Time stops for no one Poetry Contest
Sara Jama
From the first heartbeat to the very last
From the first cry to the last gasp
Life and time rise and then fall
The hands on the external clock never pausing
As the legs of the day keep moving
From dashing sunrises to dashing sunsets
To the everlasting stars and moons in the sky
To the gravitation pull of the tides
Life keeps marching on
Orchestrated like and infinite
To the rhythm of the seasons
To the spins of the earth
Time never sits
Time never sits for anyone
Even when we're gone
As the sands of time
Funnel through our hourglass
Methodically, esoteric, and destined
Each pebble is a milestone in our lives
Each pebble adds purpose to our internal clocks
These heaps of pebbles lead us up the hill and down
From the first baby steps, childhood to adulthood
And to the lifetime of discoveries
From baby blues to aging greys
These stepping stones mark time
And our existence though short-lived
Where our internal clocks naturally yield in the end
As light begets darkness
And only then does the time sit inside our window
Outside nature continues its course
Beware of Time
She won't love what came before
Time loves but Itself
A true Narcissist
She won't turn her head for you
Although outstretched
Her arms won't point out the next bend
Arrow hands never to embrace
Methodically she schemes
In metronomic steps
Only up towards Babel
To reach the Gods who Thunder
To become One Herself
Time won't wait for you
Time cares not for you
To the end of Itself
Time wants to be revered
Don't make time for Time
She won't reminisce
"blind iris"
my ire is
i'm not Eyre
to be loved
mechanically
molded mason
maiden made
methodically mad
can't you tell she
is a she
demon not
a demon
is she
for
she
frantic
pray
prey on
dreams of
dreamt of what
you were and what
you would like
and love to
be
me
Three sister winds,
Ephemeral progeny,
Spawned by the sun's relentless
But passionless heat,
And the earth's inexorable
Grinding rotation:
Sirocco dances across the vast emptiness of the Sahara;
Mistral roams over the rolling plains and briny lagoons
Of the French Camargue;
Santa Ana, mistress of the paradoxical
Lush aridity of Southern California.
Solitary nomads these three siblings,
Never meeting,
Rarely resting,
Always appearing unannounced,
Creating with cold dispassion,
Then leaving in their wake,
Their own ephemeral progeny:
Summits and trenches,
Hills and valleys,
Crags and craters.
Sad reminders of their brief visits
And lonely passing.
Continually shifting,
Eternally sifting,
Maternally treasuring,
Methodically measuring,
As if carefully counting each precious grain
In the sands of time.
Turn of An Unfriendly Card
(Tarot 3 of Swords)
I cannot empathize with a shattered heart.
That image of a fragile, breakable baby pink orb
Is insulting to how I feel.
The turn of an unfriendly card depicts three swords
thrust into a still beating heart
I feel the sliver blade of that first sword
plunge hard, deep and succinctly.
I gasp with the pain in my chest
I feel the second as it severs sideways
and tears my heart from side to side
and as grief overwhelms my shredded heart,
the third slides neatly, methodically
down the middle until it dismembers
the connection to keeping it all together,
and I double over, sink to the floor, rock my body
and cry.
What I avoided is staring at me
daring me
to accept the inevitable and grow from upheaval
Become something greater that the puddle I’ve collapsed into,
grow something strong from the richness
of the blood-meal soaked earth.
The sword hurts and tears again while being pulled out
in necessary preparation for the healing to begin.
My heart is not fragile.
Flock Plus One
Crouching among a gaggle of
dabbling Canadian geese,
a brown skinned child pushes back
long black hair,
intent on building a tidal pool
of which he can be King.
Extending a ridiculously long neck,
a goose wades gingerly into the water,
snapping his wings forward in a fluster,
indignant with the cold.
Another approaches the boy curiously,
black eyes assessing the construction;
haughtily disinterested, it continues ambling
along the inlet.
The sporadic hiss and honking of a gander
whose life mate is being wooed by another
doesn’t faze the child,
methodically tapping his palms
along the outskirts of his pond.
Another goose watches him,
unconcerned,
from her nest on a muskrat mound,
tiny hatchlings in yellow down
chirp soundlessly.
Spittles of rain dust the child’s
ebony hair
and the gaggle’s black feathers.
The cluster huddles around the boy,
having seemingly accepted him
as one of their own.
My life, my love, moments lasting, making memories, lessons learned, I listen most leisurely, methodically, meticulously, light-heartedly, laughing magnanimously.
As keep doing good to many people usually
Their lives keep changing day by day
Which is wonderful on this earth.
As keep counselling some drug addicts methodically
Their lives keep changing day by day
Which shows kindness on this earth.
As keep praying for people with problems habitually
God keeps hearing the prayers and help them day by day
Which is so good on this earth.
As a true speaker keep speaking the truths regularly
Some people can be comfortable occasionally.
Which is normal on this earth.
Here there was morning now
Then there was midnight madness
Murderous monsters massacaring
Many made Malcolm
And Martin martyrs mystifying
Masses methodically most memorable
Measured morning mundane minds
Made miniature mostly mute aaand
Time and time and time again again
Again and then and then Maitreya to
Socrates? Mocking mountains
Disappeared then there those
Majestic Messiahs mistaken for
Strangers again again again again
And then and then now when....
Daylight!! Catch a fright! Bloom!
GOOD AFTERNOON!!
quiet.
Marine metropolis,
manatees moving methodically,
mackerel moseying,
maiden mermaid muses,
many much moxie magical mermen,
magnetic, masculine, mystical,
masters melodious mellow maritime music,
midsummer marvelous, merry,
myself-moonstruck mania minded,
my mission- meeting mesmerizing,
mysterious, mischievous,
magnificent merman!
Written B: D. Collins 9/20/23
I have no mercy for dirty, grimy, or grunge.
Along with family, it applies to everyone.
I won't take kindly to being stabbed in the back.
I don't blindly launch a counterattack.
Every move is done with motive and intent.
Methodically bringing that problem to an end.
Someone moral and ethically grimy is my pet peeve.
And, for those type of people, I have no mercy.
It used to be a man killed only for his wife and kids.
But things are so bad we have to expand the list.
I would love to have that woman God wanted me to have.
And, with the griminess I've seen, you'd better watch your ass.
the demo expert desperado left the device behind
What a marvelously designed contraption; wasn’t that kind?
He’s a desperado, an outlaw, he has a despicable mind.
Disassemble that apparatus, the truth we must methodically find.
The suspicious gadget was calamitous, it burst, cracked and shined.
I am going to dismantle it, it scares me said my cousin McWhined.
His scared-y-cat attitude bewildered me; was his back even spined?
Mystified, I stood up for the device, having a lacksidasical mind.
Diminishing dwindling damaging proof rapidly left far behind.
After the contraption exploded, a deadly hit that blew up McWhined.
The desperado was truly an outlaw, on the run, whom no one can find.
Wish I had photo of contraption, which sat two feet from where I dined.
Thru the eyes of a child where newness abounds,
the magical lure of the merry go round..
It's piped in repetitious sound entices
spectators all around..
"Choose your seat" says a ticketer at the gate.
Large steel poles anchor in the animals fate.
Painted horses methodically go up and down
with hoofs that never meet the ground..
Mermaids, tigers, and other beasts, co-exist
here, all in peace..
Thru the eyes of a child what a fantasy feast.
"Let's go one more time at least?"
Not so very long ago
When I wanted to bake
I would go to my cookbooks
For a recipe to make
Tattered and stained they were
History literally splattered on
Notes written like ‘doubles well’
Or ‘sponge cake by Yvonne’
….sometimes even a photo…..
Today for recipes I scroll the net
Searching methodically
For the only tab I want to find
Labelled ‘Jump to Recipe’
Now, I don’t know about you
But I don’t want to be besieged
By pages and pages of text
Cut and pasted for me to read
I know it’s to maximise SEOs
And other such kinds of device
But for God’s sake, get to the point
When ingredients and method suffice
I don’t want to know the origin
Of different pasta shapes
Or how cinnamon got its name
Or rare varieties of grapes
I have no objection at all
To a small communique
But screeds of text turn me off
So I’ve ordered a takeaway
Saint Patrick died on March 17th.
So we celebrate the day with green and drink.
Patrick, was kidnapped to Ireland as a slave,
a condition he never fully forgot or forgave.
Patty (as he was known by his friends)
was a sober, relentless, devout Christian.
As a missionary, he gallivanted methodically, converting heathens
and if he failed to convert you, you weren’t left breathin’.
He could burn you at the steak for ignoring ‘reason’.
To show Christ’s power, he ‘banished’ the snakes,
It’s amazing, the difference a miracle can make.
The year 461 pre-dated laptops and even the Internet,
so, I think it’s time we finally forgive and even forget
the sad, sordid history of Catholic conversion “therapy”
because today we need a reason to drink until we’re green.
.
.
Webster: Gallivant: “travel for pleasure.”
My roommates and I went to Doublin, Ireland last summer.
In casual conversation we asked how they celebrated Saint Patrick's day and their celebrations are like ours, more or less - a secular overindulgence. But on a deeper level, this holiday, they say, is dedicated to the patron saint of heathen genocide.
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