Curiosity brings me here.
To the lonely halls of the museums inner workings at night
The only sounds; the scuffle of a mouse and the gentle, rhythmic ticking of the clocks
The heady scent of freshly polished floors illuminate the way to a small, cluttered room. I silently watch as he stoically works, surrounded by clocks and timepieces galore, as the pendulums melodically swing the hands of time steadily towards the chiming hours
Clocks of all shapes and sizes cover every conceivable space and are overwhelming in their similarities and differences. In amongst the chaos of the room, the curators slow movements are concise and methodic as he gently oils the gears of the clocks. Tenderly polishing faces, as a loving mother would wash their own children's.
His body is lean and stooped, his eyes quizzical and searching. Remedying any imperfections that reach his eye with the grace and speed of a gazelle, alert to his surroundings. The curator is comfortable in this space, he needs neither company nor conversation. He has the clocks which count his steps towards the end.
I softly walk away from this mesmerising sight.
The museum basement smells of ozone and pressed violets. I am cataloging a shipment of Victorian automatons, specifically the clockwork songbirds. Their mechanisms are intricate, tiny gears of brass that mimic a pulse, a heartbeat. They don’t sing, of course—only whir. My job is to ensure the silence of the dead. But last night, one of them turned its head toward the moonlight, a single, sharp click echoing against the concrete, and for a second, I swore the gears were bleeding oil. The curator told me to oil them again.
a small brass pinion
in the palm of my cold hand
starts to tick faster
SILENT CURATOR*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aging is not a thief,
but a silent curator,
selecting the finest moments,
the quiet triumphs,
the lessons learned in silence,
the wisdom that blossoms
like wildflowers in the cracks
of a once-bustling sidewalk.
So I embrace the years,
the softening edges of my spirit,
the grace of acceptance,
the gratitude for the journey,
for every heartbeat, every breath,
a reminder that life, in all its fleeting beauty,
is a gift wrapped in the delicate layers
of time.
*Note:This poem was originally published on Writer’ Monk’s Facebook page (www.facebook.com › thewritermonk). This is my original poem.
Admirably blessing, caring devotion,
Beautiful curator develops evangelism,
Creating dedicated, evolving faithful,
Divine epistles, faith growing.
(Acrostic in alphabet sequence, ABCD).
DREAMWORLD FIGURINES – THE CURATOR
Such pleasant musing echoes out.
She sits and creates her waxed dolls.
Dreamlike are images sculptured.
In her tiny waxed doll shop,
Her mind configures masterpieces…works of art.
________________________________________|
VERLENA S. WALKER
PENNED ON SEPTEMBER 01, 2014!
Standing on the crossroads
When a choice you make
The roads that go far
The voyage is at stake.
You could just stroll
You could procrastinate
Until you lose track
Lose faith in 'fate'
Walk a lane on whim
Cede to 'the unchaste'
Steer the ship yourself
Better you than Him to curate
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