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Ashlyn Kriegel Apr 2013
In bed by eight and then storytime
Lots of time
Just enough time and a short enough memory to know there was a tomorrow
Just enough time and a short enough memory to not understand aging
Until I had plucked all the hairs off my chinny chin chin
And discovered if the big bad wolf was real that he lived inside of me
He ate my years
My dad's pocketwatch was in sync with the grandfather clock
Its tiny hands resonating louder than
The protesting silver cogs
The screaming mahogany treads
"Tik tok...
Tik tok...
Ding. Ding."
Part II in the "Clocks" series
Ellie Stelter Jan 2012
no one could ever understand
why i loved clocks so much
i would hold them to my ears
and listen endlessly to their tickings
i would imagine strange mechanical worlds inside of them
and rub my fingers over their gears and hands,
and if they had eyes i would have seized those too

i only loved them in the daytime, though
their rhythm was too much at night,
it would intrude on my nonsense world
and demand order, which wasn't ever any fun for my dreams
i know others, whose nighttime clocks reminded them
of the horror of the Telltale Heart
which is strange, because i know someone,
someone very dear, and very sick,
whose heart ticks and does not beat
whose hands and eyes and everything
are dying, dying, but her heart
died long ago, so now it ticks,
ticks on and on, ceaselessly, reliant as a clock

i love clocks because they tick
because they beat, and make me think of hearts
that do not fail, even when all else does, or is going to,
and manage to be right at least twice a day
even when they're already broken.
JL Nov 2011
Today I walked in from work
Making my way throught the strange and quiet house.
I couldn't understand when I walked into my room and saw you snuggled in my blanket
My bed has never looked so warm and so inviting
Your red hair spilling all over the pillows
Cascading into the shadow
I laid down fully dressed
Laying there in a dream
You are evreything that I will ever need
My best friend
rain cloud
kissing booth

So strange to see your lips agian
Pursed and perfect
Red stained Beautiful

All so warm and simple
Not like the others
Her whole life is sweet and gentle

You can watch the parts of my life you touch
Turn away from the stoney lonesome
Your vines, your ivy, sweet smelling flowers
Wearing angel soft petals bloom in the pale moon

So what is left for me?
What more do I need?
I have my "Shelter from the Storm"

a long tired kiss is in order
on sleeping lips
soft and unkowing

Curling up in the warmth next to her
The flower wrapping her warm petals about me
I need nothing else in this world
As I begin to drift off into sleep so complete
A rustling on the bed beside me
Warm lips touch my ear
I hear her breathe "thank you"
and like that she left me there

I wake up alone
On this old couch
Sunlight creeping in through the broken blinds
In this trash apartment
In this nowhere town
Jo Hummel  Dec 2014
Jo Hummel Dec 2014
I want your body pressed to mine so our hearts feel each other's beats.

My arms circled around your waste
and a kiss pressed to your face
a sound rhythm in our veins
I can't even begin to explain
You drive me crazy,
in a good way
I'd give anything at all
if it meant forever you'd stay
I don't think I have to, though
we're near tied together
A hundred minutes, weeks, or years
Any amount of time's forever
An infinity of our own
I can build a life around you
Pressing kisses to your palms
Pressing faith into truth
Matrimony? In time,
no need to rush it all
we've got forever ahead of us, darling
and I've already started to fall.
Haven't posted anything decent in a while
This doesn't change that fact
Umi Dec 2018
The sky is so blue, yet so very sorrowful,
Here in my prison, these thoughts just won't fade,
Exiled from a holy world into a lonesome, somber lunacy,
This painful day, the dream of a better, hopeful tomorrow,
Are truly the light of my fading consciousness in this hell,
So I went to count the days till judgement deems me pure again, until I may become whole once more from these broken shards of the past,
Budding sprouts begin to bloom quietly, as the timeless seasons rush by and vanish into the bittersweet remembrance of ones memories,
"Stay, even if you're weak, dear conscious" I wispered to myself as then my tired eyes got distracted for a brief moment,
Time already had come to an inevitable halt, so at least my pocketwatch told me after letting out one last, delicate ticking sound,
With that, the phantoms of my past had laid down to rest, as the coming dawn greeted me by displaying the fading stars of the sky,
This is truly a repeated tale I endure in this pitiful isolation,
But if my painful past were to be erased, the last brilliance of my life would be deemed lost, for the darkest moments truly are a gift from above, helping us to determine moments of joy, bliss and purest love,
So I hope that one day, this body of mine will swift into prayers, hopefully in the beauty of an unclouded light, filled with moonlight,
Maybe then, I can finally move on, leave this lunacy far behind me,
Deep inside these puzzled eyes give me courage,
Despite being sealed away I shall discard everything and challenge this unmerciful fate of mine,
Then I can reach that sky, where my ideals are displayed,
Surely freedom awaits the border of consciousness, at least I hope,
Love blooms on the waters surface, filled with countless tears
And with this newfound freedom I can withdraw myself in this wonderful, pure holy world I waited for so long!
Despite it being distant a fantasy,
I dream of a hopeful tomorrow,
Here, in my exile.

