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Posts Tagged ‘time’

 

 

And what did you do with your lost hour?

            —Harry Teague

 

 

Well, I didn’t sleep, that’s for sure,

nor did I bake bread. Didn’t practice piano

or write a poem, skate ski or do sumo squats.

 

Neither did I throw javelins.

Nor fake my own death in a gruesome car accident,

nor steal modern art nor moon rocks nor whiskey.

 

I didn’t spelunk. Didn’t sink in a ship.

Didn’t crawl through the sewer.

Didn’t get a tattoo. Didn’t twerk.

 

Perhaps there was part of me

that did what I am always trying to do—

untether from time and lose all sense

 

of who I am and what I think and

what comes next and how it’s supposed to be—

yeah, I’d like to believe that for a lost hour

 

perhaps some part of me thrived and joined

with the universe so completely that it knew itself

as the dawn that comes when it comes.

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One Simultaneous

 

 

 

driving white knuckled

in the blizzard, meanwhile

a white camellia blooms

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One Almost Miss

 

 

catching the plane—

five hours later this heart

still rushing to the gate

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after Erik Satie’s Gnossienne 2

 

 

for you a song

with no measures

and this tessellating metronome

that ticks only love and slips

into each moment a forever

 

 

 

 

Dear friends,

 

You have perhaps guessed by now that I am doing a whole series of five-line poems on Satie’s Gnossiennes—five lines for the five lines of the staff. And each poem is titled based on the directions he wrote above the staves instructing the musician how to feel the music. There will be quite a few more … they’re really fun.

r

 

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I ask the earth

please, a little more time?

it spins on, spins on

 

*

 

finally dipping my toe

in the lap lane, already

I dream of the finish line

 

*

 

a bucket of anything

is best drunk a sip at a time—

even bliss

 

*

 

news from the heart—

it knows how to heal

its own holes

 

*

 

resolving to treat

all my concerns as poems—

now doubt, too, is beautiful

 

*

 

packing up the tent—

if only all habits could be folded,

bagged, stowed away

 

 

 

 

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Pulling the long red radish bulbs

from the garden, I marvel

at their pinkness, rub off the dirt,

bite into the crisp white flesh.

There are few tastes that bite

just right this way—make the mouth

happy to be a mouth and it teaches me,

without trying, that sometimes

when we wait too long,

a thing turns bitter. But oh, get

the timing right, my god, it’s sweet.

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One Slowing

 

 

braiding white daisies

to make a misshapen crown—

living blossom to blossom

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Just After Midsummer

 

 

Tonight we wander the fresh mown grass,

barefoot. Winter feet refused to believe it were possible—

but here we are, naked of sole and stepping slow

 

on soft green earth. Sometimes a whole life

folds into a moment, a moment such as this one,

when the scent of grass is bright in the air

 

and the sun slants a long and golden trail

and the breeze barely whispers

and the swallows redefine gravity

 

and you know you belong among the wildflowers

and you start to believe in impossible things

like now, like here, like soft green grass.

 

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Twelve Seconds

 

It’s the time it takes
to sing up to “k.”
It’s two full cycles
of breath. It’s less time
than a red light, and nine
more seconds than it takes
for a cheetah to go from
zero to sixty.
It’s one fifth of a minute waltz.
It’s $4,629 more dollars
for Bill Gates.
And, my friend tells me,
it’s how long it takes
for a hug to stimulate
the vagus nerve and trigger
oxytocin, helping the heart
to slow down and the cortisol
levels to drop. All day,
I practice long embraces—
and while we hug
the earth rotates at least 5,520 meters
and the universe expands
over 816 kilometers.
All day, I notice
how darn good it feels.

 

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Time Bend

 

 

 

Stepping into my children’s room

it is nine years ago and I almost trip over

the rocking chair that isn’t there,

can almost smell the calendula cream

I used for their bottoms, hear

the drone of the humidifier.

How different those quiet nights,

the amber glow of the night light,

the way their new bodies curled

so easily into the curve of my arm.

Not that I want to go back to those nights,

but how sweet they are now, how long

they were then. I want to tell that younger

version of myself that there will come

a day when she will wish she could

sit in the quiet and hold her children

through the night. But she wouldn’t believe me.

Too tired for belief. She just keeps

humming that lullaby, rocking back

and forth, her eyes closed as if to dream.

 

 

 

Dear friends, I’ll be camping the next few days, so no poems posted for a while … a bouquet when I return. xo

r

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