Tell me darling, what’s the time, what’s the time
My Fitbit is out of charge, out of charge
What you say I can’t define, can’t define
Maybe distance is too large, is too large
“Love, I can’t speak from here, speak from here
I can’t tell where I am, where I am
It’s just signs that you hear, that you hear
Hope to send more of them, more of them
Just remind me you love me, you love me
Anytime that will suit you, will suit you
Don’t forget to be with me, be with me
See I am with you too, with you too..”
This poem was originally written for and submitted to Writer Monk's monthly poetry contest on social conscience August 1, 2026
Morning rose over two cities
that no longer knew their own names~
light too bright, silence too large,
that felt like the world forgetting how to breathe.
Shadows clung to walls where people once stood,
soft silhouettes of lives interrupted mid-gesture,
mid-dream.
The air carried a strange stillness,
as though time itself had bowed its head.
And yet from the scorched earth,
from the quiet ash,
from the trembling remnants of what had been~
a small, stubborn pulse began again.
Hands reached for hands; voices rose in prayer.
Memory gathered itself into a vow
that sorrow would not be forgotten,
and peace would not be postponed.
Even now, the sky remembers
the day humanity learned how fragile it can be.
This garden’s neglected, the grass grew too tall
The bushes and plants look half-dried
Cracked slabs lay uneven, the dog’s water bowl
Is covered with leaves and dead flies
Front door’s off the latch, windows wide open
No photos in frames on the mantelpiece
A phone on the table must’ve been broken
Unlikely it held fingerprints
Wormwood and ivy have grown way too large
Almost conceal the brick walls
Everything seems like completely discharged
Unavailable to any calls
Was it the other day I saw you there?
When was the last time we met?
Tomorrow can’t come, cause it’s busy somewhere
No time for tea can be set.
What’s the point of maintaining a government?
Who of us wants to be ruled?
We know what we mean, what our ancestors meant
Why pretend that we need to be fooled?
Considering those “we” might vary
Let’s be gentler to them, just a bit
Perhaps parties won’t be too contrary
Would be glad to express some wit
You see governments are quick to punish
We’re a herd far too large for grazing
Ought to hear the alarming rubbish
For decades – isn’t is amazing?
I presume you’d say I’m an idealist
Who thinks nobly of matters too serious
To be taken lightly, cause we exist
Due to rules that are quite imperious
We’ve no power in its tangibility
But the same slaves and masters plot
Take a ride for the master’s facility
To win in style the slave lot
As for me, I’ll check out the only way
Back to the station I knew
There I’ll take a bus to 16 Marroway
That’s the solace worth to pursue.
Words are thin and often crack under weight
They were never meant to be load bearing
A feeling rises…
Raw and electric
Too large for the venue of conversation
Joy bursts open like the sun you can’t look at
Yet we refer to it as happy
A word so pale it feels like an apology
Grief is worse
It floods the ribs and drowns breath
All everyday language offers us is the word sad
As if sadness were a puddle and not an ocean
Love
The word which betrays us the most
Forced into four letters unable to hold
Fire
Ache
And Impossible depth
We keep trying though
We stack syllables like shaky ladders
Climbing towards the truth
Knowing words will fall short
But we use words to reach anyway
Because sometimes the attempt is the closest thing to honesty we have
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A single ant, black as charred bark,
parts the silver skin of the puddle~
its legs dimple the water,
each step a tremble of tiny ripples.
The leaf, wide as two ants side by side,
rides its back like a ship’s wrecked sail,
tipping with the weight
of a world too large to name.
Legs piston through water,
dark and wide, a sea to him,
with this leaf, his bride.
Each step is a tremor in the tiny world.
A current whispers, but the ant
does not listen.
Shadows of giants loom above~
a boot, a wheel, the indifferent sky.
The ant pauses, antennae tasting fear,
then presses on. The far shore
is a myth worth drowning for.
Halfway, it pauses again~
not to rest, but to recalibrate,
rearranging the world
one stubborn millimeter at a time.
The wind’s rough tongue licks at the load,
yet still he drags his emerald barge
to the far shore,
to dry earth.
The far shore is everything.