~ Umi
This didn't look remotely this long when I wrote it on paper first, sorry
Robin Goodfellow Nov 2016
Soft sunlight drifts through
a sea of melancholy,
while shadows of time fade
to decadent memories.
Stars shine amongst nostalgia,
beauty hidden in twilight,
as I stood there watching
the seconds fleeing night.
The frosty breeze against me,
I wander to the next life,
when I hear something strange,
a flicker of hope within my strife.
A man came to my pendulum,
with wrinkles beneath his eyes.
Hollow smiles grace his lips
though he still wanted his life.
He came to me in the dark,
as dim fires behind me wept,
and he told me his stories,
his dreams he preciously kept.
He told me his life,
both dying and living,
with the name of his beloved,
his heart never lying.

He tells me a time
of when innocence had flourished,
of when he played with a girl,
their love he happily nourished.
A young, tiny girl,
who was fragile and small,
but he still lived with her,
and gave her his all.
He showered her with promises,
with books and with words,
with fairytales and limericks,
where they dreamt evermore.
Sometimes they slept,
other times they were awake,
but he led her through adventures,
through truth and his own mistakes.
He could only smile,
as he held her hand for forever.
A white dress, a white rose,
to be separated, they would never.
Family gathered, and friends crowded
the boy and the girl, with laughter.
Walking along heaven and earth
they happily gathered.

But there in the meadow they stood.
They hugged, and they cried.
The girl had to leave,
but the boy did not want to say goodbye.
The boy takes her rose,
plucking it from her hair.
He carves a ring,
though the thorns rip and tear.
He slips the ring on her,
and asks her to come home

that day.

Bells chime for midnight,
the evening slipping from daylight;
he waited through the spite of life,
never confusing the centuries with time.

I search through his memories,
as the old man crumbles to dust.
I stare at him for a while,
and my silver clock’s rust.

I remember his smile and face,
when he asked me to be his friend.
I remember the tales he spoke of,
and a happiness that would never end.
I remember the clock ticking,
the minute and hours of hopeless time,
and the riddles slipping from your mouth,
as we giggled at your foolish rhymes.
I remember Mama and Papa chuckling
at our quiet, blossoming love.
I remember their blessings,
their prayers from above.
I remember the day in the fields
when I told you I had to leave.
I remember how much you cried,
through your agony and pleas.
Still, you stole my white rose,
in those loving, soft meadows.
You made me promise
that we’d see each other tomorrow.

It all kept replaying
in the corners of my mind;
our blissful words and affections,
ticking the rhythm of our lullabies.

I miss you,

not knowing what else to do,

while the pendulum swings

between us.
Woody Aug 2016
My brother left his radio on
and in my sleep I got the blues
so I struck out in the direction
of my spit and the moon
sleepwalking, a man overboard
into the dark sea of dreams
as the nightwatchman on the docks
closed his pocketwatch with a sigh
watching my ship leave as night
put her coins over my eyes,
and I have forgotten the past I
used to know like the back of my hand,
the island I come from, which flag I fly.
Jessica Saunders Aug 2013
She said;
‘One day you’ll
grow up
escape all this
One day you’ll
some happiness’
But i’m still
Carly Two Jun 2013
When I was 18 I learned a lesson in jewelry:
A pocketwatch that taught about loss
that was never mine to lose.

I borrowed the euros I paid for it.

Most loss is something felt by ranchers
and bankers
and stock brokers.
Because they own the things they have.

You are not mine and so I cannot lose you.

