Time Leapt

I vaguely remember arguing with an accountant
(or mathematician)
about reconciling the Years End with the Leap Second
(or loss carry overs and off-setting capital Gains)
which of course led onto greener pastures,
futures, and master plans
such as the old erratic Julian calendar,
disappearing days, the value of time;
since time is money, paid hourly,
benefits and salaries
traded for living richly-

But, I bet his figures are better than
all my Reckons added up, The ante:
don't gamble if you do not count
on losing.

We've agreed to disagree
semantically about 'Balance'
and whose 'books' are better,
whose red-what-
Whether time matters more
for some
time we've known is not a matter
of physically covering ones assets,
or stock splits-

And yet, this hiccup, jump,
an algorithmic appliance,
rounding off and ballpark-
GAP
brought us back around to black holes
(and stellar bureaucracy)
being the center of each universe,
resistance, gravity, monogamy, and
uneven solutions such as slices of pi
or other dark matters where time is converted
instantaneously beyond what we can conceive
in a mind, in a hand, in a life
time-any-thing-more
slips through the cracks,
between fingertips, spills out, tells
all to watch, wait, rely, count on,
change, coinage, patronage and no matter what-
we were never Here too long to be wrong.

Still, I will
deny any transpositional errors or leaping
to conclusions. Definitively:
broken down seconds were
never more
than
firsts.

All accounts have been settled.
The time is Now.


Painting by Nicolas-André Monsiau (c. 1800) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hand me downs (II)

The local train blares by

to cause alarm

although familiar, futility gains strength with steam.

With this new engineer at the helm from the rear

he calls *Attention* to his pressures and passages

as though he

the town crier knew the time

anymore.

This whine is the bell vibrating raw gravity-

                           hard to see

coming straight, near, far, coming, going...

All the rest is color coded for us,

              lights and trigger switches

are on the outside, green and red, black and blue

Stop and Go for Simons followers.

The straight path, as the crow flies,

is soft and well worn, even in the sky

                     drawing diameters

in his radii, he is right on a smooth track.

To make it back home for dinner, meatloaf.

To rely on regular things such as

weak forces, sympathy and cacophonies.

Painting by Frits Thaulow, The train is arriving (1881) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Want not, waste not

 We have all wasted our time here. 
Let us be brutal and honest, each and every one of us
has wasted
Time; as in
away, 
effort, electricity,
money, opportunities
and all of these were Ours to squander, 
to squat and wanting what nots.
What is more seems to 
overspend on idle luxuries,
counting pennies and pebbles 
you say are lucky asteroids.

We should be Thankful.

We could be too coddled to recognize
all this preoccupation with preparations 
and knowing ahead
it was all superfluous.
But we are busy making;
deals, wishes, messes and mayhem,
money, babies, titles, costumes, trinkets, headway 
and art, a start at something real...Really?
We could do more to untangle our neural nets 
stuck up in sticky anxieties, worries
or not...some like it wound up that way.
And nouns hold more weight than necessary. 

As a rule, nothing is certain
to be 
Good
except
Art, really. 

Painting by Pieter Symonsz Potter (circa 1597/1600–1652) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

In the Rain Singing Purple Poems for the New Year

Another one

bites the motes, spits a clod, 

and is claimed by fame, all in a name.

Again, not I 

anonymous

let the book worms crawl in

and out as though it were all natural

and biodegradable over a lifetime

to deteriorate

this way

all of us bound in romantic tragedy,

we try to forget this poignancy

with age.

What comes

are words not unwise, nor mine.

Summarily, I listen.

My work is done

a hush has fallen.

Including this

one there were four hundred and sixty-nine

times I’ve stabbed at Truth-

only to burst bubbles, finding nothing

inside. I wrestle, is this not episodic

or just melodramatic...

I can guess. 

My pen is dull, I have no credit to my name.

What feels right in living like me

is all wrong for others

(monetarily). I owe them one

for their certainty. 

I feel no Nationalism

or sentiment

may be strong enough

to overcome

its little people. 

And here we are, another orbit around,

One (more) Earth year

To reset

our broken watches and records. 

Play it again Sam. 

Let us dance.

It may be our last chance 

to take it in

Memoriam.

Let us hum(an)

auld lang syne. 

Chit for chat

Who are you talking to? or what are you talking about?

Nobody. Everything.

If 'Nobody', then aren't you communicating to no one about Nothing? 

Why waste your precious time? 

It occupies-my (precious) mind-some-times.