Some people’s lives roll easy
They never care to know
It comes naturally like breathing
The days just come and go
Most people’s lives meet issues
Too large to solve them nicely
They reconsider their views
Drink too much wine unwisely
But I have no advice to share
Sitting here with a silly grin
I imagine my love is still there
Where she has always been
This has nothing to do with reality
But imagination’s a friend
It cares a bit of my sanity
In a way I find funny and sad
Some people’s lives flow easy
There aren’t too many of those
Born wealthy, they weren’t too busy
Hence not to their credit it goes
It’s a gift of fate, I believe
You are given a life to spend
And the time and a place you receive
Are most possibly, heaven-sent
My heart clogs
up my throat
when I
try speaking about
how it feels.
Too large to fit
through
the thin trachea
of my limited vocabulary.
I take the dogs up to the grassy knoll
have to watch my steps
under this green haven are dozens of tiny caverns
too large for toes, but big enough to twist an ankle
dug out by the puppy
he was trying to get cooler this summer
and it was raining
he is a retriever
he loves digging in mud
a newcomer who does not realize they are there could break both ankles
I walk cautiously, gingerly,
hoping I will remember where these caverns are after it snows
It’s just a tiny flicker,
in my hand it seems to be
a single point of light
and yet it mesmerizes me.
Can’t help but wonder what’s inside,
what universe lies there?
It makes me feel like I’m a God
and there’s an earth somewhere
inside this little point of light
to small to comprehend.
And I’m too large for them to know.
Let me tell you my friend -
that our reality is like this.
We’ve not eyes to see…
that everything’s a point of light,
speaking perspectively.
I wear a hat because I've lost my hair
Folk would laugh out loud at my head so bare
Long ago my hair was thick and wavy
It was the colour of mother's gravy.
Her gravy was dark as the lumps of coal
She would light a fire with, when it was cold
If short of cash, then us kids had to sit
In the disastrous sweaters she would knit.
Often they’d be too clingy or too large
Though knitted with love for those in her charge
Mother said if we were cosy and warm
It did not matter at all what was worn.
The years have passed by, hair has disappeared
The worst of it is, it's cold on the ears
But my mother, bless her, before she left
Knitted a draw full of hats, socks and vests.
Five days late…
His birthday almost forgot-
but not quite…
The hurt lingered deep.
A small package arrived
addressed to him--
Special
from Dad.
Inside: a watch.
A big boy gift,
for sure.
Gold and bright,
crystal light,
backstamped RollX--
a boy’s treasure,
for sure
Too large for his wrist.
No matter.
He would grow tall,
just like his Dad.
The watch was perfect,
just like it was,
Worn each day with pride--
a symbol
of genuine love and dedication…
How priceless
he was in Dad’s eyes…
Proof.
Scratches
and a flaking finish
didn’t matter.
Neither did
the crack across the face,
or the fact
that it always read
a bit after two.
A good polish--
and it was
good as new.
Like the day
he got it.
Five days late.
Too large to avoid everyone knows it's here
not wishing to collide they won't stand too near
nor broach the subject they keep it under wraps
Mum's the word keep it under your hat
they all walk 'round it talk around it
they're not blind so what gives
it's unkind to animals and who wants to live
with an elephant in the room
too large to evade it's something they ignore
not wanting to impede but can't close the door
a line they won't cross they'll avoid it at all costs
just sit there and stare
even sweep it under the rug with a broom
but with lumps and bumps that big
how long can they keep on pretending it's not there
the elephant in the room
Repent, and you shall be forgiven
And hopefully, reinstated
If you are conscience-driven
It’s much appreciated
No need to come up with objections
Just humbly take the charge
Accept all stupid allegations
Before they grow too large
The astute will suspect you’re kidding
Those will be a minority
Most of the judges will believe you
So blessed by their authority
You go whatever way you see
It might be not the same
You walked before, but you are free
To start another game
It is a gaming world, all play
Whatever game they like
In games of war for peace they pray
In games of work they strike
Of course the wise like to pretend
That only justice meets their needs
But at the high stakes it depends
Forgive the hypocrites.
I have said so many prayers
that sometimes I feel they are no longer mine.
That I inherited them
like clothes too large.
I say them, but do not understand.
I utter them, but do not believe.
And yet, I cling to them
like the hand of a father who never held me.
Perhaps belief is not needed.
It is enough to keep hoping.
Even lost prayers
find their way to Heaven.
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