"timepiece" poems
It’s a coloured and shaded broad daylight.
Bring me my hourglass, my paintbrush.
Keeping a timepiece, how soon my brush
strokes become finer it is not the task.
Try once more, strike a fine chord in time,
ever ticking but doesn't make a sound!
Let’s read the small prints, the shadow lines
on the pitch of the slit sun shines!
A dark spot in the light, some dotted lines
on a blank paper, however witty you might
describe it, count on the tweeting birds
short and cute, singing in the open air.
Light and dark the two tallies, ins and outs.
The times come and go, flowing fine.
For now, let’s take a look inside.
Tint and shade nor tone them now.
Zoom in and out, just watch them as they are.
This cool sleek shade on the sunny slate
is it a shadow, or some quivering curly hairs
or are these reflections of flocking clouds,
diligent sea eyeing deep down on the ground?
Read the small prints, shadows in the daylight,
before the show is wrapped up.
And down the evening pool, the sun
parts away with the black swan.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
A pin has a head, but has no hair;
A clock has a face, but no mouth there;
Needles have eyes, but they cannot see;
A fly has a trunk without lock or key;
A timepiece may lose, but cannot win;
A corn-field dimples without a chin;
A hill has no leg, but has a foot;
A wine-glass a stem, but not a root;
A watch has hands, but no thumb or finger;
A boot has a tongue, but is no singer;
Rivers run, though they have no feet;
A saw has teeth, but it does not eat;
Ash-trees have keys, yet never a lock;
And baby crows, without being a ****
8.8k
I like to watch your beautiful hands
moving in sync with the stars,
as they slowly, rhythmically put me in a trance.
In a daze I still wonder:
Was it not just a moment ago that you said
'the night is still young'?
Don't stop now your elegant, beautiful hands;
keep stroking, keep lashing, keep fondling...
and then, at dawn, when it is time to go,
wake me up with a whisper
soft and warm in my ear,
and one final caress
of your beautiful hands.
---
November 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 4:00 PM UTC
I want to look out the window
And see bright stars
Lights, and shattered visions.
I want to see
Colors and flying discs.
People thinking, dreaming,
On the edge of discovering
Always not knowing,
Always around the corner.
The timepiece etched in diamonds
Solid, imbued with living darkness
And sheltered worlds.
Pass the time along rivers
Motion, curling smoke and ladies dancing
I want to hear bells and raindrops.
Scattered droplets of rejuvenation
And solitary gongs calling into the depths,
I crave to see the night
For what it could be.
For what it really is behind
Closed doors, and open windows
Behind every mind the desire to know
Others and people
Moving flesh and deep breaths,
Sighing into one another
Haunted by control,
Thoughts of distaste for the lack of
Efficiency.
For I fear acceptance,
To accept a flaw,
A spiraling flood of color
A crack in the shield of dawn.
The weeds pushing up through
Concrete,
Trees, skyscrapers grasping at the atmosphere.
Shadows beyond the fences
And your eyes when I've asked too much.
I want to feel the night for what it is.
Not for what it could be.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 2:13 AM UTC
Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say, at each chamber-door,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality;
His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
O precious hours! O golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!
Even as a miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,
The dead lay in his shroud of snow;
And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
“Ah! when shall they all meet again?”
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
Never here, forever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear,—
Forever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
3.6k
Gauging the time on my ever ready
Timepiece, I would be vacant without it
Guessing the minutes that miss out
As the second hand moves smoothly
Locking onto with its demonstration powers
How to mark time successfully, second by
Second, a prelude to the minute minder
Merging in with the big guns, the 'On
The hour Brigade' of salutes and silences
Schedules and deadlines.
The.....gong
The chime
The clang
The beep
The moment to be woken from our sleep
It's a curse at 'times' (excuse the pun)
The engagements starting point and
Finale. I wonder what time it is right now?
Would we lose ourselves scurrying to find
Our 'timepiece'. Do we pick up our redundancy
In favour of technological time and motion?
Even though the 'Wonder World' has not dreamt of....
