An hour-glass stands up nice and straight
On a flat, polished end,
While bells suspend like carrion
On rods that never bend.
Grains of sand in a transparent bulb,
Mustered in a smooth cone,
Slip through a graceful crystal neck
To toll in silky tones.
But as bells swing and clang, they gulp
From a meridian,
One sideways to the zenith zone,
And fill themselves again.
A bell will always know the time,
But still politely wait
For eager hands to yank their cord,
Even when slightly late.
But a depleted hour-glass sits
Until impatient hands
Can flip it over on its crown
And fill its heads with sand.
The moon is grim and sly, and keeps
Pale secrets from her twin.
She hides the darkest of her blushes
Behind a slivered grin.
Her greater, fertile, sister earth,
Greater in girth, not age,
Knows a pallid, pock-marked cheek
But not a shaded rage.
A barren spinster, gray from birth,
Can scarcely bear to see
From callous sister such a show
Of broad fecundity.
What tempted me to join the queue?
It must be some great treat.
Only delight could keep these souls
Shuffling on blistered feet.
I turned a corner hours ago,
But as I count the corners off
I’ve tallied five so far.
The walls are clean, but they’re not bright,
Scrubbed to sobriety.
I passed a blotch I’d seen before,
But it might lie to me.
This line may loop into a square,
And no one’s first or last,
And all who’ve shuffled patiently
Are doomed to lose the past.
Did I ascend to this closed floor
By staircase or by lift?
Outside must lie some wider world,
Denied a precious gift.
The walls are bare of openings,
But we need only one.
Quiet can’t be the sole reward
For everything we’ve done.
The sheets and blankets are too big
For such a little bed.
They drape their fringes on the floor,
And dribble dreams with red.
The brain can’t sluice the nightmares out
Though a grate stopped with cloth.
Thick curtains collect spiderwebs
And flutterings of moths.
The ocean waves are murmuring,
And some who walk the shore
May pause to hear some wisdom there,
And linger more and more.
The seas are older than the old,
And jealous of regret.
Their murmurs wash out memory,
And make a soul forget.
Dour duty may seem cruel
To novices, but rasped
To callouses by some hair shirt,
Skin glories in its clasp.
A rougher kiss is sweetest bliss
To scourged and toughened hides,
Until abraded to a scar
Where stunted dullness bides.
Words can wriggle through the cracks
Where grosser largeness blocks,
And even with no aperture
Huskless speech can seep through locks.
Life’s a very busy thing
And rushes by so fast,
And since inertia rules this world
It cannot help but last.
Transactions plonk the daylight hours,
And revels blot the dark.
There is a grimy window near
That looks on a glum park.
You're not a writer
and i'm not a reader
but still your kisses
taste like poetry to me.
In the garden of your dreams
I’ll meet you there
Close your eyes and dream.
I’ll be waiting .
In your dreams everything is possible.
In your mind you can go everywhere you want to go, You can meet any soul.