Short While Away The Hours Poems

Circling
Looking forward
Onward
Can't go back
Knocking on the future
Sleeping off the past

Ticking away the hours
Inching by and by
Can we face tomorrow?
Knowing 
It’s something new
Never going back
Got to go on....

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The Covid tests are negative
But still, I’m sick sick sick.
I sleep away the hours
But improvement will not stick.

I’ve got my fingers crossed
Tomorrow I’ll feel good instead
Of spending the whole day curled up,
Not moving from my bed....

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The Pest


As we waste away the hours 
When we’re wanting more
On the nightstand there be flowers 
And our clothes upon the floor
When we thought this time was ours
Comes a scratching at our door 
Then our mood surely sours
Because of that beast that walks on  four



~J.D. Cromwell...

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I have longed for a visitor, to knock upon my door                                                     
and indulge me with stories,
from another shore.
Someone with whom,I may wile away the hours,                                                     
conversing about life...
not just the rain showers...

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dripping tap in an empty sink
passing away the hours
the table where she always sat
naked without a cloth

the stove well used
now forgotten
grown cold with time

white china cups on a dusty shelf
waiting to be filled again
and slowly sipped

a closed door
can't  hold back the memories
in my mothers kitchen...

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I can pretend, I'm at the beach
cool sea water, around my feet
sand that goes, for miles and miles
as I whittle away the hours

not a thought comes to mind
all my worries left behind
my clipboard left
on a very messy desk
right now it doesn't matter
I'm where I need to be
on the beach, the whispering sea
next to me...

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Wending my way, as one asleep
    through my listless routine
  grinding away the hours
    a money machine

  In my mind, not much unforeseen
    'tween eight in the morn
  and five afternoon
    weary eyes tied to a screen

  Hearing the bell, I leap for joy
    run, scream and shout
  from my cage newly sprung
    come alive ~ to let the real me out...

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My job is to make the unlikely happen
  my passion driven to embrace the bliss

My vocation seeks to find the answers
  my avocation wanders—soul remiss 

My intellect bargains away the hours
  my spirit embraces each moment now

My story when told is about the journey
   that road I traveled—beyond time allowed

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2018)...

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to be a child again
and bask in innocence
to saunter and meander
to while away the hours
to expand the moment
and live wholeheartedly 
every second of every day
pure magic and sheer wonder
ah to be a child again



Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~A CHILD'S WORLD~ 2020

Submitted on September 8, 2019 for contest FREE VERSE OR RHYME (photo 1) sponsored by EVE ROPER  -  RANKED 3RD...

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Suspense kills
I would kill again 
grasping at fate, where it lies
on my conscience.

What's left of this you have a taste for now,
pulling together,
moving on to what you left behind,

Stripping time

I time travel until I belong in my skin,
no longer in limbo watching the clock,
your lies wasting away the hours...

a thankless task to cling to time,
always waiting for what I cannot decline....

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as youth and beauty slowly fade
a black and white reel from yesterday
the blossom falling from the flower
while the clock ticks away the hours

all the innocence seeped away
painted with a brush that’s jaded
a mirror reflection of who we were
looking back a likeness blurred

the image not at all the same
deterred by the game life played
wondering where the good life went
now that we are old and spent...

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I sit and watch the clouds go by,                                                                                         Do I give my life another try?
What happened to my zest for life?
Now buried under years of strife.
So while I sit and smell the flowers,
The clock just ticks away the hours.
It's really only up to me
To try and set all  things just right
Or I can simply sigh and cry
Waitig for eternal night....

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Flanked by violets and similes
   in a drafty den she pens
away fleet hours, pensive, concocting
   exotic brews of rarest essence

and scents, honey-tipped phrases
   in secret rhythmical chants  
known only to denizens of her
   innermost sanctum, where she,

perches, chin in hand, arranging
   delicate strands of sound, eliciting
murmurs from those gathered, who lionize her
   though she remains as the dust underfoot...

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We walk along a moonlit path
Where, I don't know
I find that I'm afraid to ask
Which direction do we go?
If you would gladly take my hand,
Show me the way to love
Help me somehow understand 
The way your hand fits mine like a glove
Then maybe I could steal a kiss
Surrounded by night-blooming flowers
Give me something I can miss
As we waste away the hours
And as we stand an inch apart
I can feel the beating of your heart...

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Silence and seclusion
I'll take them any day
Upon my face, there peeks a grin
Now, I can have my way

Seclusion is so comf'table
For me, myself and I
This precious time predictable
I'll sit and wonder why

And silence - I know none of it
My heart begins to sing
Growing lighter in this perfect fit
My inner thoughts take wing

So leave me with my company
To while away the hours
Withdrawing from the summary
Of influential powers...

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The scent of you takes me
To a place when we were free
To do and be what we wanted to be
When each day was a memory 

I still want to call your name 
And see you smile knowing our game
So when the band plays our song
I want to close my eyes and sing along

Show me that we can live again
And have each moment to make amends
And while away the hours in each other’s arms
I want to again explore your many charms.

© Paul Warren Poetry...

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GLACIAL
Scent of lilies. 
His pain over, mine just begun.
I caressed those hands, gifted, loving.
Kissed his waxen brow.

A blink away from the dying sun,
the ignition key trembled.
I half-expected to waken, 
clasped in his arms. Soothed 
back to life, on the mourning  air. 

Our silent house stood strong, 
and healthy,
ticking away lonely hours and empty nights.
While I flinched from the glacial steppes,
of our marital bed.


DECIMA WRAXALL...

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Awake love's vaunted rite of Spring
Fertile flowers; mating bowers
Two hearts join in amorous fling
Nature's caress; fondling showers
Spawning paramours seeds sowing
Warming sun over head towers
Burgeoning heat, truant parts cling
Fecund lads rut away the hours
Plowing ground, then cultivating
Trees with fledgling shoots accreting
Fawning tendrils lust empowers
Coupling birds o'er meadow scours
Bleating consorts talons preening
Nurturing pods; nubile plowers...

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I can feel it coming
a change is in the air
it is not from fall to winter
I feel that lingers there

too far off to touch
the hands you feel not mine
buried with the memories
another place in time

clock ticks away the hours
as your kiss touches her skin
the unrelenting passion
that place where I have been

as I search for mercy
many miles before I dream
awake in the middle of night
cause the mercy escapes me

my heart is searching for mercy
even that won't set me free...

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Maybe it’s the manifestation of boredome
to repeat habitually
these idiosyncratic escapes
from reality

An addiction of self texting
a selfie
a pornographic predilection
of voyeuristic internalization
of boredoms reality

Repeat, repeat, repeat
a mindless litany
in actions
prevent, prevent, prevent
the cat walk entrance
of very unfashionable
boredom

Boredoms wriggling worm
can turn
flight of fancy into a habits concern
and eat away the hours
in their passive mediocrity...

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