And cannot conceivably equate.....powerful potent
Possibilities of fake time in an unknown spatial
Rhombus, conspiring recklessly to promote individual
Unreality; time spinning out the hour, through
The minutes, towards the last seconds.....
of our unreal lives
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 1:43 PM UTC
For Henrietta Swan Leavitt—
Henrietta
dark-eyed darling of the night sky--
A Swan
who sails
the heavens
deaf with lights
that pulse across your mind
In photographic plates
that number
many thousands
You see the differences in light
You swim the curves that grace the arch of heaven
between the cloud and pinwheel galaxies
You measure
their exquisite wakes of distance--
Become the glittering timepiece of the farthest stars--
Bestowed forever in your hands
the clock and keys of all existence
You know the bends of ages
You heard the voices of the light
of the angels
and of man
I hope you've found true happiness
gathered to your love
forgetful of the pond of space and time
and all that hopeless pain and counting
of perfection
and of loneliness
to which you were assigned
that in your hands unravel all....
The secrets of the universe
white and gray in motion...
brilliant beyond all measure
by which you were forgotten
and unvalued by design
Eulogized only--
as loving God
and as being kind
___
*copyright Liz Balise 2019, Use only by permission.
Her colleague Solon I. Bailey wrote in her obituary that "she had the happy faculty of appreciating all that was worthy and lovable in others, and was possessed of a nature so full of sunshine that, to her, all of life became beautiful and full of meaning.”
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henrietta_Swan_Leavitt
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 6:57 PM UTC
by Sara L. Russell, 30/10/13 at 01:03am
I am a force of fiery integrity of soul; a garden sealed;
I carry my soul deep within, all of Heaven enfolds me;
My cross is my talisman, my banner and protector,
All of Dante's angels ascending and descending surround me.
My bed is a vessel of peace on a sea of tranquil clouds;
Oceans of rolling vapour bear me up in the azure sky,
Distant birds give voice in the soporific hush of twilight,
as angels sing out blessings of love and everlasting accord.
I am a harp of harmony, a lyre of languid repose;
My heartbeat as steadfast as any jewelled timepiece of gold,
My dreaming skies are filled with wingbeats of migrating birds,
Streams shimmer with moonlight; all the forests thrum with life.
I am a force of fiery integrity of soul, protected from the night;
I carry my soul deep behind the portals of my mind,
My Lord and Creator guides me through the labyrinths of dreams,
Shadows flee from angels, wingbeats carry me till dawn.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 9:09 PM UTC
The Fatigue
is newly familiar, but familiarity breeds
surrender, not contempt, for its powers
are overwhelmingly secretive, coming anew,
stealthy like evening fog, all encompassing,
departing when it chooses, only by choice,
fearing not day or brighter burn of sunlight,
or even the insistent rules
of the mathematics of a timepiece
it hides within the ordinary, the mundane,
the onerous lifting of the fork, the exhausting
chewing, chewing until sleep offers distraction,
but not necessarily relief, for the chores of
living, are an endless looping, and the fatigue
does not recognize the clock, the body’s rhythm,
only its own schedule, I proud man, am but its
vessel and vassal…
Aug 22, 2023
Aug 22, 2023 at 11:07 PM UTC
Purposes as incomprehensible and wonderful as these purposes
Either you had no purpose or the purpose is beyond the end
The purpose of sitting is not to be satisfied or satiated
Because the timepiece not only serves a purpose, it is adapted to that
purpose
Except it was a secret purpose
The world is a mental activity, a dream of souls, without foundation,
purpose, weight or shape
People in collective idleness are even more repellent than when purpose
motivates them
God, glass, my townspeople! For what purpose?
His purpose and mine is to catch photons and store them in our bones
Lately, as have you, I have thought about our war and its purpose
To have a season for every purpose, Ecclesiastes was right about that
Names of plants, languages of mammals, purposes of insects, placement
of rocks
My friend who is counselor to kings and presidents never lacks purpose
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Not to say there is no purpose necessarily, I just don’t immediately get it
Stately purposes, valor in battle, glorious annals of army and fleet, death
for the right cause
Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose, protect the
young from the janjaweed, the crop from the ****
The knight, the penitent misses last assessment of life’s purpose,
babbling for God to appear
I mean your entire purpose should be living, you must take living
seriously
Sleep with a purpose
Or lose all purpose beyond ****** child *** and food hoarding
Counting is associated with primitive forms of writing, that is the
purpose of poetry
The purpose of school is to introduce us to the world’s innumerable
wonders
Their corners sharp, their lines exact, as if their purpose was to show
the plane geometry of snow
That’s when everything becomes clear, purpose v. purposelessness
matters less
Lonely physics, national purpose
This then is the purpose of purposelessness (and of eating less)!
