Time takes from us.
What do we take
from time?

We take
nine months
of the life of our mothers.

We take
every sunny hour
from everlasting days
of childhood.

We take
sleep-time from our parents,
waiting up for us.

We take
each
agonizing
second
of last day
of school.

We take
the suspended moment
as eyes lock from afar.

We take
all the precious minutes
when falling in love.

We take
our time
to lift the vail
and kiss.

We take
nine months
of two lives
creating another taker.

We take
the rapidly
evaporating time
of raising our children.

We take
sleep-time from our nights,
waiting for our teenagers.

We take
time slowly,
watching our daughter
walk the aisle.

We take
echoes of times past,
ringing through
empty bedrooms.

We take
time lightly,
years skipping past
incomprehensibly fast
until...

Time takes us.
What, indeed,
do we take from time?

a word
              whispers
                                another
a steady obbligato
pinging
on the window of my mind

a CRACK
of lightning
as charged particles of concept
are drawn up into ideas

and a trickle
becomes white water

every writer
finds a voice
that whispers
to them the clearest

Who is your word?

First of all,
do not say there is
no instruction manual.
There is no single,
definitive one;
but there are
a myriad of choices.
It may take years
to find the one that
makes any sense at all.
Next, understand
that the parts you begin with
will not resemble
the finished product in the least.
As you proceed,
tab A will rarely
if ever
fit neatly into slot B.
Adjustments and approximations
are your best friends.
Remember that there are
always resources available;
friends will be willing
to lend a hand,
and customer service lines
for expanded knowledge
depend upon the manual chosen.
Finally...
work with the full knowledge
beforehand that
you will be the last to know
when you are done.

Do we not carry
the echoes of the only
in every new love?

I'm performing
exploratory surgery;
plunging a scalpel
in the interstice
between my discontent
and my gratitude.

Just another morning
unwilling bones
crack their way out of bed
begging for caffeine
to wash down
a heaping bowl
of matte-gray sameness.

There was no quiet desperation
in the riotous years of youth,
the grasping search for love and truth.
No, in those days there was no patience
for the faintest scent of dull
routine or rut.  It's just with age
that comfort's found in gilded cage,
no fires to set, and belly full.

Should a technicolor sunrise
strike a quickened spark of phoenix
from the ash of youthful pyres,
hopeful drops for jaded eyes
which, once refreshed, will then be fixed
upon millennial birds of fire.