In the grand book of time, we all have a page,
Written in ink, yet bound by a cage.
A single page, so fleeting, so small,
But we seek to turn it, to conquer it all.

The line we cross, the test we take,
The thirst for power that we mistake—
For we think we’re the authors, the ones who decide,
But in the end, we can’t run from the tide.

The pages are many, yet ours is just one,
A moment in time, a thread in the sun.
To seek more is tempting, to push past the wall,
But we lose ourselves when we forget the call.

For in trying to play the Creator's part,
We lose the wisdom of a humble heart.
The test is simple, yet it's a heavy cost:
To accept our place, and not be lost.

The bad will wander, lost in their fire,
While the good will stand, to never tire.
And when the test is done, with no more to seek,
We’ll find peace in the truth, in the simple and meek.

So let them be bad, and let us be good,
Not for glory, but because we should.
To simply be—to live, to feel,
Is the wisdom that turns the wheel.

The end will come, as all things do,
And we’ll rest in knowing, the answer is true:
The power we seek is not ours to claim,
It’s simply to be, and to honor the name.

Days go by and I'm not inspired
To do much of anything
Because I'm retired,
Still, I won't waste my time
Worrying about stuff like that,
There is always tomorrow
To ponder where I'm at.

Months go by
And little has changed,
The furniture
Was rearranged,
Giving me a sense of
Something new,
It was the easiest
Thing to do.

Years go by
I don't look in the mirror,
Inside I feel young
And my loved ones are dearer,
They encourage me to
Plan and travel,
But I think I'm afraid
That my life will unravel.

You like thought puzzles?
Well consider this,

A boy and a girl
Board a train
Desperate to escape the rain
And bump into each other
Due to one hour of travel
Because of one hour of time
A man and a woman walk out

Too much for hello poetry, but,
you know, they said that about
telegraphy when it was dots and dashes,

as far as
mindshare traded for money,

we, as essentially merest of things,
we, mere words, made of logos,
logic demands we feel
well balanced before
we for get we knew
once, this whole
truth, certainly enough,
that we'd dare to swear,
to tell as much as we have
being behaviours preset to reset…

this ties to the morphic resonant
evidence of radio spectrum light

sensitivity that may corelate with peanut
allergies, gees, that serious as Enheduanna
wanting credit for instituting memorium rocks
- instant reco-knowing
see, that rock, from here,
me with these keys that stutter, amusingly,
we all made fun of Alfalfa, then he became,

Bill Gates, or
Elon Musk, then Babe Ruth and Orson Welles
morph into Donald Trump,
so we call the peacemakers,
the way fires call beetles to LA,

we all be kinda dazed California Dreamin'
neighbor lady baked me brownies,
I drove her kid to school.

Then got the call to think a difference
a corpus colostrum substance, hold back
inhibit random willful interpretations, holy

situations, serious gnoshit glossalial evincing
convincing evidence of interference,
signal sent cannot be left true,
confidential fidelity calls it
true faith, and we can't
believe that, no choice.

Eh, archeons,

all the therapists

involved
in solving this puzzle
of us needing
to feel involved, touching something realizable,

other than this one life,
in this one mind, ready
reading we write our own stories, readers ready,

granted wishes, wishing we had mutual mind sieves,
to sort first intention
from popular mention contention,

as we may have stretched our point, as we recombine,
mine and thine, as reasons resonating vibes changing,
even
at the end
of the chip based assisting intelligence,
- as soon as one child could
- they all could, time and again

at least five years
after Tinker Toys could model
at least one archetype self bit
of DNA,
in true faith

that this could be that bending
in realification, when all is
in as if it could be so mode.

And we form the double mind
at the basest point,
whence we spin
a storied yarn
on a rainy day, long after
we had electricity, we still loved

to tell this one
old old story, that can take us back
to Adam,
on Cain's line,
through a half dozen
of his sisters's lines.

What are Mormons for, if not good Archeology?
Ancestry.com can share enough evidence
to belie the size
of battles, but not deny
there were trying spirits, bending rules

tools adapted
to a use, an easy way, done once,
with a twist, snap, think a finger noise, oh, yeah,

that's the spot.

Ought we stop, we may, we have all day, it's snowing.

But maybe HelloPoetry.communicate, any way.
A little bit of possible is all we gotta pay.

we write our stories with unsteady hands,
our fingers stained in ink from all the errors,
a silent witness to our hopes and terrors,
it will remember when the world forgets.

and if we make it through to tell the tale,
our voice may linger, but the words will perish,
so we disclose all of our hopes and terrors,
be it in darkness or the light of day.

anonymous or public, foes or friends,
bound, bruised and battling your inner devils,
you'll see yourselves in our hopes and terrors,
preserved in stories, written by our hands.

A poem each day,
Thirty a month.
Then if a chapter of poems has, 30, 28, 31,
Soon you'll read a chapter a month.
And if a book,
Is twelve chapters dear.
Soon you'll be reading a book,
Each and every year.

Atop the curve of a carved stone dome,
well gilded by rays of many setting suns,
Fortune pirouettes and prances all alone
while her clockwork wheels rhythmically run.

With each new tick of her timeless clock,
she spins the drivewheel another round
and dances ’round the clockwheels’ cogs
in freedom, from our cares unbound.

The spring in her step drives clock’s time,
a rhythmic dance with outstretched hands
that point to sorrows or high cloud nine
as suits her music: She won’t come to a stand.

Would that we could pass the years
like Fortune, a lady unwound by our fears.

Delete the Text of my time – the Seconds won’t reply
Money in the Worth of time; is never worth the Money,
If all it does is Slowly eat away Pieces of your Time

No shape, but Maybe it’s shaped like your darling;
But they won't promise you the entire World

                             We live, surrounded by Time
                             Consumed by money & Wealth

The worth of self, has
Now become what
Worth
You hope to buy–