"wristwatch" poems
burn the light of fire
and wax the ears of injustice.
chide the moon
and bid ado to the reckless sun.
count the blessings of misfortunes
and wave verbs in the air--
breathing the hopeful breaths of married sandals
Label the pains of a billion rain drops and fawn the feathers
of a nightingale over the glory of failed
triumphs known as yesterday.
break the hands of a wristwatch and make a ******* of time--
for through the God in Satan was how Earth was won.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
candlesticks caught up in your wristwatch grip bundled up burning chopsticks not frostbitten yet, flashlight to toes happy it still shows your glowing red interior
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
i held an old friend to my wrist tonight
panicked and unable to breath
a mess of sickening sobs
he pressed down against me
holding me in a comforting embrace
the tears soon ceased
and again i could breath
beneath my wristwatch band
i’ll keep this forbidden secret
nobody can know but me
nobody can know but me.
— relapse
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 1:03 AM UTC
I wore a wristwatch once to cover something from my Mother.
Even if she saw it, she'd probably believe it was from skateboarding.
I don't skateboard.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
Push a day off to one side
drink in the citrus street light
lock arms with the night
Forty minutes, fifteen thoughts,
a hundred steps to next time
check off the prayers you've tried--
--on frozen fingers. Through
your wind-chapped lips let one more dangle
off your westbound life.
You've been here too long;
You got nothing to lose left,
quiet, spit it out
into the sky
Turn right.
Lay my 20's down to sleep
slept my way through a decade
now open pint glass eyes.
Pushing thirty, since I'm ten
I've been grasping at something--
something undefined
On frozen feet been walk-
-ing south-by-southwest, hands in pockets
clawing empty space.
Haven't got one dime
to toss into the water
but Northwest winds
frame my North-
east face.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
When the emergency room
is at maximum occupancy,
the nurses will lay down
their clipboards and utensils,
clear their throats, and ask for
women and children
to approach the desk first.
To ensure proper care,
forms still must be completed promptly,
and as patiently as possible for the
patient to be processed.
There's the occasional backwards R.
But all is acceptable with a
signature by the X.
Adrenaline coursing
through veins may perhaps lead
the cause of instability,
some instances coarse skin.
A child with the heart of a lion,
shell of a turtle, will always overcome;
rest assured, an insured child,
prints their name with the
unmistakable yet
innocent backwards R still
knows that words are as powerful
as excruciating pain.
Sticks and stones and words alone
have been known to break through bone.
With the twitch of a finger
even Danny Torrance made
the word "Redrum" seem
like a word to reflect on,
if not only a feeling
of constant déjà vu.
Intensive care is a surgeon
not leaving a wristwatch
inside of a patient,
if not a cadaver
whose time ran out.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
This is the house of Bedlam.
This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the staring sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round or flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
3.7k
i would hate to be built a brick wall
linear as immovable constants
and the wristwatch hands i fear
weave me around callouses
like a spring, double helix,
and i will shrug in content
nucleotides formed of consciousness
hydrogen and karmic bonds together
jacob's ladder extending to liberation
and sincerity for all the moments
i was missing from the jigsaw tangle
of pillows and down and sprawl
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
old soybean crop dry & brown
---empty rustcap 12 shot bottle canadian club premium
---broken ("good quality")
wooden blinds
crowfeathers.
muddy packs of darts:
ménage (4)
peter jackson (2)
next (1)
number seven blacks (3)
john player (2)
shreds---plastic . . . bags of earth
all manner cardboard thinlike
drinkcups (tim horton's mostly)
******
child's wristwatch (..plastic)
frog in a cardboard box
dozen pair new (white) socks? still bagged---
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC
"Time stampedes with ease
No paradox."--
the wristwatch of hard knocks
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC
Oh it is that time of the year again
I have to set the clock's again on my microwave
on my alarm clock
on my wristwatch
It's that time of year again
it fills me with dread
I become reluctant to leave the bed
even if I try to go to sleep early
as hard as try to sleep
I'm forced to count the sheep
The one clock I can not set
is the one that is most upset
My internal clock does not wind
to automatically set to daylight savings time
May I make a request, please
Just don't mess with people's circadian rhythm
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
Manhattan by line,
by subway track purr,
by foot in a midwinter
fresh, gale force air.
The dying battery in
Times Square's wristwatch,
halts hands in mid air,
each hailing the second taxi
that comes to them
every next minute;
definitely in the next ten.
Buried benches in thigh high
snow look lost, with
only their branching tops
on display for the tourist's show,
tramping through
this January snow.
