Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋

The Giant Clock vs. Humanity

There was a time when staying up late was special.
You could hear the world wind its giant clock.
Since daylight savings time, everything digital,
we wait for sunrise eternal.
We can’t hear. We don’t see.
What’s special that we cherish —
the tradition of anticipation?

Why do we have to learn the ending of every story,
and not fear the trap of our eyes inside a snow globe?

What’s not eternal, is mother tucking me in, placing
two waxy lips tenderly upon a sweat-tired forehead.
Don’t stay up, spoil what waits at morning.

Bright, lumin colors and scents hovered in nights.
All unwrapped now: my gifts, her presence,
what I regifted my children; and what do they give
moving forward from me, her, from Father Time?

Where is that clock? Did we break midnight eternal?
Chains, gears, pulleys…a shop…bespectacled, gray assessor?

A few more grains slip the hemorrhaged container,
spill faster like counted and gobbled pastel beans.
Does the March hare come or a mad hatter?

I’m tired even of myself, questioning everyone.
No one acknowledges, but look over my shoulder at something.
I look behind for presumed ghosts, turn back
and years elapsed; all are gone. I presume

looking, echoing my name amid valleys and dense wood.
I’m alone in November, recall we held each other for warmth
with a tune harmonized from one heart.

Not even a sigh now, unless resignation December.
Its weight of mighty hammer, soon pendulous,

smashes open that gumball machine of time. Snatch up all,
as I walk through and past each of you, invisibly —
the children Wonka never wanted, but one.

The keys to the chocolate factory embedded in carbonate
chocolate time. We could write a sequel,
but not like the first screening, reclined

in tight-hinged, creaking theatre amid landmine
popcorn memory crunch. From bucket to mouth to seat,
eventual gravitational, cement floor, wasted calories.
Even as pale faces flickered, we knew our film souls

losing to the giant clock. What is time really,
without one record keeper, reminiscer and a mother
who tenderly turns pages with a wet forefinger?

The furnace kicks in one more time.
It’s late. Life in the morning.

Time exhales, as I do.

11.18.23
5:41 a.m. before a glim of sun spied in my shed.

Why edit to satisfy the needs of contest promoter or publisher.
Fear the giant clock, our own impatience? I will
read to you from my giant, green recliner. Space for two.

You can feel these emotions when one writes.
Not quite as much on a later read. Give it time. Then read.
Hopeful clarity. Look for the popped kernels in every crevice.

Tell me: was it fun while it lasted?
Make Some Memories.
Be glad for recollections that nourish a tired soul.

O, for the lack of a good editor.
Looks to the northern…lights.