Anthony Arnott
editor's note: Dress in a manner befitting career expectations; or, at least, lunch expectations. - mh
GOT THE TIME?
Talkin’ to me Mutha Fucka?
Yes, do you have the time?
3:30, Mutha Fucka.
3:30, it’s got to be later than that?
Ok Mutha Fucka, 9:30!
- Hal J. Daniel III
(1 poem added 04.13.14)
editor's note: You're only as late as you need to be, mutha... - mh