Double-back, back
past the Chipotle store,
where diners stand and eat,
stand and greet,
stand with napkins to appear neat,
stand near the radiator to warm their feet,
stand-in-the-corner-and-text-your-wife-saying-you'll-be-home-late-because-this-meaty-wrap-is-pleasurable-to-eat.
He was with another woman, kissing her cheek.
Manhattan is a horizon of horizontal lines,
drawn by pencil lead, led up a page
to create this fascinating portrait
that a point-and-click-camera
cannot comprehend,
let alone negotiate.
We can go unnoticed there, like
most others in this gale force air,
but billboard boys-
the ones that braid ****** building hair,
window panes
and balcony balustrade-
are the famous ones
of Broadway, with nothing more
than their commercial stare.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
My heartbeat ticks like a clock on most days
the pounding of my chest reminds me I don't have much time left
I start to wonder why being shaped like an hourglass is such a good thing.
We are always running out of time.
So much so that we don't even count when we reach a mile-
in high school they train you to keep time
but somehow you always end up running and running away from it.
Other kids shamed you for not completing the mile fast enough-
but your body thanked you for not pushing it so hard.
There are days when my alarm wakes me up before the sound comes
like my body somehow knows my time for sleep has ran out.
Things are constantly running away from me-
kind of like you.
I try to slow down the hands to this clock
but as yours wrap around my waist
it only speeds things up for me
because I no longer pay attention to the sound of my heartbeat.
Yours is the only ticking I can hear on those days.
I find myself using too many metaphors
and not enough alliteration or sibilance-
or any other methods of poetry for that matter.
I am too busy organizing these thoughts too quickly
so they do not run too fast away from me.
My mind is something I'm always trying to catch-
trying to keep these emotions in order and on cue
so I don't run out of time with you.
But somehow I end up losing it,
all of it and I am on the brink of insanity again
because how can you feel secure
when you don't know how much time you are wasting
I do not want to waste all this time with you.
If I am just another hour on this clock of your life
it will be the best **** hour you will ever encounter
because the rest of mine are spent trying to place
these emotions that have run out on me.
Spent trying to learn how to keep time,
how to keep them in mind
how to not let them change who I am again.
But see these emotions are not an alarm clock-
they are a pop quiz
an erupting volcano that has been dormant for years,
a hurricane you knew was coming but you weren't sure when,
an hour of detention that goes by so painfully slow
you contemplate your entire life.
These emotions don't come every other sunday-
they don't become planted in the soil inside of me
and sprout when I water them.
They are the dust that collects under your bed
from the particles of your skin-
and you don't know they are there
until you clean out the things you've been meaning to for a while.
My life is all metaphor and not enough logistics.
Not enough order and routine-
the only thing keeping me is time
and the dust has settled again.
It had rested in the lining of my lungs
and sits in the bridge of my nose-
it won't be long until it collects and overflows
and I am dealing with the consequences of not keeping
this life in order, in detail, I made no room for cleanliness.
There is no freedom inside of this mess,
inside of this wristwatch that will not leave
even when I try to cut it off.
The ticking of the clock is all I hear-
it aligns perfectly with the sound of my heartbeat.
I fear it will stop ticking
I fear I will stop feeling
I fear this heart will stop beating.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
Tick.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
An automatic
wristwatch gets little pushes --
from its wearer-slave.
Apr 17, 2022
Apr 17, 2022 at 3:47 AM UTC
Framed so poetically, there it stays
Never steps out of its flimsy boundary line but
it takes in everything with him
Inside a a static sea frame, there
roam all the wild guesses you
took:
all blue
all trapped, as erratic and diminishing as it was named.
Was you were to throw that time when
you tried to take to the sea
all into it?
There is no need to make me open my eyes to see something as obvious as this for a even a blind man can see it so crystal clear
in his pitch black vision
I'm closing my eyes and hope it stops
but
***I remember waking up
somewhere in midnight term
drowning in salty seas
and making bitter coffee to
recede the former taste.
I found your diary on the sea
shore with all of the demerara
sugar sand
disconnecting wires in my mind
with overflowing water in the
bathtub
and getting electrocuted.
Alarms when off buzzing with
tick tocks
I found myself with
a pacemaker also
your dying digital clock you had
since forever, displaying
blurs of phobia***
Am I wrong to be trying
to breath underwater
Would it be right to despise
the blue sea that should soothes us
that turned grey for all our
fears we threw in without hesitate
I put all of my fears into this sea,
as a glitched version of your
deceiving eye hue,
demerara sugar on the edge of
your lips lingering in my coffee
chronomentrophobia oh thalassophobia,
yet I was to choose between icy cold ocean air and
falling into clocks' icicle-like hands.
