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,

or

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:
fragmented,
deformed,
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?

POEM: When Time Died

when time died
we were frozen
— blocks of inaction

no one would ever know

no light traveled to eyes
no vibrating air entered ears
no bioelectricity zipped down neurons
no cells broke down and died
no memories were formed

no tick-tock of clocks
no clip-clop of hooves

nothing moved or witnessed

everything did nothing
&
never was everywhere

the day time died

POEM: Dissolving Past

I’ve heard it speculated that all times exist at once, and that our consciousness merely shines a light on a sequence of nows. But it sure feels like the past frays; that it’s dissolving from the edges. Worm-eaten in a way that works its way to the heart. The center reads clear for now, but one day… poof, it’ll be lost.

You’ll awake to find whole tracks of life are lost — like slides that were water damaged in the flood.

What happened in 1997? I’d need some sort of prompt to even make a guess.

POEM: Time’s Arrow

Precognition?

I barely have post-cognition —
which is to say, memory.

I have memories of memories of a world that never was.

Cobbled together hopes, dreams, and fears made into a montage of me.

One could chip away at what never was, but I’m not sure reality could support it’s own weight.

What was might end up a toxic rubble, steaming away into nothingness.

POEM: Relativity [a sonnet]

in the space of a blossom’s drift to earth
i feel the gravity give way below
i’ve all the time for terror, shock, and mirth
as tics and tocks go viscous in their flow

each emotion will be given its due
stretched out as if by hands that squeeze and pull
and i can feel, better than see the view
as the planet hangs in a peculiar lull

by the time i start to see the humor
i’m bouncing off the pavement on my back
has my mind been rewired by a tumor?
or has my train of mind slipped its track?

then a blaring horn fills the silent void
and return the kindly and the annoyed