That's free sadness
and free happiness, too.
Copyright, C. Heiser 2013
Cecil  Mar 22
Cecil Mar 22
“Papaw, whatzat?”
My granddaughter asks,
As she watches me
Pull my pocketwatch
From the front of my bibs
To check the time.
“That’s my watch.”
I tell her,
As she holds it in her hand,
Intently studying.
She shakes her head.
“It takes too long
To know
What time it is.”
She remarks.
Out of the mouths of babes…
But I like it.
The slow deliberate
And quiet ticking
Of the pocketwatch
In my bibs.
There's the slow drawl of my life in this one.
Juhlhaus Sep 2019
Animated by twitch of muscle,
Electric spark through live wire,
Humming rail and synapse,
Wheels spin at the fingertips of maybe
An ineffable humorist,
The mastermind of this beautiful prank
Pocketwatch of silver and gold
That explodes in the hand
And leaves you stranded on the platform
The second you go to check the time.
Bailey B  Sep 2010
Bailey B Sep 2010
I tiptoe hence from
crack to crack in the
asphalt of our parking lot
trying not to hit the yardlines like
we did in marching band
practice, carefully, steadily
with six steps to a stripe
six-to-five six-to-five
left right left

and I'm trying not to notice
that the trees, their leaves are
turning now to the colors of
the hairs upon my head

and ash
blonde brownish
and the sweetest of
on my left
right left

and I'm not doing a very good job
of not noticing these things
like how I pretend not to notice how
you smile when I'm not looking but
you are, you're smiling, you're
looking at me and perhaps catching
glimpse of the rainbow of follicles
emerging from my scalp

which is great and all, but still it
makes me nervous makes me jittery
pocketwatch in my ribcage

I scuff my foot across the yellow
paint of parking spaces and joke that
we would have pretty children
because that's always been a topic
that's one of those half-joking, half-not
topics that all
boy and girl friends have even if
they aren't boyfriends or girlfriends they're
just friends, it's still a tender subject
and today I'm feeling
brave except for when I
trip over a word and widen my
eyeballs in embarrassment
until they can see the very
tips of my eyelashes and I
feel very odd indeed
because I realize no one thinks of that
except of course for
six-to-five six-to-five

and I've mapped out my life in bottle caps
and those pepperminty things you
can only find at wedding receptions

and I ****** them in a jar until I stir
them into prophecy and they tell me
if you were another boy if you had a signet
for a seal and possibly a stallion or at
very least a cloak
or a practicality for inventions more useful
than those of divinities
but you aren't no you aren't

and in another life were you a
nine-to-five nine-to-five
and in another time you could've passed
and we could laugh our days away by
the fires and read Whitman to our
Siamese and drape ourselves with kaleidoscope
quilts in lavish armchairs and just

honey, honey for your toast

breathe, don't cry
crying is for
the weak

and in another life I could've smiled
without abandon I could've
let your fingers brush my jawline let
you read over my shoulder and occasionally
turn the pages for me and I
could've seen our future and let you tell
me I was beautiful and possibly loved you
...but I can't love you.
This is not another life.
this is mine I tiptoe fragilely
from crack to crack and breath to
breath to keep myself from falling off
the edge and so I murmur quietly in my brain

ash blonde brown auburn burgundy and
yes, six-to-five
and let me close my eyes to blink

you tell me
you're not foolish enough to tell me
what you really think
and you laugh and I tell you I'm stopping this
of thought before it derails itself and causes those
catastrophes where thousands die
of head-on collisions and
butterfly feelings
and stricken-through unfinished

like I'm in a game of hide
and seek but you're pretending
not to know where I am hiding
so I can be the last one
right left

so I halt myself at six-to-five
and let you kiss me anyway

you don't know that in those
few choice words
you've given myself away
Lindsey Miller Jun 2012
strapped to the darkest horse
on a hell-bound carousel
here where colors envelop each other
reds devouring greens in a maelstrom of artificial light
time crawls to the beat of a hibernating heart
and she can locate her bearings
strewn amongst the dust of the cottonmouthed ground
and regain them.

she trips
into a cloud of mushrooms
as their caps unscrew
and come loose
red-tipped pills scatter like rats
each with a tinny metal voice
shrieking a harsh cacophony
of swallow me
while the roses
with thorns of syringes bristling down their backs
pull out their plungers
and wait.

she bolts from fright and pressure
into the badly beaten path
into the fender of the massive carriage
into the beams of the heart-shaped headlights
cutting cards through her porcelain flesh
a royal flush
an imperceptible gasp—

a small white rabbit
wide-eyed in the dirt
to the rhythm
of the hands
of his smashed and derelict

— The End —