Who has Time for all that? reading? writing? listening? to 'Nobody'...

What else is time for?

Work. Some Thing. 

So, writing, and reading and listening-these are all                leisurely-un-activities

-easy would you say? not Work.

Yes. Of course. Everyone knows this. No.

How does Everyone know? Did somebody tell you this?

No, Nobody. I just heard it somewhere. Everything productive is work. Work is a productive thing.

That works...for some...productions or some things. I read that nobody listens anymore,

you have proven everybody wrong. Unless I am wrong.

You are right. 

Painting by Károly Ferenczy, Engaged in a conversation (1912) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Second helpings

It would be asking too much
if someone said
wait one-thousand-milliseconds,
one hundred jiffy's,
a billion nanoseconds, or a Fermi
but really that sounds silly,
so seconds it is to please be quick-
witted, reactive to surfaces
as echoes and sound is also a wave
that warbles along at seven hundred
and sixty
miles per second,
superficially.

Just so you know, it is all calculable by
a minuscule measurement of  radiation
and reach, emitted by caesium (-133),
tiny things we cannot see nakedly
invaluable like love and currency.

Honestly, you should know also
that it takes 6 full grown alligator
seconds to gain any kinetic benefit,
by stretch or strain,
of any muscle-through release or gain.
And all should plan appropriately,
it takes twenty-one seconds to pee-
really
on average
you have been warned
seconds and faith
take quantum leaps.

In one unjust second, a bullet barrels by
two thousand five hundred feet
while a snail sidles over a puddle
cruising 1 chasmic centimeter
and in that same moment
we swallow, we make thoughts,
we blink, we take it in, more than oxygen-
we reminisce wanting more from before...

the world changes drastically for one
second, and
again,
firsts are never enough
for any one
Now.



Painting by Johannes Vermeer, (b/w 1655 and 1667) 'The Art of Painting' in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hand me downs

I never claim to know is mine, 

                                                     alone.

Perhaps it is a preference of plagiarism,

a nose for improper prose,

an insatiable appetite for 

all ilks of altruistic anthema

I could not think 

of a better wheel design.

We have learned.

Where there is smoke was once

                                                    on fire.

Needs and devours

as borrowed without interest.

Solutions are simple echoes, 

                                                   echoes

what you said you heard

and comes back if it hits the right note

accord.

You know how others wrought words 

                                                    work

more harmonized than mine, 

in truth themselves together 

as wording that works

for real-ity-itty-bity life-like

                                             Projects

and Practice.

By stretch of imagination or by the life-

span of a metaphor

                                                    by suspension 

and leaps

abound archaic and built to last

for a time-as taut truth

entwined in tension.

Look 

out. 

Given eyes 

                                                    to see, 

Only art may remind us why

color is requisite to sight.

And why white space is free 

breath. 

To covet a glance, off the top 

take without change 

of rubberized opinion

or overcharge for overdrawn spirituality

                                                    from a paper One.

I imagine 

remembering clearly-

                            some scattered lines of poetry

in tangled threads, 

rags over-stiched spines, 

poets opine over each others

dead bodies doing it wrong

turning the soil, lying there

and re-cultivating the Garden of

                                                   I Will

re-Discover.

                                          Know only 

slowly may one go

to pull open space we need

vacancies never free, but insist

on appearance and flow from Others 

Currents

pulled into time by tide. 

                                           Drifters

we are all sifters, thieves 

of sureness,

presenters of possibilities,

tailors 

                                           of time-

space,

altering whose in whose

reality-one time, 

rerunning reminiscences

and savoring our own essence

familiar

in-decadence in fortitude

never mine in any time-frame

                                           alone.

Image By Charles Robinson (The Happy Prince and Other Tales) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Silent Sunday Services

The clock on the wall hammers away
in the quiet house before sunrise, oblivious to Sunday morning
rituals.

Nary a breath escapes while the beat skips on along-
long whole, holy, sunny sun days-
while others pray I lay behind dreaming doors,
light pouring in, purring snores,
while that clock ticks off
and takes, takes, takes
its sweet time,
this time I think-the time-
Time-it takes too long to make every single
second
count
may be wrong.

***********************
The kitchen sink taps a tune
into a rose colored glass
muffling its measure
by the minute
becoming
optimistic by the hour.

Between that quiet space
of steady shine and rise
coming up on-
it is too easy to lose the pace
or miss the place
where to chime in...
.........................................
The fridge hums steady and warm,
the oven clean and cool
both standing white in the background.




