Best Stopwatch Poems

-This buds for you!-
-It takes one to know one!-
-I know you are, but what am I?-

A second hand, on my stopwatch, going nowhere!
You are a joker, a smoker, a midnight stroker  
<-------How, about that, Steve Miller song

I'm not here to talk about the way...

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The air was thin and icy.
It was dark and cold outside.
A blanket of snow covered the ground.
The footprints in the snow led the way.
We loaded the bus one-by-one as if we were animals entering Noah’s Ark.
Statuesque beings sat motionless in their seats.
Twenty pairs of eyes...

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Pecking quick, a parting kiss
Pumping legs, a train to miss
Lovers waving, strangers pass
Tears and hugs a whistle blast 
Scanning papers on news stands
Pats on backs while shaking hands
Averted eyes and hurried walk
Can’t stop, won’t wait, no time to talk
Pushchairs, wheelchairs, screaming kids
Cardboard coffee cups with...

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...the village shivers   a hive of restless souls
skin pricklin' with anticipation
as costumed runners fixin' to gather — hearts a-thrummin'
                like trapped hummin' birds

the gun cracks — a thunderbolt
...

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Impressionist Poem

time clock
stopwatch
still, life moves...

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Have you ever found yourself stranded in the tract
between what you think is fiction and what you think is fact?
And whipped so hard with the bible belt, your minds a welt of doubt
throbbing in confusion as you try to sort things out?
Do you ever look...

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Time is precious time is priceless 
Every second ticks a minute 
Every minute ticks an hour 
Every stroke towards the midnight hour.

Born of our mother but still on the clock 
Like the pushing of a button on life's stopwatch.
Starting along being nurtured in life as...

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Once manifested on the 
heel of Adagio in G major,
balancés and assemblés from 
the back hand. Baryshnikov told
me to flatten my stomach, so I 
repressed the urge to
breathe; suffocation is
incandescence by the barre.

Then I looked in the mirror and the 
mirror glared back in contempt-...

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tercets in ABA rhyme

Clouds are blocking out the sun.
I reach for hat and raincoat,
gotta take my morning run.

Rain breezes by, it's just a mist;
but whirling in an angry squall,
wind pokes and jabs me with his fists.

Bidding to outrun dark clouds,
the sun seems to have taken...

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Below are 14 footles, separate and distinct, with their own titles in bold font.  A footle fest!

Sympathetic
Ben-Hur
Been her

Paving the Way
Guitar
Get tar

Muliebral Outlook
Female
Email

Origin
Sin's source
Seine's source

Borgana Interior
Driver
Dry fur

RN A Cappella
Nursing
Nurse sing

Comic Vowel
Funny
Fun "E"

Blarney Stone
Irish
I wish

Out of Time
Stopwatch
Stopped watch

Head to Toe
Dress you
Dress shoe

Canyon Carnival
Engorge
In gorge

Castle Restoration
Remote
Re-moat

Insomnia
Coffee
Cough fee

Beautiful
Sorry
Sari





2/8/2020

Poetry...

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The moment you arrived I knew the hour that brought you here. You my newborn 
child, was going to be loved til' the ends of earth. I was twenty-one years old and
the  sun was very new.  It barely creased our hearts so aware...

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Another Sunday morning
Crouched in the beam of headlights
Steam coming off coffee and breath
Fumbling to pin race bib to pants

A romance
Of sorts; this dance I’m addicted to
Those magic numbers: 5k, 13.1, and
The boss lady: 26.2 (I’m coming after you)

But why? Friends ask
You’re crazy they say on...

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When time flies, feelings of euphoria,
spur jaw-dropping habitus within,
vision of nirvana on groundswell earth,
chirping bird amber tone on hedgerow,
cacophony that piercing aural backdrop,
riotry of wild bewitching warble,
golden fronted leaf, black nape oriole, 
northern red bishop,
snapshot or sedation, honey dribbled spatula,
that ladles satin eardrums,
as momentary plot...

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I call him Clarence,
for no especial reason.
He announces in a soothing
if somewhat stilted
synthesised tone,
'The time is now ten a.m.'
He will oblige again at ten thirty
and then again at eleven.

Such is the mobile phone:
it gives you an alarm,
it is your stopwatch,
it takes your photographs,
updates your social...

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Maybe I’ll lick my savage knuckles
or shoot arrows at the sun

And if our anonymous devils dance
after slipping on their potential tap shoes
we might play the waiting game
	they’ll click click
away as paparazzi cameras
flash phosphorescent lights and
strip us

down to our Botoxed skin. Maybe our ethereal moon winks
its...

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