It seems that I am getting old and grey,
my body's also slowing down its pace.
But, I've still much to do, and much to say.
It seems to me that life is like a race,
It starts off fast with youth upon your side.
You swiftly run and barely leave a trace.
It seems each day is like a rolling tide
that ebbs and flows decisions are engaged.
And through each year no choice, we take the ride.
It seems before too long we're middle aged
more settled, future planned, yet to unfold.
Perspectives held when young have some-what changed.
It seems somehow, our lives become controlled
by forces unforeseen we cannot stop.
Dictated by our bodies growing old.
It seems that soon we'll have to close the shop,
and face the fact we can no longer be.
So, take the final journey to the top.
It seems the bucket list that is for me
is incomplete, therefore I'll have to stay.
Tick off the list to do and lots to see.
And I should really start this all today,
it seems that I am getting old and grey.
"Time... Always here but never here." By Poet
Time my funny friend,
I cannot see you or feel you.
Yet time you are always with me,
from morning until night.
The clocks tick off,
the many minutes and hours.
The calendar takes off the 365 days,
52 weeks and the 12 months.
Time where do you live,
out in space or in the clocks?
My friend you like to hide and play with me,
and with each new day you are right on time.
Time you are my best friend when I am happy or,
my enemy when I am hurt or sad.
Wordsworth wrote, in 'Splendor in the Grass,'
about the glory that can be found in the flower.
He alluded to a love that had long since passed,
like clock hands tick off each second and hour.
He was saddened when taken from his sight,
was the radiance of a great love he once knew.
His world had been filled with splendid light,
but then darkened in shades of gray and blue.
He wrote to tell readers they should not grieve,
for a love that has been lost or left behind.
But that poet's words I am unable to believe,
for I consider them callous, no truth do I find.
I wonder if Wordsworth had ever shed a tear,
or had his heart broken or hardened to stone.
Did he ever lose a love that he once held dear?
And in his hour of pitiable grief, did he cry alone?
Wordsworth may have been a bard, a poet grand,
but in his 'Splendor...' quote, he has clearly shown
the falsehood written with ink quill in his hand,
for I have grieved for lost loves... I have cried alone.
The hours tick off
I know every one
Familiar their chimes
until the day dawns...
Crawl out of bed in the morning
though not 'good as new'
A gallon of coffee ~
may yet see me through
like heavy snow 'pon cedar boughs
those shadows, long through winter
my conscience weighs the thens and nows
yet morrows - naught a splinter ...
where hangs the hope in autumn?
as masts tick off the sea's green swells
like clocks tick straight the hours
my thoughts refuse to count the bells
once tolled for Neptune's powers ...
where falls the hope in autumn?
young lovers hide deep in their dreams
should melting flesh close-bind them
and I masked mine in callow schemes
so no sweet lass would find them ...
where rests the hope in autumn?
so deep and dark, life's oldest quest
from whence, no soul's returning
and next is what we've deemed as best
love's flames - those bridges burning ...
where hides the hope in autumn?
where hides your hope, dear Autumn?
Copyright © 2022 Gregory Richard Barden
There is a room
in my mind I keep sealed.
It has no windows
and the only light
is a small red lamp
that gives off a tense aura.
I have seen the same
red glow in films bathing
the inside of submarines.
I feel the pressure push
against the walls and hear
a clock tick off time,
counting down towards
something unknown.
I hear the world
passing overhead
and brace for the burst.
Gasping he sucked in deep
To breathe after made his survival complete
The wave rolled on and left him there
Riding the waves made it devil may care
The sun warmed him lying on his board
Another tick off the bucket list was scored
As he paddled to the distant shoreline
Feeling great and ready for the next item he’d find.
© Paul Warren Poetry
the edge of town arrives quickly.
You hang an inscrutable left
only to discover
one beat-up clapperboard hulk
hanging over tall corn
as if land-wrecked.
or
you drive to the end of
a suburban tract
and while waiting for the lights
a blue wash of sky
paints out
the last inflatable swimming pool.
The land becomes a swampy hollow
prone beside a basking river.
Treads gets sticky
in pent up pockets of sun.
Needles of light
litter the blacktop.
The road has dropped you
beyond the town limits,
now miles, tick-off yawns.
The prim madam inside
your G.P.S.
takes a long nap.
Turning to your wife
or dog
you smile, acknowledging
that the edge of town
has once again been shattered.
The bedroom door slightly open tonight
With a spread of dim night light
Shining through, into the room.
Streaming in my head
Music- anthems of hope and light
Not a heartthrob to avoid.
Why does my drama feel less painful,
Once I excused myself from the crowd?
Did the sun once shine the same
Watching me through my years of youth?
Lists of agendas left to tick off
But I look forward to every bit
Like a marathon of winning lotteries
I pose with patience and a heart of gold
for what comes next in the queue.
For once again I'm excited about
this stage show named life.
Like a young flame, just ignited,
Dancing with peace in the head,
Smile on the face and
Light in the eyes.
Tomorrow has yet to come
But it's already better than yesterday.
DON’T TICK OFF THE DUMMY
he’s irate from the yelling,
there’s no telling what will befall the scene, before sundown.
Paul Newman’s balancing act
becomes unhinged...
the drop happens at the precipice of a proud building,
this dummy slips and plummets.
a mannequin, it seems, has the film crew reeling.
the director collapses, slipping up —
treating actors like flimsy paper dolls,
a surreal moment for Preminger,
close to his final act,
can he recover if blue eyes dies?
6/4/2018
*A crazy way to make a point! While filming a fight scene, Newman throws a mannequin off the building. The director had to have medical attention, as he thought Newman fell for real! See Wikipedia: The Exodus Movie
~ Inexorably,
Our breaths tick off the minutes ...
Cherish ... every ... one ~
With rod and reel and bait in hand
They set out from dry dusty land
Six pretend pirate wanna be's
To terrorize fish repeatedly
Three each, port and starboard side
Anticipating the coming tide
Far away from safety's shore
These men of action, these men of lore
Swinging wide they toss their lines
As seconds tick off fishes bites
What's meant to be has come to be
From this scourge of the high seas
They came they saw they conquered all
As waves pound hard upon the bow
Call it a hunch, the weakest of the bunch
Didn't miss the chance to toss his lunch
After the score these troubadours
Made their way back to distant shores
Six pretend pirate wanna be's
Where legends are made on the high seas
Went deep sea fishing yesterday and had a blast! Who tossed their lunch? Do you really need to ask? ??
Life’s ending is short,
its beginning unknown
The middle is long,
chasing stone after stone
Memories most vivid,
from decades ago
Feelings now drifting,
like wind driven snow
Our seconds tick off,
as minutes run down
The big picture fades,
tracks left on the ground
Beginning or ending,
the next step unclear
The last cut the deepest,
—to suture or sear
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)
sunflower clocks
slowly unwind -
dispersing seeds
tick off
the dying seconds
I have a tick on my nose.
As it sucks blood, it grows.
When my ex-girlfriend saw it, it was too much for her.
She screamed at the top of her lungs and ran away in horror.
I can't get a date because of this tick that's the size of a nickel.
I am so lonely for female companionship, I sure am in a pickle.
I've tried to get this tick off but so far I haven't had any luck.
People are avoiding me like a plague, this really does suck.
I broke my nose when I tried to smash it with a brick.
My social life has gone straight to hell because of this tick!
(This is a fictional poem.)
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