time

The Last Remaining Grain

Death is easy for there is nothing to do while living is hard, for you live right up to the moment you cease to live.

Everyone has a story and sometimes fragments of these stories reach us like one did today. The following is a follow on from the post Reg At Sea. We often forget that although we grieve, we are not always the only ones.

The Departing

Crayons for Grandad
as beautiful as the first rainbow who caressed the sky
the weight of the starburst colours,
avid from a delicate hand
waters cries from an old man's eyes
as the last grains of sand
fall
to
cease
and leave him behind.

Butterfly Collection

My nephews came to visit Sunday and is often the case they decided to turn the garden into their very own playground. I took the opportunity of getting some practice with my Nikon D3000 by taking a few photos and playing with settings along the way.

The following is inspired by the immortality photos give but also the mortality as well. Our images remain but often our names fade given time and the failure to record them.


Historian

A postage stamp collection
frozen like microscopic slides
they stretch decades
like stepping stones
each number,
a fragment of a second
labelled neatly as dead butterflies
immortality is given
but their names forgotten
in the failed electrics of memories.

Book Of Dreams

The older you get the more you find you need to plan your time. We write in our diaries with the expectation that the future will turn into today, lest we forget nothing is guaranteed and perhaps sometimes we put things off until tomorrow which we should do today.



Tomorrow

Starched snakes leave ink on leaves,
file time with the precision of a librarian’s index finger.

Yesterday is a history professor’s homework.
Today is a fidgeting child who wants to play without being stuck on a parents arm

Tomorrow is a word Time never forged
Buy not the dream - go play with Today.

Specter In The Bedroom

This is a revisit of a vivid dream (not a nightmare) I had as a child a long time ago, a dream which perhaps was just a dream or a perhaps a portent although time will prove the latter or not.

It is an interesting concept that we can know the nature of our demise, more so if the brain knows and decides to enlighten our consciousness through our subconscious and dreams.


Portent

A repeated wrong note in an orchestra
The knife sits in a drum skin with an unfurling edge.

Grain falls between the lady’s hips
Rotates sun and moon on the washing line.

Death, the old master no longer rests his bones
A portent sent in the post of childhood dreams

The lady is loosing weight and the
knife is slipping.

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