"hourglasses" poems
you see
i had always felt
that in a dream
i was the absence
of the dream
and then it dawned on me
that i was in a time piece
trapped during forgotten hours
where everything is alien
but vaguely familiar
the beach beneath me wandering
off to anywhere but here
and i straddle the shoreline
palming stray shards of sea glass
always the color of her eyes
and i am abruptly upside down
an upheaval, a maw
where i thought it as
a nightly revenge
for skipping stones
and again i am upended
& back on the beach
born of broken hourglasses
and it makes me think
that god likes to watch things leave me
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
We, the rescued,
From whose hollow bones death had begun to whittle his flutes,
And on whose sinews he had already stroked his bow-
Our bodies continue to lament
With their mutilated music.
We, the rescued,
The nooses wound for our necks still dangle
Before us in the blue air-
Hourglasses still fill with our dripping blood.
We, the rescued,
The worms of fear still feed on us.
Our constellation is buried in dust.
We, the rescued,
Beg you:
Show us your sun, but gradually.
Lead us from star to star, step by step.
Be gentle when you teach us to live again.
Lest the song of a bird,
Or a pail being filled at the well,
Let our badly sealed pain burst forth again
And carry us away -
We beg you:
Do not show us an angry dog, not yet -
It could be, it could be
That we will dissolve into dust
Dissolve into dust before your eyes.
For what binds our fabric together?
We whose breath vacated us,
Whose soul fled to Him out of that midnight
Long before our bodies were rescued
Into the arc of the moment.
We, the rescued,
We press your hand
We look into your eye-
But all that binds us together now is leave-taking.
The leave-taking in the dust
Binds us together with you
Nelly Sachs
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 5:26 AM UTC
Rows of starched green and yellow paisley feather stalks
Marching in ordered lines along the road to 57 Eldon Way
Hot dogs and char burgers charge the air with yesterday's homecoming
Buds of moxie memories tipping long ears to big blue
Listening to the chickadees vocal pecking at kernels from the past
Morsels fall to the dirt signal life again for those willing to root
Pulled magpies to lines spy intimate joy-scattered seed below
Promising fortunes creased by hourglasses settled sand
White washed porches with rose printed borders
Nestle a "his and her" swing vantage over familiar fields
Imagined better-time scenes from selfie soaked movies
More real than all the forgotten stones ever stepped upon
Sweet tea sugar fills tall glasses of yarn spun dreams
Glory red and navy rippling a windy beat
To the clang of their steal pole clasp
Dance
Swing with them and recall a time of slower horizons
Of richer baskets
Of brighter springs
Of longer summers
Take a dip in the swimming hole
Naked, together, and happy
© 2019 MJL
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 7:43 PM UTC
a person barely within earshot
may absorb the cheerful ring in my voice.
they see me in glimmering gold
embellished with refracting glass -
always with crinkles adorning my eyes.
someone else may be right across the table
and see small smoke tendrils escaping my ears.
laughter follows the smoke, and it fades away.
they see dull gold topped with smashed glass.
the crinkles sometimes disappear,
only to return a few seconds later.
A few can see my heart whenever they like.
they hear unsteady tremors between words.
they see billowing smoke
emanating from my ears and mouth.
they know the wrapping is gold foil
with smashed hourglasses piercing my skin.
the crinkles appear whenever they want.
nevertheless, they see me rise, even as I ache.
I, the permanent resident of this body,
shed the itchy foil whenever I can.
my cells are clouded by smoke,
and the hourglass fractals
swirl into a tornado behind my sternum.
the crinkles have been starched.
But, I remember I am walking on diamonds,
and I slowly sculpt my armor.
I exhale, and the smoke clears, bit by bit.
I reach behind my sternum,
grabbing the fractals to line my armor.
I splash water onto my face,
and the corners of my eyes crinkle again.
Apr 10, 2022
Apr 10, 2022 at 11:40 PM UTC
your touch,
deafening noise
chaotic choruses;
clouding my mind
agitating hourglasses,
showing me that time exists.
but, why do you do this to me?
after claiming connection..
