Echoing time

What should one do when time echoes back to you

 

During salty days when streetlight gave warmth of clearity

thinking back… to hours darkened from light afternoons that you couldn’t enjoy,

stress breaking through frosty broken pipes, lined with winter’s

birthday you know you won’t spend like memories but

holding on nor letting go makes you the culprit, oh

foolish me, take back the hints

and burn them into ashes for the ocean below,

because apologies for the late comprehension,

my thoughts are forever with you and my words

forever scattered across those aged days, mapped out

in puzzle pieces you will never endeavour to find

And me, mind entangled and lassoed with weltered sincerity of the carcass of a

friendship.

It’s the other way. Backwards one may say

 

thinking back… to days before winter struck and,

we laughed as we raced each other across pedestrian crossings

only to walk the road together to make memories

 

why do they echo back-wards with time?


via Daily Prompt: Echo

A Resonating Hour

Tick. Tock.
simple. harmonic.

motion. the long glinting legs shiver
dancing eerily to the beats of the orchestrating quartz
pulsating behind its sheet white face
ornate with ugly wrinkles, regularly spaced,

oddly, chime! of ca’phonic cries!
Legs. Out.
tortured. delicacy…
Split.
In half, a-hundred-and-eighty degrees.
Time of birth. 6 p.m.

 

————————then breathe again
——————-let the redness flow
————————across the skies
——————-and silent strokes

————————minuscule, utterly alive
————————flutter of wings

————-ventures, while reddish-brown dries

across the written page.

Past 6 post-meridian,

limp legs, muted vibrations, the clock

face torn askew,

broken.
So who alone knows when the clock does stop?
Tick-tock.


Daily Prompt – Connected 

Discover Challenge – Origin Story 

A stutter.

In the middle of conversation you spit out your chewing gum

Onto the street, like its instinct. doesn’t ebb the flow of words. I stutter

words of distaste, taken aback. It’s the first time I’ve seen

you do something like that. It feels like it’s outside your behaviour rules.

Your expression changes.

 

Much like the day back when I complimented you a little too much

When your team won at the regional rugby match.

That I didn’t know you played.

 

Stutter.

Don’t know.

me, who you are or you, who I am?

You flicker, furrow on your forehead, forget what faults

 

we have

Better early than late.

 


[Daily Post – Discovery Challenge: Memory; Daily Prompt: Street]

 

Turning over a new, old leaf.

He sighed with a strained breath, read

through the letter again; surely his sincerity

should reflect undoubtedly now?

But the rubbed out pencil

marks had worn the paper and

stole the neatness of his carefully placed words.

Unsatisfied, he replaced the day’s paper with a blank

new sheet, and copied out his old words.

 

But when turning over a new leaf, he was blind

to the stain left behind of his unfading character – he missed

that the wearied paper, greyed with apology and crying

damp with pain, carried more depth

 

Than his clean words will ever show.

 

[poetry | 101 | rehab| papers]

 

Life imitates art 📷

basket plait

Life imitates art? One would think it’s the other way around… But looking no deeper than a Wikipedia search and the phrase seems incredibly insightful:

“…although there has been fog in London for centuries, one notices the beauty and wonder of the fog because “poets and painters have taught the loveliness of such effects… They did not exist till Art had invented them.” – Wikipedia

And a few lines to accompany the faded out photo:

She laughs as the dapples of sunlight dance and hide
amongst the unruly grass,
while the wind ruffles
her hair, entwined like nature’s reeds.
And though time fades her rosy cheeks,
her glowing youth stays, ever intact.
And her skin crinkles with aged beauty, where wisdom has made its marks –

for the first time since it left, free, from fiction’s mouth.

-the walking pencil

[The Daily Post – Photo Challenge] “Life imitates art far more than art imitates life.” — Oscar Wilde

Previous poem + photo: Unusual gathering

Ruffled

Time to bring back the horrors of primary school*, embarrassingly lame acrostic poems! Except this time I’m not in primary school (at least in terms of my physical self).

*UK: school for ages 4-10/11


 

Ruffled pages; Ruffled feathers

Erupted curruption, Froth of angerbubbling venom.

and tiny voice, too afraid to speak: weak heart breathing tainted air.

half-attempts to cool them filling frills down, fan the toxic fumes but.

Ignorance still stays Arrogant.

 

Not to say that because the evil is persistent, the good stays silent because

Knowledge gone cold can risk you ruffling the pages the wrong way.

Monster

It cracks into my vision again, Monster,

staring at me:tenacious olive eyes and threatening pimento

pupils,

and its face:stretchinganddistortnig-andwideningandbloating with

greasy laughter,

I water from my head’s leaky taps, as its hatred blood, dried and dripping, patches and

saturated grins

as swollen gums,me, to entice me

into its mouth…

SCREAAM! and wake up. convulsing.

And run.

To the bathroom. finally purging out. everything I can. everything horrifying inside me. everything.

And. the whole. pizza.

 

Hauntsme.Bulliesme.Overpowersme.

Thatmonster.

 

Bulimea Nervosa.


[Daily Prompt – Fearless Fantasies]

Unusual gathering 📷

[The Daily Post – Photo Challenge] Gathering – Document a gathering and share your interpretation with us.


 

shoes gathering photography (2)

Five p.m. and the rain

decides to dribble faster, bored of its previous spitting game.

It laughs with the wind as it ambushes the little people

stepping out of their already weathering day,

unaware. some unprepared. another London day.

Then it starts to still again as many have taken shelter,

running away from its teasing streaks, and

the rare few, letting the polluted rain

wash away their heated stress. As the lampposts relentlessly attempt

to light up the dulled ground, the rain watches

the little assemblies of people at the

public transport stations and overhead shelters.

It surveys their shoes, silently chit-chatting the

common and uncommonness

of these gatherings.

A daughter returning home, a weary working woman, an impatient schoolgirl,

Funny how the rain unites more strangers than usual.


Previous photo + poem: Transition