After my children, I blended into a new being
Mommy, someone selfless and giving
A person who forgot what hobbies and friends were
I threw myself into their lives, as if my life depended upon it
as if I did not have a life at all, really
the only value I saw in me was through them
But my children grew up, moved away, started families
I had lots of extra time on my hands; what to do with it?
My granddaughter coaxed me into painting
I loved that; ran with it as if I was on fire
my enthusiasm for that rarely waned
After it did I remembered that I used to write
I picked up a pen, and began writing stories and poems
Sixteen hundred paintings and 34, 000 poems later
I remember there was a me
before my children came
and she is back.
Guess I'm soul searching she's on my mind
with a heart that is hurting must have been blind
I wander these streets where we walked together
but places we'd meet are now stranger than ever
I think of those days gone by
and can't help but wonder why
I'm tossing and turning time on my hands
with a heart that is burning don't understand
I sleep in this bed we we lay as lovers
but things we once said she now whispers to others
and I dream of those nights they're past
and I can't help but have to ask
how could something so right turn out so wrong
why should something so good only last for so long
like a love left behind so was this heart of mine
soul'd out
Dad's old pocket watch...
aureate, fine, glistening...
his time on my hands
TIME
Precise and constant it marches on.
It waits for no one, yet will stop to heal a broken heart.
Measured in thousandths of a second by swimmers
And in millenniums by the Creator of All Time.
They say it’s money—but it doesn’t make sense
That last weekend can seem so long ago
Yet each day went by so quickly.
It’s fast as lightening and slow as molasses.
Two can stand side by side and it flies for one and crawls for the other.
A friend to the child who anxiously awaits the school bell at the end of day.
An enemy to the lover who waits for the 10:35 to take her soldier to a far away land.
It means everything to the watchmaker
And nothing to the boy fishing on the riverbank.
It’s “Time On My Hands” and “Time In A Bottle”
And if you drop the e and add an i-n-g, it’s Rotten - and it’s Perfect.
And twice a year it laughs at those of us who
Spring forward -- and then Fall back
Thinking that we can change it.
Mariruth Pyatt
The old poets haunt me
they taunt me from the shadows
following every keystroke I type -
they’re critical of phrases,
they demand narrower themes
and mock the very clichés they invented.
I remind these frightful spirits of how tenuous
life was, how I’m blindly living these experiences,
how prevalent desire is, how human it is to chase
the things we’re told will fulfill us, like goals and love.
I try and explain this Internet thing, how the more copious
my writings, the more people it says are following me.
How I really don’t want to sound paranoid
but as hard as I try - I don’t see anyone.
.
.
Song for this:
Too Much Time On My Hands by Styx
Reelin' In The Years by Steely Dan
A bland Sunday
Today, on an otherwise boring Sunday, I drove to the place on earth where I was truly happy
It is a place along the coat that has mild rainfall in winters in summers a mild breeze keeps the place cool
My job when I lived in Paradise was to make wooden clogs, with leather uppers, but I made the clog itself
by insisting they come in so I can measure their face
In the beginning, there were people who thought I might have a foot fetish but when my clogs appeared measured exactly to the feet of the wearer, I could do no harm
When my work as a cobbler was done, I had much time on my hands, I used to walk into the village named
Flick talking to the friendly dwellers who were matey
but didn't care what happened in the outside world
I thought I had been walking along the road for 4567
time I have the right to ask what the hell, am I doing here?
The leader of this paradise set me free so I could be annoying to more people before my job as a cobbler
Where of use again
I carve a path out for me
trying to make it in this soulless city
confined to a big house
aspirations seem to drag out
sitting in this pink room
trying to catch my breath at noon
This heat is making me crazy
I am not sure where I'm heading
too many questions I don't know the answers to
I have too much time on my hands
too many thoughts swirling
Is this what they call the end of the beginning?
I have no clue
Do you?
Maybe I am inching toward the madhouse
A nasty feeling
a subtle thought
and suddenly it doesn't seem so bad
this notion though does make me sad
I have yet to see, what becomes of me!