–
meditated movements
in the moment,
is what i crave;
in my tension
setting intention.
opening
and activating the root
of my sacral desires.
–
do you not have it in you?
bass dissolving;
enough to take the beat away
into your fingertips?
with half of your heart
touching me;
calculated caresses,
preplanned movements..
haven't you ever
let yourself lose control?
haven't you ever
closed your eyes
and seen into my soul?
yes?
no?
maybe?
lost eyes tell me otherwise.
–
do not touch me,
unless you mean it..
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
-
The concaves in the glass bowl and the style which it imposes to the
Food within it to warp and appear not from this world.
The spoons and how they surrender the same effect, curving my face
Into a funhouse punch line; I can’t help but smirk,
Which somehow distorts my features even more.
You were convinced it was necessary to serve me your best today,
Pulling out the stops and balancing uneasily on the aging stool that waits in the corner
Just to get out the “fine” kitchenware.
Soon it became routine:
I was over every day, not to eat, no; selfishness is a puzzle.
No, I’d sit at the table and bide my slender hourglasses, shifting a mind between
Taking you to the moon,
Or to the ceiling fan because my goodness it’s getting warm in here.
Planet under smoke, we end the day with a drop of manufactured whiskey
Dangling from the inside of your Swedish wine bottle set from India.
(Bends the droplets into squares)
Our sun is setting and the pictures on the walls fall asleep.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 5:23 AM UTC
*More stars in the sky
Than all the grains of sand
On all of the beaches
In all the world
Hourglasses are not a way of telling time
But you tip toe through the cosmos of my mind
You use the stars as stairs
You step with sweet feet
And sultry toes
The sand in your shoes
The sand in your hair
I am the sand
You make me a castle
I love the way you dig your toes into me
Your barefooted passion I feel so deeply
I love everything about you
Your feet walking through me
Your beautiful toes*
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
Here we are again, in the deathmask of the city spinning.
The circumcised sea with its crocodiles and scars.
Never is the onrush of blood so violent the falsehoods
of the sky that drip neon on our heads
from desiccated clouds so true
This is the wild:
To the clusterfucked and cloistered swimming
in their bowls of soup and the scuttled
shells synchronous in their bass pulse beeping
to the blackhats who don’t believe
their messiah will ever come because they hear
the trump of doom every second of every day
yet they still stomp in their flatbeds for joy
and the prismatic dead who drag themselves from
their gurneys to march through the alleys
like tuskless elephants shoving their fingers
into the sun’s fumarole determined
to disintegrate into a mist of Krylon and copper
where we carry our concrete world slung
over our shoulders and the ravenous
moon in its ellipse above beached night heaving,
eyes curling in their sockets like gunsmoke smoldering
hearts humming like taut snares beheaded fish
in front of us, beheaded bodies behind us
I drag mine along by the hair.
To the children and the panhandlers who greet
the lion like hello kitty
and the skittish magnetic few in their
lightning-spaded furrows
on the ecliptic chained but leaping ever farther
and higher like the wrecking ***** pendulum
and all the naked lost milling among the mummified
tenements, waving Geiger counters before them
as they wander the sweaty street holding their heads
high as they grind flesh against flesh
pulverizing themselves into rubble
measuring the toll of time by destruction
drinking in mercury and hard water and
shrapnel and gamma and fire and gold
to them I say:
turn your hourglass on its side turn
your hourglasses on their sides
then acknowledge me so I can die in peace.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 4:35 PM UTC
*"And the heart is hard to translate"
I rush every sunset in its pit of blood
I hold your absence with my bear hands
As the center of the silence I can give to myself
Some impressions of my thoughts of you
Uncertainties embodied by swords
Are roaming the streets in my place
The mirrors chased me away
They refuse to deepen the light
Refuse the clarity of a day
When I am a simple woman
When you are a simple man
I have to prepare my escape routes
Since your fingers smell of apples
The air is full of chemicals
And I stare at the intoxicating hope
My curses explode in hourglasses
There must be a misunderstanding
why did I promise to myself
my heart,
your hell,
our dance,
the resurrection
of naivety
in this body?
perhaps there is no doubt:
I can only love you
or
I can love only you
and no
yet
but
(shh, oh, my foolish heart!)