We will live with the question What was our purpose?
If we are not at home in the world, contributing purpose, we lose our
desire to stay here—and we die
The men who left the machine have started their own business, a new
endeavor by which they will keep warm and purposeful
You go the way of an unknown soldier, unable to assess the purpose of
the battle
Let Greece then know my purpose I retain, nor vex with new treaties my
peace in vain
And shake the purpose of my soul no more
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 5:43 AM UTC
Wake up vibrations,
stroke us kindly,
we’ll all be one someday,
singularity is just a timepiece.
Gotta sell the diamonds
to calibrate the cogs,
we’re digits livin in
clogged colons.
We cure MONOtony,
with medicinal MONOgamy,
mourning the cut cord of civility.
Oh, how I miss the vibrations
of those tribal jam sessions.
Maybe cause I didn’t record them
with voice memo boxes.
We’re living in boxes.
Driving in boxes.
Working in boxes.
Staring at boxes.
But beauty is roundness.
So help me measure the circumference of your face,
because I can’t tell where it begins and ends.
I will knit you a beenie come winter.
And we’ll skate upon this lake,
willing the ice to break.
Cause we are done being fake.
We are done telling people
where they should skate.
We are holding her hand
and his hand
and our own hand
when we hold hands.
Black Red White Yellow
they are all hands
with the power
to give and to take,
not just orate.
So give the politicians
the middle finger
and then join hands
break down rectangular gates.
Then, meditate.
We will wait for utopia,
but we won’t stand for things being the same.
And come spring when we re-awake,
we'll draw up a new constitution for
a consciousness revolution.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
I spied a timekeeper
reposed upon a wall.
His burden too heavy,
the edifice too tall.
Tenderly I did lift
his old timepiece aloft,
and there inside he hid,
vulnerable and soft.
Patiently I waited;
I didn’t want him urged.
Torpidly time did move
before an eye emerged.
Then, as if he realized
all the time put to waste,
out came the other eye
with a little more haste.
Gently, he moved towards me
as the old church bell chimed;
shell lumbering above
and slime trailing behind.
And for me he kept
some of life’s precious time,
passing so pleasantly
for no reason or rhyme.
-Alyssa Myers
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 8:41 AM UTC
~~
While the dawn flashed
Even rest of the friends went away
Exhausted cigarettes were on the Ash Tray
Evidence of the lost existence of
None didn't recall her, her words
But everyone moved with his head
Morning to evening, random
Not remembering, wandering
How many people came
within too many ways
Again went through,
anywhere
Once I saw
even they didn't come back
anymore
At the late afternoon
in the window of my gray days
I remember some faces
Mystic flowers remained
prostrate in the dust of
meandering ways
Came back
and picked up her
Loved, love
Far away on the other end,
rose up schematically
with the seventh
tunes of the guitar
None didn't recall, her words
within the crowd
of a thousand faces,
In the counter path
of the clock
again I heard the song
The old song replaced
by the new,
morning shines
with the new sun
I hear the sounds of cry
of a new baby
Fungus has seen on the tape
of the old cassette
You are captive
within a dust covered album
My friend,
The lost spring,
The richness of our love,
As if I have left thousands of dreams
Intangible time passing gently
with the tic tic of the timepiece
As if I have passed on the fastest train
Recognized the great known,
unknown wilderness
I woke up,
Saw
On the one hand,
your faded picture
The other hand,
holding hands of
The New Stranger of time
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
we clock in, out
every one of us--that has ALWAYS
been the contract
the Tyrant has us all working
at minimum wage; some complain
others don't think about it
though at one time
or another, we are all grateful,
and terrified, we have a job
beggars, billionaires both
servants to the hours, His strange
circular command
but I will be dead ******
if I'll give Him a minute more than necessary
watching the hands spin on a timepiece,
eternally there to remind us, we are
temporal slaves, every minion
under His reign
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 3:26 AM UTC
Ana knows I can't be alone,
So she will mourn by my side,
While I count down
From the start
When...
Love lived a decade ago;
Calendar dated 10th century,
Top chest smeared with last millennium's dust and dried rose petals,
Bottom shelf stacked with the Recent epoch's chronicles in scrolls,
And I wrote this anecdote during the late Eocene,
But I am now an era old;
Too short of memory to remember fairytales,
Too outgrown to believe magic tricks or play a game of chance,
Too outworn to have my heartstrings plucked,
Too callous to bear a soft spot,
Too archaic to belong in any contemporary world,
Too ancient for a technological revolution.