This
is much of an error as it is
a tsunami washing us with a tide of heartache like
over sugared coffee with still bitter taste that melted into
my inner cheeks when I had ulcers
and
you wearing wristwatch while holding my hands.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
Clocks are all around me.
They tell me; time of day.
They are true and make me free,
And tell me it’s OK.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The clock in my room,
Waits for me to seek.
“He will listen.” It assumes.
And through the noise it speaks:
Tick tock tick.
All throughout the night.
Tick tock tick tock.
Also in the light.
Beautiful it sounds.
It keeps me from despair.
And through the ups and through the downs,
My bedroom clock is there.
The tower rings aloud.
Its message; clear as day.
It is glad and it is proud,
And we love to hear it say:
Ding **** ding ****
So loud it sings its song.
**** **** ding ****
And we sing along.
It is so uplifting.
We’re ready to tackle the day.
It keeps us all away from drifting.
And we go about our way.
But my wristwatch is my friend.
It’s always on my arm.
On my wristwatch I depend.
And I keep it from all harm.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It loves it when I listen.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
When I follow I do glisten.
I really should listen more.
There’s so much I am missing,
For even the simple rhythm of the sound,
Keeps me in thanksgiving.
My wristwatch loves me so.
It waits for me to hear.
Its love for me it wants to show.
For its message; it is clear.
Oh! I neglect it often.
But when I stop and listen
To what so often I've forgotten,
My heart begins to soften.
“William Oh William.
I’ve been waiting for you.”
It knows what I have become,
But its love stays true.
“If I only listened more,
If I only loved you more!”
“That’s OK William, I will always love you.
Your sins are paid for.”
Patiently He waits,
For me go to Him.
And gladly does He give His grace,
And I do sing His hymns.
“You keep me in line,
What would I do without you?”
“William, It’s OK. It’s going to be fine.
Now, here’s what I want you to do...”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
God is all around me.
I sin, and He loves me still.
He is true and makes me free!
And He waits for me to listen to His will.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Do you remember my wool sweater:
How the fibers used to catch on your wristwatch
And tangle themselves in the buttons on your checkered shirt?
Those loose threads said what I was too afraid to—
Don't let go;
Stay just a little longer.
Fiber after fiber, they unraveled,
Until that old wool sweater was tattered and frayed and scattered—
Softly curled strings on shirt edges and neckties,
A memory begging not to be forgotten.
Even after all this time,
I'd bet you still find specks of red on your pillowcases
Or on your jacket as you ride the bus to work.
I hope you do.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 2:16 AM UTC
You don't need to wear a wristwatch
To give me the time of day.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
My friend says I was not a good son
you understand
I say yes I understand
he says I did not go
to see my parents very often you know
and I say yes I know
even when I was living in the same city he says
maybe I would go there once
a month or maybe even less
I say oh yes
he says the last time I went to see my father
I say the last time I saw my father
he says the last time I saw my father
he was asking me about my life
how I was making out and he
went into the next room
to get something to give me
oh I say
feeling again the cold
of my father's hand the last time
he says and my father turned
in the doorway and saw me
look at my wristwatch and he
said you know I would like you to stay
and talk with me
oh yes I say
but if you are busy he said
I don't want you to feel that you
have to
just because I'm here
I say nothing
he says my father
said maybe
you have important work you are doing
or maybe you should be seeing
somebody I don't want to keep you
I look out the window
my friend is older than I am
he says and I told my father it was so
and I got up and left him then
you know
though there was nowhere I had to go
and nothing I had to do
2.3k
full circle, nearly, although
i'm not sure around what
it is i seem to be revolving,
for i am not moon, nor star,
nor planet nor body of astral
importance; i am a boy, and
even then, the definition could
be more secure than it is, for
i am not a ship, i have no anchor,
nor sails, my starboard side is
used for writing and my port
is lost in the stormy blue of
the stripes on your dress shirt,
those matching the woven bracelet
i still haven't had the heart nor
gall to remove from my wrist,
like a watch, hands however
not spanning minutes or hours
ticking off each grain of sand
to fall,
[like taking inventory of eternity]
but pointing incessantly
back to you again, though you
are not the true north i seek, and
a wristwatch has no real business
dealing with dimensions beyond
its design and understanding.
a compass is perhaps better
suited to my purpose, though
the bearing would be thrown
by the lumps of iron remaining
beneath my skin, like braille,
and i the blind man groping
for a means -- any means --
to decipher the message left
hidden in my very fibers
by the electromagnetism
of your goodbyes.
if ever i needed you it is now --
and still the portal you promised
is closed, and no music sounds
for me as it did for you, for it
is you who has quieted it.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC
The radio clicks the worn out song
of days gone by and governments gone wrong.