Painting By Catherine Wiley (Tennessee Portrait Project) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A-round A-gain

It was only natural,

the moon mattered more &

the stars too trivial to twinkle.

It was as expected,

as time unfolds memory,ensues, 

enframes and borders the view.

It was

more than the medium

or the membrane, the skin sheds and mind

stretches     out for much       more.

It  matters,

Even when it is all the same-

when forever ended time and again, a perfect moment

stolen in a last sunrise-

for Good.

It was only natural

light, reaches the furthest corners and bounces

back.

On a curve,  

photons careen in corners,

where

          sovereign circles can spin spirals…

Dross traces of dark matter will devour all the same,

sanding the edges

              smooth

for the first Time. 

Painting by Wassily Kandinsky, Heavy Circles 1927 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Swing, swing

If given enough strong rope to swing safely on
we should all say less and do more.
None of us think there is time enough for all,
some never start running until the finish line
is in sight.
Mountains and hills are of course the same things,
inclinations of opposition.
See,
Sin is simply super-stition, I pray for them too-
on the other side.
I fear it is all downhill, smooth sailing and paragliding-
how much a free fall feels like flying
-while suspended-
-with limbs tied-
-stretches the silence-
into reasonable soundness
(with words in between).

Minute drops

The first train blares its horn
ripping thru the quiet town
at five:eighteen
in lieu of the alarm clock
that ran slow-
it goes to show...

Kicking up dust and sand,
it may take some time
for the eyes to adjust
to light rays
lasering the pupil
shrinks as day
cracks the ceiling
wide open.

It smells distinctly like rain
that none saw coming
since there were no puddles
to prove it.

Tho the tracks
were both still
warm to the touch,
and the mist counts
as precipitation.

It adds up over time,
and passes the miles.
Blurring the light infinitesimal
strewn across space
in broad strokes.
Time keeps losing its place
on the train of thought,
while the whistle blows
such primitive perceptions
as these right
outside the window.

Crystal beads streak
backwards behind the ears
as memories
dew
condense and transport us
while wide awake
but a little late.


Painting by J. M. W. Turner, pre 1844 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Bells & Whistles

Ah, a gift for thee
        a token of my love
           a bit of magic by mans making
Look and see
         the face
              the hands
                    the delicate machinery
Of the precious dial that
          is alive
            it beats
                its face reads with guile
Please, carry it with you
              always keep it
                  close at heart, handy
                      it wants to feel your pulse too
A handcuff? No!
                a shackle-perhaps
                    for some its a ticker, a fuse
                         Coded lines that sign in analog tho
watch its powers,
                 you'll see, this little clicking gift, a tricky token
                            from me, will count unto eternity
                                 all the ways and each of the hours
of my love
making time
trying to be
when it was
is all
we needed
(and a piece of time for thee).



Image By Seriykotik (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

To Prey

Perched upon the precipice, putting it out...There

Toes of talons testing

Tensile strength

the weight of gravity’s grip

Knuckles fisted white feathers

circle around palms, swooping ling lines

under current, jet streams, screams

of circles

sees squarely, keen

seen belly dancing

BuTter-f-l-I-e-s

Flutter, stutter, mutter

pinned in air

frozen

tock-only

circles in the sand, out-lines

beat

        ArounD

the                  bush

Tracing the clock

You Are Here.

Composed 3/27/15.
Image By Justin Connaher (https://www.dvidshub.net/image/1695289) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Times tourniquet

Last week
I had it all
under control.

Last month
I was excited
about the Future.

Last year
I couldn't wait
to be where I am
Today
yet
I cannot say
it right.

Tomorrow will Be
too much
all over again
and then
another
Year
I fear
of ending up
right
Here.

Image of painting by Hans Holbein the Younger (1497/1498–1543) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

On second hand

I don't believe in capital -T-
Time,
But I do buy time
all the Time
whenever it's available.
And I do accept
watches and glances
but not second chances.
I never used to wear a watch
in youth
that is counter-clock-
wise
But Now
the time I live in
I could always use a great Coach
cheering me to go on
to keep up the pace
And what about a beautiful face-
There's something utterlessly
Timeless
about a Fossil.
And while digging up
memories
and backflash dreams
it seems
my heart slows
my brain knows
the battery is dying
there is no denying
when it quits,
so will I
synchronized
wise.



