The thumb and ******* of my left hand pinched the neck of a sandglass. The sand leaving the top bulb was almost translucent, and although the glass of the miniature instrument was thick for its size, I could almost feel the friction of each grain as they slide down. As the sand formed a growing pile at the base of the bottom bulb, my ears became numb, and began to ache. My ears felt like the inside of a cathedral, the walls of which were collapsing. I look down to my right hand and see I am holding a shovel. Why do I need a shovel? I thought to myself. Then I felt my knees give way to the heaviness that surrounded them. I was sinking in sand, a giant ocean of sand. This game I had never played before now, but I somehow knew the rules. Drop the sandglass in my left hand and whatever force held this ocean around me in place would fall and shatter. Drop the shovel and I’d have no way to dig myself out. How does this dream end?
I've been having some very intense dreams of late, this poem describes one that had this last Saturday night.
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Keep your catty heart in the cold chest of yours. Wipe out the tears made of iron. With an ivory on the wall carve my name - if you can, inbuilt it, if you can, with a piece of an fading memory. Throw it away, if you can, in the traces of the ocean waves. Ghost of an caged memory in an amber. The time can not touch it. The ocean can not wash it away. He is left to sleep in an sandglass long time ago.
A catty heart - cold hands on the wall. Eyes - gazing in the wistful silence Thoughts - drown in the ocean Knees - on the floor they're leaning Heart - left to burn in the fire, In the blue flames Tears of molten iron With an ivory my name on the wall has been carved, to remind has been left In the traces of the ocean waves his mind is wandering in an sandglass
This is the english translation of my bulgarian poem with the name "Спомен от слонова кост" written a few minutes ago.
We dream of a home- nothing excessive, just what we need: love, a mess of babies, and dogs.
We dream of a home and being rooted in our careers- satisfying and purposeful, with enough pay to not worry. Enough to provide for a family, everything they need.
We dream of a home and raising our children there. A few of our own, some adopted- all gifts from God. Raising them with patience and love; instilling in them the faith, morals, and values our parents instilled in us.
Our new apartment is nicer and feels like home. Decorated with our favorite memories: polaroid moments, a jar of concert tickets, bottle of sandglass: blues and greens (our favorite), browns and whites, you and me, minutes, hours, afternoons.
Teacher’s pay and grad school: student loans, car payments; bills. We don’t have a lot, but we save what we can for the life we want to have. Too poor for a house, contentment can be our home.
Bold strokes a shy paintbrush makes A flawless stroke of golden brown - her hips Heart beats faster the artist breathes Heavy and breathless and stolen Brave hands it takes To paint her bare sandglass waist The woman who made him realize that he has a heart and that it beats only when he thinks of her.
Selfishly in the night I raise you from the dead. each suture cleanly picked, caressed and bled until I'm lost. I wake to pink skies. Gray memories call behind me: tentacular smoke pulling, insisting, towards you, and hell. but you were one for ice, not fire.
If I turn quickly I can still see it: 'two skinny long-hairs' in an empty hall blushing, secret, tripping into a kiss knocking together and sliding past innocent days. I didn't blame you, naturally, but there's blood on your hands and you still have my things.
So I close my eyes again and sail for another day, another night to miss you, to watch you fall grain by unnoticed grain in a sandglass. already the light has changed and you no longer glow. it is a cruel hope, but I know I shall awake and one day, find no lover, only dust.
i don't remember most of my days; time flows right past me — it's like everyone is moving, and moving on fast; but grief, my grief nails me down as they pass; watching it all slowly; watching them live their lives before me – watching my life move, (move! move!) without me
It was noon when the wise man approached me. In his hand he carried a one hour sandglass, Jovially bellowing upon every grain that trickled down. So absorbed was he that clearly time didn't matter; 'For another two steps and he woulda crushed me and his hourglass. "Woah timely sir! It seems you've run out of seconds!" I exclaimed "Might I inquire about what is so important within this hour?"
The Sands slowed their decent as his gaze shifted... His eyes fixated, Everything froze... Including the final grain, Floating, In its chalice.
He spoke to me.
"Given the choice between an Hour... Minute... Second... Which would you be?"
Curious I told him "One hour" To his reply "There's only 24 of those in a day, Think bigger."
Playing along I invoked "The minute" As he chuckled "Though indeed bigger, 1440 is still too small. Think larger."
Confused I queried "A second?" Not quite catching on
The laughing ended as he lifted his clock. Silence reigned. My eyes shifted to the immobile grain, Hypnotic in its suspension, When finally the fellow spoke above me:
"I hope you now understand the significance Of 86400 moments." Just before he turned the glass To walk away.
falling down the sandglass so endlessly each grain second so stopped a thought stranded another grain of creative angst there between the glasses skinny part I sit whispering curses I forget the lines I had in memory when I tried to write them down turn that god ****** thing over again it is stuck
I never want you to go You never want me to go Let’s scoop up all the sands On the worlds beaches Put them in hour glasses Lay them on their sides So we can pause fleeting time And we can just be
So many of our friends and family have lost their mates in death, young and old.