Fixed in a period that won't age,
Absent of a timekeeper, missing every timepiece;
My antique mind couldn't only smarten up for
This relic of a body, camouflaging skin-deep among prototypes,
Preserving the fossils of my endangered heart.
Maybe one day a noble clocksmith will come
And build us a time machine.
Maybe I'll have my youth back
When Ana teleports back to Erin,
Where her misplaced soul will finally be home with the gods,
For I think I'd do fine without her anymore,
As I land inside a time capsule,
Or wake up as a hand-me-down,
In time at long last with today's pendulum clock.
I'd be lucky if it's the clocksmith who takes such artifact.
But until such time warp,
Ana knows I can't be alone,
So she will mourn by my side,
While I count down
From the start
When...
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 9:26 AM UTC
I’ll ne'er forget that day
The sky a lavender canvas outstretched
It was the day I broke my timepiece
And the puppets called me wretch
My empire of daisies wilted 'round me
Closing me into my grave
I was buried with my handgun
Under layers of black lace
And the sea doesn’t weep
And they birds they still sing
All the colors haven’t faded
Why don’t they mourn for me?
The stars haven’t dimmed
No expression grey or grim
I hear a distant happy hymn
Why don’t they mourn for me?
I’ve restrung my violin
To play my sorrowful song
I won’t drown in my self pity
For I’ve been dead for far too long
And the sea doesn’t weep
And they birds they still sing
All the colors haven’t faded
Why don’t they mourn for me?
The stars haven’t dimmed
No expression grey or grim
I hear a distant happy hymn
Why don’t they mourn for me?
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 4:44 PM UTC
Your green eyes
sent shivers down my spine
That his exquisitely sculpted face
And muscular body never did
I bloomed at your touch.
Black silk between your thighs
looking at the exquisite timepiece
at eye-level. You reached for my hand
in the marble hallway.
But you said you hated physical contact
for me, you'd make an exception.
Subconsciously, holding onto me.
Bathe me in your money and glory
naked on the balcony looking over
the skyline of that great city. Ravish what
little love I have left for men. But I know
you'd keep me safe and warm.
It was only natural what's between me and you.
My fire and decadence
intertwined with your calm and composure
I forgot dreaming about the future
When everyday is a Monte Carlo when I have you
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
A timepiece moves
Fluttering wings
Time…
Now lands
And,...
Angels sing.
A moment …
Now,
… is still;
It is the close of a day.
And,…now
My heart is braking
Now, You are…
Gone away.
My, sweet old… bulldog
You always... made me safe;
With you. I was not all alone
In my dark... and solemn place.
Now… it is goodbye
I reach out
I touch your hair
Thank You...
My Old Bulldog
For all the time we had to share.
One last time
My old friend
I kiss
Your loving face
… You now sleep.
Till,... Again we meet
In some far...
Far distant place.
Fluttering wings
Angels sing
Time…
Is
Still;
Today.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
Mm, yes.
I find that the sultry of subtlety
does not hide well among the obvious!
We catch each others eye
across crowded parlors
to steal off in the wings
for sodden romantic whispers.
Her muted presence is a cloud born
particle of dust –
gathering the purest droplets,
to fall, and
falling waters accreting
into mighty rivers churning earth.
Shamefully, perhaps by nature of a poetique,
my proclivity is to paint nuance up
like a dime-store ****
parade her around in metaphors
under my propped writing arm,
my free hand palming a chained timepiece...
Oh how these nuances matter
as I slip a moment back into the pocket of time.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC
The beginning of the end.
A sandstorm made a huge 400 floor library sink beneath the sand.
At times a tall tower can be seen sticking out of the sand.
There are wolfs bringing information from across the land.
The library overseen by a spirit of an owl.
Many have tried to find the library but they threw in the towel.
The library has a huge ancient observatory.
A huge telescope looking at the stars tells a story.
There are parts of the library that has been untouched for a century.
There is an extremely huge card catalogue.
It even owns books from ancient babylon.
The library has various gateways.
The bookshelves looks like endless hallways.
There are parts that are inaccessible.
The libraries knowledge is unsurpassable.
A huge staircase that is broken.
The timepiece on the wall is broken.