Image By Watchexpert (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The gist of being Februist

Is it Februist to pen about pain-
Loves counter-refrain
Let's all complain!
That, my dears is the gist
of being purely Februist

And of amethysts
shaped by six packs
clustered quartz
like opinions
and craggy dominions
add it to the list
of being Februist

Golden locks too soft
lead too, hard as nails
too hot, too cold,
too much, too little
love and hate
soul mates
Valentined and kissed
You guessed it, this
is also Februist

So Life is a box
of chocolate filled
surprises and sentiments
to be tasted and tested
swallowed and spit out
notes to nibble on
Though the gifts we tend
to doubt
are the sweetest,
Yes, as the skepticist is
Februist

Only tiny truths, gnats in the know,
bugs in rugs and ermine expectations
make rime in time to thaw
trickle down pains
theoretically and say
in thirty ways from May,
time Marches on
gripes and grouse
when a Februist
storms through your House.

Image By Josephbanjo (Own work (Photo personnelle)) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons Rose with rime.

Bottomless Pit

Always Yessss

Giving of yourself fills

instead of empties

Time is precious

Time doesn't matter

We have forever

We only have this 

moment

Your presence comforts

and tucks in loose ends

When you think you cannot

utter how much

it doubles

It is violent sometimes

passionate always

lights a higher wattage

elevates skin, tactile

and smell, enhanced

breath and glance

Always withdrawing

never replenishing

It demands One

greater power

at all times

It crushes the other under

its obligation

slithers into shoulds

inconcertina locomotion

nestled in your snaky needs

a serpentine fork

Loves anivenom

Consumes more than

its out weight in

carniverous ways

of sanssss sssseriffssss

charmed by the cold-blooded

constriction of I love you

insatiably. 

Image By NASA / Jet Propulsion Laboratory / University of Arizona [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Descripton Details English: "Dark pits on some of the Martian volcanoes have been speculated to be entrances into caves. A previous HiRISE image, looking essentially straight down, saw only darkness in this pit. This time the pit was imaged from the west. Since the picture was taken at about 2:30 p.m. local (Mars) time, the sun was also shining from the west. We can now see the eastern wall of the pit catching the sunlight.

This confirms that this pit is essentially a vertical shaft cut through the lava flows on the flank of the volcano. Such pits form on similar volcanoes in Hawaii and are called "pit craters." They generally do not connect to long open caverns but are the result of deep underground collapse. From the shadow of the rim cast onto the wall of the pit we can calculate that the pit is at least 178 meters (584 feet) deep. The pit is 150 x 157 meters (492 x 515 feet) across. Written by: Laszlo P. Keszthelyi."

Spin

According to the variables,
the rules were elongated.
Black time flowed fast
on an interrupted smooth plane.
There were too many similar pieces
in play and the moved spaces
never progressed wayward
along the spherical borderline
overlapping soul and self,
Venn inside, categorically
trapped, unable to trace the way
to break the line that labels, rates
and places apart flat out
otherness, the other coin side
limited by a the double dimension
of peopled perception, angle of the arc
along the rim of the never ending
line that flows back into itself.
It's your turn to spin.

Water bearer

The gargoyle has a better

vantage point,

which explains the smirk.

Tho' he'll never tell

what goes on

over our heads,

while we lie

in bed

wandering in dreams

it seems...

'Twas Medusa that said,

Look at me, wait right here for me,

I will give you eternity-

and after a while

of peering at the gargoyles smile

clear as day

the words

came dripping out,

Try

first

to be happy

as you are

just in case 

this is your final face,

and then it began

to rain again. 

Image By Patchy at de.wikipedia (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A novel nosh

Hungry for something good to read,
(a never ending need)
my nose went sniffing over the shelves
seeking something scrumptious-
after my last four hundred page meal
I simply wanted maybe
a metaphor more,
another piece of poetic prose
to satisfy my insatiable nose
for narrative
(like food, how I live).

So I crack open a new
book of morsels,
after reading the back ingredients
briefly-advertising its
nutritional value.
I put my fingertip in it
and get more than a lyrical lick
or a great idea for a story-
this one is tough to chew
on, a grisly allegory
about a girl and a black flower
but the middle is missing...

Then the next one I choose
is about a fantastical mythical 
rabid Time eater-
then I learn it is really about
an avid reader.
Like a bad nut, the taste
can only be replaced
by something yummy and fabulist,
like a sweet and savory fable...

So I grab a good old classic
about some animals on a farm
and take a seat at the kitchen table-
not quite considered a fairy tale
but unprocessed and easier to digest
than that hormone injected one
with the wicked white whale.



Image of painting by Jehan Georges Vibert, The committee on moral books, 1866 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.