Time

December 30, 2018 at 8:56 pm (Poems) ()

When I was eight or nine
Mum and Dad gave me a watch.
It was small, with a black strap
and real numbers.
Time was made tangible by its touch.

Since I was eight or nine
I have been fascinated and repelled
by all notion of time, fixed and passing.

I will not be defined by mealtimes, deadlines or clock chimes: will not swing on the heavy pendulum
that marks each moment of a dying day.

My precious watch is tucked away, unwound.
And I dance between beats,
acknowledging respectfully
but untethered by Time.

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Running Out

March 15, 2018 at 7:50 am (Poems) (, , , )

Gas is running out. Coal is

running out. Patience is exhausted.

Sage is just an antiquated word,

and thyme moves on inexoriably.

When beauty becomes the name of a blurred remembering

Beyond the helping hand of hearing aids and spectacles

I will run out into the street like a lost toddler

Screaming to be reconnected.

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Returning

October 12, 2015 at 10:11 am (Poems) (, , , , )

I’m getting back to a place I’ve been
where I’m not a cog in a crude machine
where much less time is spent in vain
with sycophants on the gravy train.

where knees are bent and backs are stretched
and arms are used to take and fetch
where hands of purpose mould my day
to fire a pot of stronger clay.

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Time at Christmas

December 25, 2014 at 1:57 pm (Poems) (, )

In the countdown to this Christmas,
in the mighty preparation,
the shopping rush, consumer crush,
I had the odd sensation
of hanging grim to fortune’s wheel,
defying gravity,
so thank you for the chance to land
beneath your Christmas tree.

For today I see the little things
that slip beneath the wheel,
take time to find the detail,
the care behind the meal.
And when again I venture,
I’ll walk slow, with a smile,
remembering how good it feels
to go the extra mile.

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Soon

December 1, 2014 at 8:38 pm (Poems) (, )

Like the wiles of a fox
or the workings of clocks
Like a hidden agenda
or secret contender
I will sit, whir and tick

Like a kiss for a frog
or a driver and cog
there’s a place and a time
and I’ll know when it’s mine
I will wait, cogitate
Let me be, then you’ll see.

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Old Year

December 28, 2012 at 6:51 pm (history, humour, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , )

Old Year rolls towards the edge:

all but cliff-tipped and crown-cropped,

he grizzles over sticky mince pies

and thrice cooked turkey,

downs a last guzzle of mulled liquor

and stuffs his pockets with fruit cake.

.

He will have none of party preparation –

“like celebrating my own execution”.

Instead, he catches up on old TV

plays Cluedo with the kids, who call him Mr Black,

and packs for emergencies:

no-one knows how it will happen this time.

.

Still,  warm gloves, tin of family biscuits,

and swimming goggles,

he’s ready to put his legs in one elastic

and catapult himself  into the next place.

If it turns out less than nice,

chances are, he won’t be there for long:

Years generally quit before outstaying their welcome.

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Aunty

September 14, 2012 at 2:55 pm (Poems) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Today in your honour I boiled an egg
a simple act to cut through time
eating comfort with a small spoon.

It brought back the red glow of your hearth
re-instated the sound of knitting needles
and made true again the knowledge that here was
a safe place for as long as I chose to stay.

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Time Peace

June 27, 2012 at 6:10 pm (Poems) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

Dad collected clocks; meticulously winding, checking, synchronising.

Marvelling  in the mechanism, ‘listen,’ he beseeched, and held us still,

as simultaneous hours struck irreplaceable moments.

 

With reckless disregard we hurtled  through time;

complex histories mocking Dad’s imparted  precision.

Still he held us – a permanent pivot in a plethora of progress.

 

Alarm bells rang when  Dad’s clocks collected dust;

A family epoch ending, we watched his equilibrium tip.

Though pendulums slow, time must pass. We were ready at last.

 

Still now, we listened, and held our father close as time wound down.

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