Time Out

My to-do lists have grown appendages
are teaming up in a huddle
plotting their next play

Wait a minute, Guys! I plead
the afternoon sun has caught me
at just the right angle,
and my chair,
with a mind of its own,
is reclining…

Can’t we save the game day antics
for another time…

(Image my own)

Grains

There are shores that remain
ever-etched upon my heart –
emotional tides that tug
and carry me, currents
of past revelations –

I remember drowning
in the swells of loneliness
always the outsider, the grains
of this sentimentality
still shredding my adult soul.

(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)

Wasted Time

It’s Monday again –
days passing through
my hands like sand,
no receptacle in which
to catch the granules –
why this sense of urgency?

In high school, I played hooky
wiped away the hours in empty
places, sought answers for
questions I could not articulate,
chased dust while other formulated
dreams – how is this any different?

Am I not just recreating the pattern,
painting over efforts with adult hues,
donning the pretence of self-importance
while occupied with vapid tasks – time
continues to slip by, and what have I
to show for it other than incessant panic?

(Wasted Time was first published February, 2017. I resubmit here for my weekly challenge: the chase. Image my own.)

The Moment Time Slipped

That was me
the 9-year-old girl
sitting on the 3 o’clock bus
staring at the woman
with the scarf around her neck
standing across the street
in front of an oddly shaped building
I’d never noticed before, and
having a profound feeling
of déjà vu.

That was me
the scarf-wearing woman
standing on the sidewalk
in front of the odd shaped building
waiting for the 3 o’clock bus
to move, so that I might cross
suddenly overcome by a sense
of premonition as my eyes
locked with a girl on the bus
who looked uncannily
like a younger version
of me.

(Written for Reena’s Xploration challenge: Components of Time. Art my own)

Dead Are Unimpressed

A cruel master
the ticking clock
So much potential
Get it done!

I rush past shadows
crumple the pages
failed attempts
mounting

What of dreams?
Of life’s destiny?
How I worship
at the altar of should

Even with positivity
fantastical notions fall short
I argue against uncertainty
meet only disapproval

There is no magic
no pre-destined fame
just dust gathering
the dead are unimpressed.

(Linking up with Reena’s Exploration challenge: follow link for video prompt. Image my own.)

Old Codgers

Idleness fills his hours
as if time knows no limits

I devour moments, afraid
tomorrow will forget me

we see-saw between
treacherous righteousness
and fusty avoidance

ignoring balance –
a sensible response.

(Inspired by the perils of an aging marriage, and submitted for Ragtag Community’s prompt:  fusty.)  Image from personal collection.

He’s Gone

In darkened room
I lie, willing blackness
to obliterate blackness.

A scream, unearthed
from dankness
shatters the silence,
echoes off heartless walls,

shock waves reverberate
relentless torment

seventeen years…
committed, no…
dedicated

ripped away

leaving me

nothing

I fall, spiral
reel out of control

breaking down

tomorrow,
the children will return
the house will fill again,
and I will pick up
these shards,
piece together
some semblance
of normalcy,
and begin
to rebuild

in the dark.

(Written for dVerse pub, where Lillian is hosting with a challenge to focus on time:  “To everything there is a season…”)