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 6:05 PM UTC
I was sitting in the middle of crooked roads
and singing to the passersby about us
and our love
a lie
the bridges were slowly thinning in to
nothing
but old DVDs we used to watch when our minds were marinated with
empty vow books
and
your memory was seeping away with every note
dissected
in to atom-sized pieces of photo paper that was
impossible
to mend
I saw the sand particles of hourglasses run out
and almost forgot you
but then
whispers of your voice reverberated
swinging recorded words like tongue twisters
I covered my ears before your wavelengths could clash with
mine
and we would be
whole
once again
We are out of time.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
sweet jesus
life is outrageous
listless alligators
try to upstage this
drift from forms
to formless sages
residual wages
furnishing your cages
threadbare leather workers
raid our refrigerators
rage is impulsive
sullen lisps and swollen lips
frame our faceless daughters
in their water glasses
houses of hunted howling
hourglasses
dreamcatchers and dancers
humongous lanterns
burning pages
place-mats
on your dinner tables
why do they feel so out of place
is it the way we are made
have you any
doubts about your origins
what is the worst
thing you’ve ever faced
are you exposed
to typos regularly
tokens of penmanship
and fraternity hazings
hostelries and banquets
growth is dependent
only on intangible quotients
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
Gentle plutonium flows through
a cloud soaked sky.
The next breath is
somewhere
in the air all around me.
I cannot catch it
I inhale the scent of a city
to exhale the circular lengths
of lost civilizations held together
by faceless, mindless tycoons
and machine-gun fire.
Like the phosphorous spark
of distant fireflies,
words stirring like chemicals
to flash in unison.
So what is this now?
A cerulean tempo limited alone
by the accidental pausing
of an instant?
Stutter of the clock.
or these hidden iron
beats hammering rhythms
into my soiled heart.
Touch of an infinity
blood flow
with a pinch of glassy
thoughts that dwell on stilts over
a sea of miniature gods and
hourglasses and TV sets and
suicide beds.
Streetlights in the
windows talk
but do not offer a final
answer.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
there are these things like summertime
sadness and frosty windows,
moth wings and the cosmos
and goose flesh and miniature houses
with miniature chairs and
hourglasses and sun-soaked
sheets in the morning and your lips
against mine, hollow bones
and thin blue veins and the
delicacy of synapses and nerves,
reoccurring thoughts and images;
my intimacy with them is
alarmingly sensual;
like the honeysuckle curve
of a bare shoulder,
shadows of hands on walls
and the nectar of your kiss.
things that haunt me and
dance before me,
the epitome
of grace.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 1:47 AM UTC
drops of rain dripping down
my window pane.
no matter how fast they fall,
they never seem to finish.
i wait, slowly and painfully.
i look again at my reflection
on the window.
those aren't raindrops.
now, for whom are these tears?
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 5:41 AM UTC
Thimble List
Hug a stranger, create a friend,
Hug again, friendship has no end.
The first grain of sand.
Share a crooked bench, nibble a rib,
Laugh and sing and play and live.
Another grain of sand.
Share a table, bare our toes,
Take a chance, share a barefoot dance.
More and more grains of sand.
Share a heated seat, warm my heart,
Warm my hand, share our thoughts.
Play a song, share it all
Share a kiss, bare our soul
As grains of sand build a beach
Grains of time build we and each
Fill our thimble with the sand that passes
Top to bottom in each others hourglasses.
The sand reveals our pasts, and contains all our tomorrows
Each passing grain, a reminder to be here and in our nows.
The thimble's sand is a list for me and a list for you
Each grain an instant of what we've done and have yet to do
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
If I could I would write letters to the wind and ask for lessons on how to blow you away
If I could I would take a star out of the sky and put it in a ring and ask you to be it’s replacement in my life
If I could I would keep you between my second and my fourth rib, so they will tell you they’ve missed you.
The first time I saw you, I smiled with my mouth open to let go of the crickets I buried in my voice box so I could say hello
How else can I explain to you that our stories are God written guitar solos to the keys of our DNA, and I’m more electric and you’re more acoustic.
On some days you look like there are lingering pieces of a boombox etched in the framework of your spine. In simple terms your body speaks volumes.
On other days you feel like there are too many fault lines on the rail track of your spine
Those are the days I want to tell you I’m a pretty good conductor
Your voice sounds like an unfinished love song stuck in the throat of an ’80s jazz musician and I’m more of a hip-hop kind of guy, but I would make kissing you the perfect symphony.
I’m more like the odd boulder on a sandy beach and you're the entire ocean but I've drawn coastlines on the chambers of my heart
With you I could build sand castles in hourglasses, cos I wouldn’t feel time pass.
If I could I would write this poem on the wings of a butterfly and say to you “Here I think this belongs to you, I found it in my belly”
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
There were happy times while at Home, where the sun
Licked the rims of our glasses and sent wayward strands of light
Streaking across an almost-empty tabletop,
Save for a slight shifting of sand in the only hourglass
I would ever need to own.
There were sad times too, don't forget
Like whenever the storms intruded on our mid-afternoon slumbers
And sent our dreams flying in a saturated mess of
Unfinished riverboat cruises and superhero simulations;
Underneath it all, though, it became impossible not to try it again.
We're going to return here someday, paying close attention to
A world that had preserved itself for the sake of preservation
A life that had spent its last weekends alone on the edge of the sea
Where everything within it collected and became a mosaic of
Saturated dreams and hourglasses cut in two -
Sand mixing with sand.
Apr 4, 2011
Apr 4, 2011 at 12:03 PM UTC
my lips quake as i bow to you
my heart shakes and trembles like a leaf
nature's temples wait and remind us of simplicity
are our minds as tranquil as a lake
do they reside in peaceful quiet
can we sense the edges of the wild
lines are changed and bodies rearranged daily
have you come into your power lately
i swallowed my pride but not my feelings
i give thanks for this healing
as my fingers lick your spine
i am blinded by your fury
we combine memory and poetry
lights are dancing
hunger abates and we must
face our fears with fealty
this light is bright
this life is mindless
kind of like a spiral
these burning brains
drain our storehouses
while we waste away our resources
like porous hourglasses
drip time like honey
i am a sign waving in the wind
singing my rhythms
from deep within
the water and the earth
are permanently hurting
shrouds of candid letters
leftovers that will forever
remain lonely
as isotopes of poetry
are the ions of everything
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC
Engage
Ignite
the blood needs stirring
the legs have fallen dumb
stupor of monotony
has nestled into hips
wake these automatons
shake the dust from their harps
break beds and shred pillows
it’s possible that the very sight of feathers
might spark a memory of flight
these lifeless were not stillborn
these were once vivid
there is an epic in each of their wrinkles
each one of their tongues
once rang like bell towers
from hilltop carnal cathedrals
there are mountains they have stood on
that you have yet to reach
be careful not to judge a valley
without first considering
why it’s not called a plateau
these are atoms waiting to be split
waiting to rupture
to quake
to rip through the popular tapestry
waiting for their chance to be contagious
be contagious
these are already on death row
unaware of their slumber
ritual has rocked them gentle and slow
and habit is a cozy cradle
Engage
Ignite
spark passion in dried up timbers
gathered like kindling in foxholes
these have been lovers
for a forgotten number of years
these once meant ‘I do’
there is a sedative nostalgia
glazing their smiles
these are not now, but then
break hourglasses
and storm the new beach
raise flags in the motherland
bearing family crests
speak warpaint
sing fire
compose your battle cry
from their fragmented vitality
arouse in these
a memory of their first love
awaken the giants
that have fallen asleep
pull the plug
let them die or breathe
but let us see
who is and who isn’t
a sepulcher
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
last seen with mass amounts of tenacity,
bright eyes that glow whenever she talks about the moon,
she's just as loquacious as bodacious, and always seen with friends (a pixie, a well-dressed waif, a girl who speaks the language of skeletons and blood). she's deeply enamored with a certain mexican grill, and often writing or taking a nap on public transportation, or smiling really widely while texting certain person(s) unnamed... also, she knows a hell of a lot about pokemon and the way the human heart works.
oh, and her laugh--you'd notice it. when she laughs you just know something's hysterical
where is she now?
she's a little reclusive
her smile's a little restrained
she stares too often at hourglasses and writes fervently in a leatherbound tome given to her on her 17th birthday.
she's waiting for the storm to pass but for now she's writing about it
don't tell the news i told you this though, cause i know they'll find her and force her to feel better as soon as possible. just give her this clock necklace and put it around her neck and tell her that time heals all things, she's learned this before.
tell her to eat some sour gummy worms and go to bed earlier, and stop feeling so sorry, to listen to a little less john mayer.
tell her it's okay to miss ghosts and that it's okay to wish to not be alone.
tell her to call tonight a night and stop rereading old stories or knocking on enemies' doors.
tell her that it'll be okay (even though she already knows it will)
and i promise you-
this is but the fairy tale trail of breadcrumbs that will bring you the old girl back.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
The clock counts the hours of raging indifference,
The clock watches all, in the house of stone-
Tick tock: another heart is feebly breaking;
Tick tock: another heart's wretched, alone.
The hours of chance break the hourglasses;
The sundial's overgrown, with moss and weeds-
Tick tock: somebody says goodbye, forever;
Tick tock: someone else inhabits grief.
The clock sees the winners and the losers;
The clock says nothing, but the words it knows-
Tick tock: don't ask for whom the hour is chiming;
Tick tock: for the mirror and the timepiece know.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 7:01 AM UTC
I've knelt,
for moons upon moons
Tears flood and drown me
Gravel, dirt
in my knees,
worn as
mere decoration,
stockings
Dust
collected by Time
in an
Hourglass
Paper heart,
Upon moonlit
Paper heart
Time is
Still
And there is
No answer....
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 3:47 PM UTC
The fireflies of the summer dimmed into the past
So many things fade like dust and winter’s gusts
I’ve taken the empty words and trembling hourglasses
To sail the world with me in dazzling, chapped horizons
Endeavours upon disguises, silence in our minds
We envy the buzzing timelessness of the lighted fireflies
Chalked and restless grey, a distant opal of deceit
Unmasking, silent, and you, ever discreet
Cooling rain and sauntering songs, words and echoing tunes
Joyous dances and tittering ladies, potter through the dunes
Nostalgia and nausea rush to me, seeming none so different
While we talk and smell the hallways, so dried of yesterday
The chapel rings in amber mist, rays of tomes and light
Choral bells and bowls of memories, shine in blinding sight
Moaning in the shadow of the past, cringing past the ocean
Cloaked and yielding in the needs
Of explicit and deceptive motions.
I see you in the scent of autumn
Waving distant goodbye
As we raise our hands and talk the emptiness
Of vague and hollow skies.
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 10:01 AM UTC
a kind of cosmic static -
the background noise lurking behind everything since that fiery moment in which everything came to be.
human beings are the only beings with big enough ears and smart enough brains to hear it.
and it’s killing us.
it whispers about the space.
the vast, yawning emptiness that is 99.0000000000000000000058 percent of the universe
and how small and unimportant we are in the face of it.
the stars are deaf to the call of the void.
and all of the less arrogant animals simply don’t care.
but humanity is smart, and intelligence has lead to efficiency.
we’ve optimized and agricultured and technologized ourselves into a vast wealth of free time.
and in that free time we’ve taken up the hobby of thought; of navel gazing; of looking within and without.
and when we turned the rods and cones of our eyes inwards the void stared back. unflinching, unblinking. and it roared, and every one of us heard.
we try to block it out with our various vices but in the end they are all in vain.
we inhale glittering ivory dust, conflagrate various flora of every shape and size,
gulp down poisons like desert floors that have never seen a drop of rain, genuflect before effigies of deities of questionable existence, sing and dance, **** and **** and **** and steal and covet, all in search of a kind of purpose.
some soft cottony bliss to plug our ears to the roar of the void.
but we cannot stop it. the slow bleed of grains of sand out of the hourglasses of our lives is one wound we will never be able to heal.
for void thou art, and unto void thou shalt return.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC