Westward Run [Free Verse]

Put the sun at your back
run headlong toward the darkness.

Killing days at record speed,
leaning into the terminus,

and you wake up in the light
prepare for another westward run.

Heat Death [Common Meter]

A timeless time will come to be,
when all is uniform.
And nothing 's hot & nothing 's cold,
but all is just lukewarm.

So thank your lucky stars you've lived
in this age of bedlam:
when stars can shine and buildings rise
and we've cerebellums.

Horseshoe Bend [Free Verse]

I stand before a horseshoe canyon,
and it feels like the world
has folded back upon itself.

And I sort of like that idea.

There's too much emphasis on progress,
so maybe we need pockets of regress.

Not a full fusion blast of regression.
No one's calling for being battered back 
to the stone age.

Maybe, it'd just be nice to escape
the clarity of the watercourse way.

To be in the kind of place
where one has to drop a leaf
to know which way the waters flow.

Tilted Time [Common Meter]

The timeline 's tilted; time runs away,
speeding ever faster.
As March charges headlong to May,
time has lost its master.

All that I can say, for today
is there's still an arrow.
It doesn't jump from future to past,
but flies like a sparrow.

But don't blame me if tomorrow 
you wake up yesterday, 
and the cars on the interstate
are rolling the wrong way.

POEM: The Mazy Days of Plague-time [PoMo Day 27 – Rondeau Quatrain]

With mazy movement, I stagger through my days,
my stops and starts are dull and purposeless.
My stops and starts are glum and purposeless.
With mazy motion, I stagger through my days.

Earth 's circled sun since last I was unfazed,
but I can't say what has encircled us.
With mazy movement, I stagger through my days,
my stops and starts are sour and purposeless.

My life before seems like a febrile craze.
How goes the flow of time? It's merciless,
but leaves slim chunks of time for nervousness -- 
too staccato a rhythm for a true malaise. 

With mazy movement, I stagger through my days,
my stops and starts are grim and purposeless.
My stops and starts are dim and purposeless.
With mazy motion, I stagger through my days.

POEM: The River Running through this City

I roam the old city,
gazing at Gothic gargoyles
and touching stonework
made by men long since dead,

wondering how I ended up 
in this chunk of time, 
rather than 

one in which 
this land was all just 
forest or marshland,


one in which
we all wait amid the rubble
to blast off 
to some secondary hive of humanity.

POEM: Given Too Much Spin [Sonnet]

The march of time is chopping at the world
like rugged heels that hack the rocky ground.
It feels as though the Earth, it has been hurled, 
and as it was, sped spinning round-and-round.

A nauseating ride, it is of late,
and only getting faster by the day.
I have no time for dates with my own fate,
and have given up praying for delays.

I'm hit by pounding waves of happenstance,
and random acts of near haphazardness.
I lose some hours adrift in blurry trance.
I'll schedule later dates to feel distress.

Yes, even though I know that date won't come,
I'll play the game as if I won't succumb.

POEM: An Angelic Take on Time

“We, who move through this world, have varied gifts,” said the angelic figure who saw the world without time.

She could hold infinite temporal cross-sections in her mind at once. Though she usually focused on one time at a time as you and i might focus our vision on a bird sitting on a lamp post — knowing that one can shift one’s visual attention at will.

Her mind snaps from mundane moments to the nearest frenetic second —  be it tragic or festive. Just as your eye would snap from the bird on the lamp post to a furry canine shape, trotting into one’s periphery; her mind snapped to the “good part” of the story.

While you may think yourself either alive or dead, to her you are a Schrödinger’s cat of both alive and dead, but her mind always wants to snap to the second of transformation.

POEM: Vanishing Time

It’s mid-month.
But how?
Where are all those days?

Once upon a time,
days were shoved neatly into rows —
like tiles in a perfect pattern…
weren’t they?

Now, the days are tossed rubble:
or missing, altogether.

And I wonder whether I was awake through those disjointed days, or whether my mind was kicked into some kind of timeless void?