I shall write of fading distant things
Of silenced bells, birds without wings
Of time, that metronomic dunce
Who lives its moments all at once
I’ll view this masterpiece I’ve painted
Slightly perfect, slightly tainted
Leave it to you to gauge the hues
Of struggling artists paying dues
Upon them I have placed my mark
Both heaven light and hellish dark
For each pursues the shredded truth
Of tarnished age and stumbling youth
Of dreams released and dreams contained
A perfect life still slightly stained
Time has no conscience
Plays no favorites
Sets the same metronomic tone
For everyone
It doesn’t drag
Nor does it wait
It cannot be saved
Or lost
It just is
For it is cursed
To be timeless
O greenish blue neighbour of mine
across my kitchen window, sunning in shine
perching very high on the doctor's house fig tree
resonating your tunk...tunk louder than metronomic glee
Saw you today, puffing your yellow throat,
the silk floss petals plucking with your hand glove
bobbing your red head and flicking bluish tail,
have you tracked a sincere mate?
have you picked a red berry or two for your consort,
hope allopreening is not building on snort?
what about fluttering your blue grey black wings side by side ?
start a "Beak Game" in a full stride?
Keep flight straight, with rapid flaps
Be away from that, extortionist Blue-throated barbet
avoid flying klepto red-vented songbird,
eyeing at your red berries and burd.
PS:A coppersmith (barbet) , very old next tree neighbour, annoying sometimes by her incessant calls ,many times reminds me that that is how a life goes on
To seize the day he sees the day
As the elusive moment that it is
Wandering aimlessly from the herd
Beguiled by a drifting scent of more
Muscling his way into the lead
Leaving a mindless wake behind
Believing lost moments will follow
The shadow of his passing presence
Unaware that he is the moment
And time life’s metronomic warning
Another hallowed arrow from his quivers
One of cricket’s greatest shiver givers
Coursing down your spine like rivers
Fine line..never dithers as slivers
Of adversaries hopes on the ropes..withers
Tipples tickle our livers
The latest tropes of how
Somehow…anyhow won’t kowtow
Postman Pat delivers
Matinee idol looks tease
Record books hooks please
Finds batters crannies &
Nooks with such ease
Impeccable length…metronomic
Chin music chagrin
Such strength..astronomic
Gift of getting the ball to lift
Chronic bounce…hedonic
With his swag bag of quicks tricks
Name on the adored hall of fame
Lords boards with six..another Cummins elite fix
Beat Bob Willis’s record tome of the best
Test figures for a captain at cricket’s home..
Yep..yet another done like a kipper
By this chipper ripper skipper
Who’s not found wanting
His chiselled jaw..up there for sure
With the mean hardcore
Ponting or Waugh
As the best Test baggie green
Top draw Captain (not woke...just a better bloke) seen on screen
Or that’s maybe ever been
As Autumn idles
A laziness caresses the moon
Resting on a soft cloud bed
Her shadow taunting the night
In a nocturnal game of hide and seek
A soft aroma rises
From freshly trodden leaf beds
A chatter of empty branches
Counts a metronomic rhythm
A feathered dance troupe performs
Taking a final bow
Beckoned by a distant sun
Urged on by a chill wind
Take flight my children
Heed well the scents of nature
Follow the wisdom of your soul
As Autumn idles
A laziness caresses the moon
Resting on a soft cloud bed
Her shadow taunting the night
In a nocturnal game of hide and seek
A soft aroma rises
From freshly trodden leaf beds
A chatter of empty branches
Counts a metronomic rhythm
A feathered dance troupe performs
Taking a final bow
Beckoned by a distant sun
Urged on by a chill wind
Take flight my children
Heed well the scents of nature
Follow the wisdom of your soul
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
Somehow it seems the poems do not pass muster
The words a swirling dance that will not cluster
They deem themselves alone to be the fulcrum
That lets the lever lift them from the hum-drum
And midst the overflowing verse – coerce
The pen to change its ever-destined course
And drop a not so nearly rhyming line
Though Shakespeare dropped one in from time to time
Thus, do I sit like Howdy’s Mister Bluster
Grumbling in metronomic fluster
Tapping out the pentagrams iambic
Trembling beneath my use-less panic
Thus do I shout: “Damn Shakespeare’s sonnet”
Were I a dog I think I’d pee upon it
Written: April 08, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Morphing into an appealing landscape,
gathered around a table embrace.
In the connection of family mindscape.
We find sanctuary in this precious place.
It engulfs you and completes its task,
a ghostly husk that is waxy and pale.
Dreams that last, a disturbing mask.
A table decorated with a phantom tale
Heirloom, the pink hearts flap,
In rhythm, they dance a poetic trap.
A heart, still beating, with metronomic grace,
twitching forks, dancing in the space.
Melodies in the air, a symphony's prism.
Their metallic bodies, alive with grace,
In utopian harmony, they find their place.
Never shall your children hear such schism
In whispers gentle and voices clear,
a secret kept, forever near,
Hidden in the depths, so dear.
Trusting even amid fear.
Upon the wall
It hangs
counting
metronomic moments
lost
to time
John G. Lawless
©9/24/2022
above the metronomic constant dripping of a tap
and the deep and heavy ticking of an old grandfather clock
sounds seeped through a window where the night air found a gap:
a cough!
- then silence.
..then a key inside a lock.
Riding the rhythms of rolling wheels
Driving rusty rock desert miles
Purring pistons pumping power
To my mottled muddy jade jeep
A symphony sprung in my head
Dawning with dainty din of drums
Paving a path for piccolos
And rich rumblings of black bassoons.
Strings sent soaring counterpoint smoke
Playing with a glory sublime
In flawless metronomic time
Mozart tears of joy would have shed.
Music was a top choice grand cru
But when I had to stop for gas
And gulp soothing bubbly soda
My sweet symphony flew away.
Fermented fine without any skills
My heady brew I can't renew.
She watched him pluck the strings.
His fingers up and down the frets
of her spine,
pulling out notes and moans
from deep within the cavity
of her hollowed-out chest.
Apollo’s golden lyre lulling the muses
beyond their sensibilities.
Grooves of passion causing a riff
and changing his tune.
Needing space like air.
The Pied Piper’s pitch filling
the acoustics in the room.
The arpeggio scaffolding and bending,
burning the bridge and lacing
the capo around her neck,
causing her to fall flat.
Vibrato measured
in octaves and picked over.
Metronomic dissonance clashing
through their progression
Until the blue notes scaled her back
into a solo improvisation.
A Waking Dream
She wasn’t perfect
none of us are
her face was lined with
experience and comfort
crows feet at her eyes
laugh lines in her smile
dark hair flecked with grey
pulled into a loose ponytail
walking with back straight
metronomic hips in motion
calves flexing with each step
there was an aura about her
that caught my fancy
slowing at a bistro doorway
smiling at the images
I had just experienced and
glad there were women on
the planet to make it a reality
I couldn’t help but stare
at her as she read a menu
posted in the window
shifting her stance as she read
she put one hand on her hip
the way some women do
four fingers pointing back
thumb out so incredibly sensual
then a tall guy put his arms
around her waist and she
turned into his kiss immediately
I walked away slowly
smiling at my waking dream...
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