A Lot of travellers got lost.
The library is filled with snow, sand, moss and the one room is filled with a forest.
The library is full but it still has a lot of storage.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
The absence resonated pure and true
the way it swept over you
distance was a state of mind
miles were merely lines
sketched across a map, tracing directions from you to me
ink now filling the gaps were we used to be
lines non-discriminantly cutting towns in half
as we chart and graph
every possible angle to reunite
bicker and fight
over the most plausible neutral ground
eyes feverishly searching a map, with no home found
the absence is my companion, the only constant that remains
fidgeting hands writing your name
again and again
until the ink from this pen
becomes strewn across the lines of latitude and longitude
that originally created the thoughts of you
your hands slowly fade from my memory, the empty sheets engulfing me seem to take your place night after night
the absence turns out the lights
forces these wandering eyes to rest once more
perhaps time was our deficiency, unrelenting the clock runs without pause
as we pick apart the flaws
that chip away at the building blocks of a life's base
I only feel the shortages and absences when I struggle to recall your face
your voice now just an echo, drowned out by the daily clamor
the incessant ticking of a timepiece only silenced with the hammer
breaking the reminders that your lack of presence eats away at me over time
I sit silently in the confines of my own mind
tracing and erasing lines
all leading back to a memory of your face
the absence merely resonates within me, echoing in the empty space...
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
I’ve written enough small poetry
to start a nuclear war.
Do you want to die in traffic
behind the wheel of your car? Or in yr rodeer camp next fall.
Control eludes us. The hero
loses urinary control, the unified nation
loses missile control, lost my timepiece, lost my metronome,
now my music is ethereal as an archangel’s.
No owl hoots or duck quacks
or squirrels ********
or spiders spanning rampikes.
The floccinaucinihilipilification of nature.
No greater tragedy than a tipping
point that tests the hero’s gullibility, complicity,
self-control, comity, sense of humor
which is the only remedy not to hate those in authority.
Them guys with guns at the Michigan state house,
fat bearded tattooed ****** off white bros.
Norsemen, Crusaders, Vikings, Britons.
For despair there is no forgiveness. Peace out.
Nuclear mischief, mad Man’s most incandescent bloom
and the devil who exists to carry the load
when we misbehave and fight among ourselves.
I wake up to my skin boiling off my bones.
Humor is the only remedy, or is ardor the best way forward.
We’ll see how things work out in the next generation.
The same diverse, spoiled, unpatriotic revolutionaries as at the nation’s
beginning
trying to reverse the future, making phone calls to get out the vote in
Georgia, hating the desert for having no water.
Events keep piling up,
the future depends on ourselves.
Conflict is inevitable and in this conflict power must be challenged by
power
so err on the side of patience, perseverance and impermanence.
Dec 7, 2021
Dec 7, 2021 at 6:15 AM UTC
Amorousness is a cerulean stone
Beautifully colored, but weighs you down
Too afraid to speak, or smile, or stare
Scared of a secret you don't want to share
Months with a mixture of love and fear.
Devastation is an indigo jewel
Found deep in the earth of the lies of a fool
Yet in devastation there lies the truth
Hidden in notes and gray telephone booths
The years weathering the emotions of youth.
Purification is an apricot timepiece
Clean and bright and punctual, please
Don't mistake pure to be free from sin
Though the heart can start over as a new hour can
The time cleansing wounds from a phase worn thin.
While we are talking about time, let me just say
That the memories of an hour don't all go away
But memories are saffron ink pens in the sense
That their time fades, but never ends.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
Stardust complexities
s
h
i
m
m
e
r
out in golden blue.
The exacting clockwork of the cosmos ticks
ponderously
in Kepler seconds.
Chronology here is kept by
the
pendulous
sway
of
planets.
Aeons as minutes.
We are just dust
on the gears.
Galactic flecks,
swept up
in the filigree pirouette of an
astronomical timepiece.
Here, but not here.
Q .
. U
A .
. N
T .
. U
M .
and fleeting.
Nov 15, 2020
Nov 15, 2020 at 12:59 PM UTC
The crystal face is missing from this witness to the deed.
It doesn’t have its’ seconds hand, there is no longer need.
The date displays “11”. That it always will
to remind us of the day on in which fanaticism killed.
I look upon Todd Beamer’s watch and experience a chill,
realizing that while Time truly flies, it also can stand still.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC