I wait too long
plans are long-gone
so wrong I go
I have a strange fascination with
revenge bedtime procrastination
fear of missing out
won’t let me sleep til
just shy of passing out
yet still caught in the middle
like a hen on a griddle
on the roof with no fiddle
perplexed by life’s riddle—
betwixt betwiddle
(Ahda bhada)
Procrastination is an ugly sin
It may feel good in the moment
You might think nobody will ever know
You may even have the best intentions
But eventually it catches up with you
then you have to pay the price
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
was going to clean the kitchen
not just yet
it’s only three p.m.
was going to dye my hair
not in the mood yet
was going to clean up the dog hair
can’t find my mask
maybe tomorrow
was going to put toilet paper in the bathroom
had to use the cardboard damn it
was going to clean the sheets on my bed
dog jumped on them, so I could not strip it
was going to box some of my paintings
not sure where I put those boxes
dyed my hair
check
Procrastination is a devil
Feasting on our time
Nibbling at progress softly
While our plans plan other plans.
Again and again we barter
Trading now for later
Bargaining with time for time
Waiting for a tomorrow that never comes.
It whispers in kind tone
Luring us into delay
A labyrinth lined with comfort
Where lost moments hide and stay.
Again and again we promise
To begin when stars align.
But that tomorrow stays a myth
A ghost we chase in our minds.
On the morrow good enough
If good enough be true
On the morrow time enough
Today the times are few
What once was said
Is said once more
In never ending queues
Till tomorrows become yesterdays
Todays an endless muse
time passes, hands clasped,
afraid of what might happen,
clench tight on what's been.
eyes stare unblinking,
lest the sheer weight of mere thought,
reveals happenstance.
ears distracted dwell
on mantra seance murmurs
when will never end?
Imagination only comes when you privilege the subconscious,
when you make delay and procrastination work for you.
—Hilary Mantel
The cogs and wheels turning, nonetheless, as I ponder
the preparation before me, having looked over the lesson;
turned over the less obvious loneliness of being left
with a lesson I’ll never forget; abandoned, but not by God.
—quote by Poet
Procrastinating
Cold am I in my pyjamas;
not wearing any socks.
Shivering with coffee in hand;
it’s warmed up to the cold.
Frozen, the morning program;
I will likely release its heat.
Procrastinating, except for laundry.
Waiting on my inspiration socks.
Shall I pick up my next read
or throw the book at something unseen?
Pens and pencils in an Irish mug.
Two leprechauns kiss; Dad misses that warmth.
Observant am I, as now I see, scattered,
yellow and pink silicone muffins.
My mess in triplicate.
I must duplicate my stress.
Press in to the obvious…
Once I begin, where will it end?
Work, without end,
to upend my mind.
I need a place to sit and relax.
I need the best of snacks.
To start my writing prompt,
I need a slice of pizza to chomp.
I need the tv to turn off.
I wish I had a writing loft.
If someone would put that clutter away,
I could sit quietly and write all day!
Once the quiet sets in.
It’s bedtime, so I settle within.
I’m not tired at the moment.
This silence is heaven sent.
I woke up at 7:00 in the morning.
I wonder if my writing was boring.
I take my notebook out.
Wondering what my writing was about.
A notebook filled without words.
I wish I had written about birds.
Or music, or sadness.
Or even badness.
But now the tv is back on.
Out comes the morning sun.
I really should be writing today.
But sometimes I think there is not much to say.
Is okay
Deadline is far away
Not tonight
Not ready for this fight
Nice and slow
I'll do it tomorrow
I can be better than I am,
But Yesterday keeps pulling me back.
Tomorrow whispers hope in my ears,
But today, I do nothing.
Tomorrow has not come,
Yesterday flew by like a dream,
Today is here waiting for me,
But I keep thinking of tomorrow.
Yesterday, was today yesterday;
Tomorrow will be today, tomorrow.
Today is today, today.
Why am I waiting for tomorrow?
Yesterday died, when today was born.
Tomorrow is in the womb of today,
Waiting to cross the midnight hour,
Time cannot wait, neither should I.
I sit here with my heart in my mouth
Wondering how things so quickly went south.
A task I once did with joy and delight
Now feels like a burden I shoulder each night.
It's nearly day 130 of this merry marathon
Running in circles, a line in a hexagon.
"I'll write ten poems tomorrow," I said yesterday
But suddenly it's Monday, and time slips away.
Day after day, I lag as themes pile high
One atop another, while time fly by.
"A poem a day," I say, but still I delay
Waiting for tomorrow, as today fades away.
Oh Hakim, I'm like a master chef indeed
With all the ingredients but lacking the speed.
I spend all my time just staring at the menu
Instead of cooking, my gas runs to few.
My joy for cooking has faded to gray
And so I put off my writing for another day.
Life has a meaning if you wake up from stupor
Procrastination will not help you achieve goal
days pass, years waste away, making you a loser
wake up before time takes a worst turn, death bells toll
When there was nothing there was God who created
A beautiful and pristine world for man to live
Be a vicegerent and protect the ill-treated
To be kind towards all to forget and forgive
Work to live, live to work is a motto well served
Stupor belongs to the Devil, fans his ego
Some rest after a day's hard work is well-deserved
Work without required sleep results in vertigo
So, wake up from ever deadly stupor my friend
Take up unfinished tasks to give meaning to life
It's never too late for an evil soul to mend
If not, words of evil and slander will be rife
late shoppers are in for big trouble
their deliveries are abubble
as everyone knows
all department stores close
USPS loads are all double
DO NOT MISS THE MOON, WHILE COUNTING THE STARS
Do not be carried away by the deceit,
Of an oozing chant of a back palm’s stew;
For the meat that source and house it,
Will slip and off it will drift like dew;
So, do not miss the sun,
While counting the smiles of the stars,
Kafkaesque!
Most magic moments oblique,
The conscientiousness to tame,
And the illusionary shadow’s of blame.
Sometimes, I don’t want,
You to know what I think,
That’s why I hide it in a plant,
A tarred bowdlerize wink;
So, do not stay too long....
Looking at the sun, especially her eclipse.
Alas! The jaded aglet corpse!
I have wringed wet maelstroms,
What you have in your palm,
Is bigger than the shadow storms,
So, do not waste hours counting,
Those deceitful stars__
When all you need is the moon!
For this is an overweening;
Err that mar many: a raconteur.
~ Tile
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