Tag Archives: minutes

Thirteen Minutes Of Scattered Reflection

1.

Insipid thoughts

None of them so much

As to be considered

Noteworthy—

I’m going to write

It down anyway.

2.

Dawn falling in fragments

Chasing the nightmares

Back into my drowsy head.

3.

Classic novellas that

End with a kiss

Rather silly, when

The whole point

Of the story

Is missed.

4.

Am I still your delight?

The pinnacle that throws

Blossoms under your sheets

And makes you smile with

Atrocious gesticulations?

Am I still your late nights,

Or has insomnia coquetted you?

5.

The silver snow stirred

In an autumn pantomime

My patio steps are slippery

A blackbird hums distant.

6.

I promised I shan’t admit such a thing, but…

The songs they sing feel like home.

8.

The irretrievable memories

Of you laughing drunkenly

Under sodium streetlights

As I kept the secret of time

Away so we wouldn’t have

To depart so suddenly now.

9.

Realm infected shadows slip under cedar oak limb

And they painted solemn lips a disorienting black

Vagabond lilies predicating the spirits of escapism

And again the sober hostages soused away the rest

With thrushes, silhouettes and asphodel disembark.

10.

The magnet polaroids

Stuck to the refrigerator door

Showing a false smile under layers of

Clown-vicious makeup

In a bad party for the ageless

…How disgusting.

11.

The pedestrians of Ridgemont High

Are caught in fast times

And the brake halt threw their heads

Out of the car window.

12.

My pulse is dancing in colourful circles

Won’t you try to catch its flightless beat?

13.

Calla-lilies serenade the moon

Icicles piercing icteric sunshine

Stars made for butterfly cocoon

Frog grass stepping, undefined

A diary written in brushstrokes

Of one artless individual’s chest

My ink is bleeding out and soak

I’ll tear out the pages of the rest.

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Filed under Poetry

parched for time

the hours

are slowing

insufferably

clocks melt

and shiver

quite palpably

the minutes

chew seconds

and spit them out

i’m still waiting

and failing; patience

dries my mouth.

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Filed under Poetry

Monuments of Stone

“The waves of time wash us all clean.”

~*~

Time. Washing its crystalline waves against the quartz sand, lapping at my hesitant curled toes, receding back into the vast inky darkness of the hyperspace sea. Behold the limitless great ocean of time, and the many beasts and creatures that live within its chasmic abyss, hungry for youth, hungry for experiences, always starving and eager to search for a prey, for memories to wither and waste away.

Years, fluttering like a pure white candle in the blustering wind; fragility trembling, luminosity quivering, conflagration dwindling, wanting in faith of its own stability. Its radiating warmth and incandescent brightness giving you a guiding light in soft hues of lambent hope, before a final gust of tempestuous breeze cruelly snuffs it out, leaving only a burnt wick and melted waxen tears of a lost castaway, congealing within the blinding darkness.

Months, thawing like polar ice caps on a desolate mountain, melting sluggishly and painstakingly, falling like liquidated diamonds as they slide down the slippery slope of porphyry, too enticed by the mysterious allure of gravitational forces to stop; drop by drop, shard by shard, tear by tear, little by little, then faster still, until it gets more gargantuan, mass constellating and collapsing downwards into one hollow rumble of a melancholy howl, mourning and bereft.

Weeks, like seven cups of various tea, flavours diverse and varying depending on your mood. Clashing soft seasons in your mouth; minty, citrussy, milky, zesty, sour, bland, diluted, an overall bittersweet affair, oiling rusty old bones and rejuvenating that sanguine blush in one’s cheeks. Yet when the teapot is empty and all the china cups are drained to the very last umber drop, your stomach feels faintly ill, bitter the only aftertaste in your tongue, and you can neither drink nor take no more.

Days, hurtling back and forth expeditiously, whistling past your ears like a frisbee. Thrown with quick reflexes, launched in a directionless manner, tossed around carelessly with none so much an earnest thought but an insouciant laugh, thinking its all in jubilant fun, as it spins and spins, making you feel dizzy, giving your mind vertigo, as you watch and wait patiently for its ineluctable return, just so you can throw it away again.

Hours, jumping and bounding past like frenetic mercurial creatures, never in a singular place, always everywhere, dancing the stars away as though nothing else matters. One moment they might be flitting by your tiring bruised ankles in a taunting tarantella, in a callous attempt to make you trip, yet they might be spiralling into the open Stavanger horizon, in a woeful waltz of dissolving resignation, the next.

Minutes, in a clever coveted Janus-faced deceit, tricking and ticking, masticating and muttering, revolving and relocating, elongating and elevating, faltering and fading, they’re but ruled ramshackle beings trying to stretch those measly seconds into a nuanced artifice of further longevity, eddying such curious naïvetés as you or I to believe that we have all the time in the world.

And the seconds, by god, those measly scintilla of a moment, a speck of a fairy tale caught in a jiffy, those shortest pauses that feel like a lifetime’s worth of disconnected reminisces, as breaths hitch, pulses halt, hairs raise, and the planet ceases it continuous revolution, taut gravity loosening for the briefest moments, allowing souls to soar. A blink of an eye always costs a bereavement of grand eloquences.

Milliseconds. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks. Years. Decades. Centuries. Aeons. Eternity. Everyone’s wasting time counting time, trying to stop the flow of the inevitable by catching it in an aquarium, and when the pressure is too much, the thin sheet of fragile glass succumbs to the pressing force, and begins to crack and shatter, water pouring out in raging torrents, desperate to escape. We douse ourselves in pneumonic coldness, trying to grasp what’s already slipping from our fingers, trying to save what’s already long gone. But in the end, we get another glass jar and try again and again, much like the innocent hopeful fools we perceive ourselves to be.

A hundred years is what it will take for my living monument to erode away and crumble into clouds of dust and ashes, precipitating pieces of my soul to the weeping planet, yet it will invariably take less than the smallest measure of time to do so, if I stand out into the open salty air and allow myself to be devoured whole by the mistress of the universe.

The waves of time recede in a tranquil stillness, then emerge once again, crashing in a quiet tantrum. The water rises. The tide grows higher. It is up to me whether to bravely swim against the current, or simply drown away in the undertow.

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Filed under Prose