time by c. e. ayr
where does time go when it passes
is it relaxed or is it tense
is it always crystal clear
or imperfect in every sense
does old time wait with grandfather
to inspect each minute mistake
is it restless keeping watch
or looking for a hand to shake
the years slip by quite anxiously
without a sound except tick tock
once more feeling second best
endeavouring to beat the clock
does the pendulum swing forever
like the tides of some great ocean
does it close its eyes and whisper
the secret of perpetual motion
is the glass always transparent
or does mist obscure the dial
are we found as mean as Greenwich
when we have to face the trial
the long days fill with treachery
the small hours swell with crime
the sun eats the dreams for breakfast
then burns away the time
I love how you have expressed time in this poem. Some very visual ideas with some meaningful and punchy words. A lovely piece.
Thank you, Donna, your words are much appreciated.
I do not consider myself a poet, but sometimes the Muse talks to me.
Time fascinates me, I do confess, and I tend to think of it in visual terms.
Thank you for your time and your thoughtfulness.
You’re welcome. It’s great that you listen to your moments of inspiration and express it through poetry. Time is fascinating. We cannot stop it or hold it…and what has always fascinated me is what we call the ‘now’ and how long long does that actually last…because we are constantly creating history, which is far more easily measurable in terms of time (if that makes sense!). Thanks for your thoughts. Have a great day.
That last stanza is particularly yummy.
Thank you, Joseph.
I confess I quite like it myself.
Reblogged this on unbuttoned or undone and commented:
My friend c.e.eayr ponders time in ways that I wish I had written.
I am jealous of the last two lines… The vision and soul of a true poet plucked them out of a sunrise.
Wonderful. It catches in the throat, like a nanosecond, just enough to capture and lose again an evanescent beauty.
I think you know that I almost never reblog, but this one … may I?
You are my editor, and my friend.
You do not have to ask.
My words are your words.
Thank you. On all counts.
Reblogged this on anelephantcant and commented:
Interesting poetry.