Time and Again

Time goes on day by day

Seconds pass by one none held at bay

Sixty comes a minute goes

Each minute passes another sows

Till 60 come and an hour grows

Hours one through twenty-four

One day is done and out the door

 

Time goes on day by day

Monday through Sunday

A week goes by

Four weeks gather

Into a month they grow

Month after month till the year flies by

 

Time goes on day by day

Leading the years along their way

Ten to a decade life is on its way

Till decade passes decade and we pass away

We may miss the decades group of ten

The century mark approaches yet again

 

Time goes on day by day

Our history collects in each century

Yet history fades we see in reverie

Then ten become a millennium

One day we see as a harbinger

Yet to the Earth it is just a day to her

Time goes on day by day

Prompt 4 (Clean vs Messy)

It takes more effort to clean

than it does to be messy

 

Cleanliness is a science

Being Messy is an art

 

I’ve never quite mastered

either one

 

Poem 2

Temperatures high and fierce
nothing fleecing
only pain in here
truth will never cease
less anger over there.

All rights reserved copyrighted(c)2017 Roxann A Harvey

Stand for the Flag

Long ago back in our innocence when patriotism was in flower,

And no pundits questioned America’s place as a super power,

Children stood at attention vowing their allegiance to pledge

Since rising to face the flag didn’t set any critics teeth on edge.

After all, it was the mannerly thing to do like rising for our elders,

Calling ladies and gents sir and ma’am, and respecting one’s betters.

True, misogyny existed, and the South was rife with segregation,

But whatever color and creed each believed America a chosen nation.

Fast forward to today, when putting a hand over one’s heart

Is more than likely the loyalist to condemn, ostracize, and set apart.

Instead of one nation indivisible now we’re many different peoples—

A hyphenated crew, all separate and feeling rather abused, unequal,

demanding our inalienable rights, but forgetting our duties due.

So come now and rise to honor those maligned stars and stripes,

Pledge allegiance to an imperfect, but striving to improve way of life.

 

When I Can See Inside of Me

 

 

When I Can See Inside of Me

 

Foggy morning clarity

seems therapy of prosperity,

pales and runs away to flee

when I can see inside of me.

 

But truth be told I only see

that which is in front of me

as if it’s real and tries to be

foggy morning clarity.

 

When I can see inside of me

I push away this vulgarity

cut all the trees like forestry

within my melody of irony.

 

Seems therapy of prosperity

is a hidden form of tyranny

that comes bereft of warranty

when I can see inside of me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hour Four: Moth

A moth flits its way around the living room landing on a painting by the large window.

The watercolor includes an old glass bottle—like the ones Coca-Cola makes—

which sits on a brown table with a wooden cooking spoon, and there is a tall white candle in a silver holder.

The painting was done by one of my favorite local artist’s, a real character who I enjoy chatting with.

This small moth has chosen to rest right at the top of the candle—near the wick.

“Ha! lucky for the moth, the candle is not lit” I think.

Just then, our black cat leaps onto the back of my recliner, and in full extension with her left paw

plucks the moth off the candle, and gobbles it down in one swallow.

I get up, walk over and straighten out the painting,

careful not to disturb our black cat licking her chops.

 

Breath Enough to Argue

Serenity sprouts amidst the wreckage.
What has already retreated to clay
can no longer die.
What is broken is not at risk.

Bullshit. Serenity rots amidst the wreckage!
It must have flesh—
more than a dressmaker’s dummy
to hang this weight!

What dreams of clay is already dead,
forgetful of the flesh,
little more than uneven ground
beneath the feet of those who still move.

What is broken is more at risk than ever!
The pieces scatter in the face of abstraction.
Where is the flesh?
What happened to the skins we wore?

Hour Four: Magic Windows

Hour Four: Magic Windows

by willjxn

on a wall in every room,

windows where we look to groom.

magic windows to our view—

little Miss, and Grandpa too.

 

magic windows to our view—

see the people me and you.

see them mimic everything—

every sway, every swing.

 

see them mimic everything—

smile to smile, these windowling.

room by room their backgrounds change.

yes, it seems so very strange.

 

room by room their backgrounds change.

yet, we only rearrange—

little Miss, and Grandpa too.

magic windows to our view.

Ocean Lace Graces the Heavens…

Ocean you are the calling of my heart.

You push and pull at my knee caps, beckoning me to come in and play.

I respect you like I respect animals, from far away.

You are the only body of water that I break the rules for when I play hide and seek.

You make me meek and mild and wild and free like a little child who is forever fascinated by the sea.

I am more grateful for your energy than you’ll ever know. I will not ever trade you in for snow.

States of matter as in water, ice, steam, Bose-Einstein condensation and, plasma have no bearing on your state of being.

Your mix of salt and H2o help you create a living breathing netting of the finest lace across the shore line.

A sight for all to see.

Just beneath the surface you are pulsating with life and vitality. Teaming with sea-creatures, algae, coral, and mammals too amazing to name individually.

I take great pleasure in your versatility.

With over a million species of animals and plants that call your territory home, we as humans must show gratitude for sharing in your bounty and appreciating your magnanimity.

All rights reserved copyright(c)2017 Natasha Vanover

 

 

The Eyes that Look Back from the Mirror

Things that are empty include:
half of the glass, my pockets,
this box filled with memories,
the eyes that look back from the mirror
in the dark.

The eyes that look back from the mirror
once dazzled by lights, by promise–
once fixed on the prize at the Midway.
I gave everything I had without knowing
the game was rigged.

I gave everything I had without knowing
if love would last, or be returned,
and whether or not heaven was real.
You keep trying and you keep thinking
“Maybe next time.”

You keep trying and you keep thinking
a little bit harder, a little bit better,
Until that one day comes when you stop.
The glass, the pockets, the memories, the eyes
and the prize.