You wake up at night,
Heart filled with fright
Sweat on your brow
But it fades into nothing now
Age in my eyes
Shows how time flies
Time on my hands
And no one understands
Listening to the voices in my head
Doing what I want instead
The beat goes on but the timing is wrong
Who would if thought it take this long
Waiting on myself, but once again I was a no show
Listening to the music within, giving it time to grow
What I once wanted to be
Some of the fragments I can still see
Tell me am I still free
Time passes leading me to here today.
Still searching for the right words to say
Chasing off the memories of times gone by
Dried are the tears that once fell from my eye
One day maybe another to come
I'll have to remember where I come from
Till then I'll just be on my way
Maybe I'll stop and see you again some day
One hundred pushups every morning,
followed by breaking my fast with some healthy nutrition.
My outdoor activities involve miles of walking.
My indoor activities are pretty much the same thing,
however, the average observer would probably see me as nervously pacing,
but I'm not, I'm just getting my walking exercise in.
I daily practice transcendental meditation,
and when I sleep, I practice lucid dreaming.
I am either working on a poem or some invention.
Rarely do I have idle time on my hands,
and as a result, my creative process continues to expand,
whether I'm at home or on a wilderness trail endlessly hiking,
taking advantage of that time to do some external thinking.
I feel just as vibrant as I've ever been.
So happy birthday to me.
Today I reached the age of seventy,
and I'm still giving many much younger than I, a run for their money.
My mind wanders
o'er the firmament
and the seven seas
Whether or not
it moves me
My thoughts form and
dissolve... reform
in kaleidoscopic fashion
Some display more, some less
passion... dispassion... ere they're ashen
Time on my hands
boon or bane ~
Ever-shifting my view
of sane and insane
Do deadlines and due dates
ever rattle my brain
No, no - I'm a poet
It's not fair to complain
I’m free to sit
and dream up ideas
Or try my wit
my reader to please
O, lucky me
with time on my hands
When the hourglass drains
~ just flip the sand
I wasn’t looking for love.
She just whispered in my ear.
Couldn’t trust a word she said,
But it sounded so sincere.
Boldness when called for is purpose enough.
Kindness when asked for should not be refused.
But let us consider the question of motives;
What use to be married if not to be used?
I wasn’t pining for love.
I had problems of my own,
But she hooked me from the start
Like a shady payday loan.
Leaves in the gutter, fresh from the fall.
Typical autumn, full moon and all.
Home for the evening, time on my hands,
Flintlock ambitions, gunpowder plans.
I wasn’t yearning for love.
No one ever gets it right.
A smuggler’s moon is what I need,
Not expensive candlelight.
Portraits and landscapes, abstract affairs,
Tokens of lovers’ unanswered prayers.
Burnt toast appointments; not much to miss.
I’ve gotten over worse things than this.
I wasn’t hungry for love.
It should ripen on the vine.
I played the gent by standing up
Got a knife blade from behind.
I wasn't looking for love.
Why do I watch my tv
when I know there are things to be done.
And why do I look out the window -
and not finish things I’ve begun?
The laundry can wait ‘til tomorrow,
the dishwasher emptying, too.
I have so much time on my hands
why do I let things accrue?
I don’t have to cook any meals
or take the dog for a walk
or pull the weeds in a garden
or prepare a script for a talk.
I could go to a musical show
or play Rummicube with a group.
I could maybe play Pitch or play bridge -
instead I sit here and droop!
I’m not used to all of this leisure,
no places I’m scheduled to be,
no meetings I have to attend -
This all seems so foreign to me.
When fear of the Covid is over
Perhaps I'll then volunteer
at the local food bank or school.
To be useful will bring me some cheer.
Maybe I’ll bake up a cheesecake
and invite my friends in for tea
or maybe I’ll just write a poem
and post it for people to see.
Some years ago,
having more than I needed
and time on my hands,
I deposited funds from
one side of the country
to the other.
Private, closet sized rooms,
sanitized for my protection,
visual stimulations upon request.
Today my progeny are everywhere,
and not once in all those years
so much as a father's day card
from the ungrateful little rug-rats.
With some time on my hands
(Must I translate? I’m bored!)
I discovered material
That I had stored.
So with needle and thread
And some stuffing in tow
I stitched 2 little pillows,
Relaxing to sew.
One for each of the grands
With a pocket on top
For a tooth or the money
The fairy will swap.
There’s just one little glitch –
I will be quite bereft
If I see them at last
With no baby teeth left!
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