Its static, the rolling of clouds before a thunderstorm.
The newsreaders rustling papers,
High pressure systems on the move.
The hush of the people as they gather to listen
Breath bated, held back by obedient tongues
The bulletins are nicotine bullets,
they're so incredibly easy to get hooked on.
News comes down the wire like commuters on the tube
Jostled and shunted along.
Through underground networks it spreads
With absolute efficiency
And yet the platform on which it departs is more than often wrong.
Outside the park swings are empty,
There is nothing unusual about that
But the kids sit by speakers with their hands over their ears
The high frequency waves dance around them.
This day is marked down as one they wish they could forget.
The headlines blazed into their minds,
More dead.
Oppressed.
Injustice.
Religion.
Elections.
Disasters.
Tornadoes.
Politicians flustered.
Corruption.
Famine.
And Hollywood Blockbusters.
And now we move on to the traffic
Two hundred more just come in from Pakistan
They say there's a pile up in Europe
There's an awful lot of wreckage on the road
and now they are left with no place to call home.
The M1 is running slow again, no surprise in that
Row after row of red brake lights
Join them together to make constellations
And you have your very own metropolitan galaxy.
Because who needs the stars when we have brake lights!
And who needs the moon when we have Big Ben.
Down the telephone lines comes a battalion of lies
“Honey... I'm going to have to work late.'
If you listen very closely to the nine o'clock news
You can hear the reporters wristwatch
And every five seconds that tick on top of his pulse
Marks another slice of news coming in.
The little hand chases the big hand
You cannot tell the time with just one.
The details escape somewhere between
The real world and what's put down in papers.
The trouble with black and white
Is that you miss all the shades of grey
And if you've never seen stars
Then brake lights, are just brake lights
And disaster is just another day.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 9:46 AM UTC
forgot to button up
veils,scales, umbrellas
see this dragon rained
couches where dreams are cats
no body
just discarded fur and echoes of purrs
after reading the label it rubbed off
maybe its tasty
pretend until the last drop
apologies repeated sound like dogs barking
attention slowly goes missing
a chair to block anyone from entering
holidays celebrate themselves easily
the grocery aisles let them be known
No wristwatch no calendar
window dressings tell parking lots their stories
faces bloom less then flowers
secret coffeehouses for shameful breakfasts
phonecalls peppered with obvious lies
surprise its your turn
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 10:09 PM UTC
Small and consistent
Sixty beats per minute
Wristwatch chirping from the table by the couch
Filling every silence in my home,
No sacred sleep is left alone.
Chirping from the table by the couch
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
As the hands on the wristwatch spins
New memories forms
Sun rises and falls
changes from dusk to dawn
People wake up, people rush
people stopped, felt a touch
faces might not change too much
but emotions and new thoughts come up
As time passes
more is experienced
more things to remember
even more to forget.
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 5:33 AM UTC
**Here you are, all dressed up
To take me out to dinner, our very first date
Even more handsome than in your corporate office
So dapper, dignified, distinguished,
so impeccably dressed and groomed
In your Armani pinstriped business suit
Silk tie, starched white shirt, cufflinks
Polished black leather Italian shoes
Your BMW waits outside
Well, I have news for you....
I changed my mind
Yes - changed my mind
We will stay home tonight
You will cook dinner for me right here
You are stunned
"ME?
I have a reservation at the finest restaurant
I know everyone there
And I don't know how to cook!
I know you're joking..
You must be."
No. No joke.
Give me those keys to your BMW.
Yes – the car keys
Take off your Rolex wristwatch
No need to look at the time.
Time to get cooking.
No, don't complain
You’re not in your office now
And one more thing.....
Take off those expensive shoes and socks
I want to see the cuffs of your
hand tailored navy blue pinstripes
brushing your
naked toes....
You are irritated, annoyed, frustrated
As you obey, resisting all the way
You give up your keys with the BMW symbol,
Your heavy masculine watch,
gleaming polished shoes,
still warm from your feet
thin black dress socks
I know it is frightening for a man
like you to surrender his shoes
and by the way
I do LOVE the shoes...
They just don't belong on your
feet right now
You call the restaurant and cancel
Shoeless and carless
Suddenly a servant
I’ll read the recipe.
While you peel the potatoes.....
I want you barefoot in my kitchen**
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC