Clocks In Deep Resentment

Do clocks sit in deep resentment
of time flowing past them, through them, slipping by,
or do they cradle and bless like a riverbed? 

I have asked them, held in my hand
like branched nests whose natural progress is startled
by my rude curiosity.

You--are you a kind of clock?
At times you define me to myself, but in the next moment
one of us has moved on, like pouched time, a hoarded secret.

I wonder--shall I join these resentful clocks,
ticking off quantified complaints ad infinitum?
Or is it better that I dissolve, like the sugar of a moment

In a hot mug that warms my hands, but only in this instant?
_________

for Fireblossom Friday: Ask  Question.

 

Mums

When I die,

may it be at mid-afternoon, in autumn.

May there be a a westerly breeze

carrying the scent of a burn barrel not much distant.

When I die,

lay my dog's old leash and collar across my hands.

If my life has had roses, sunflowers, asters,

leave me with simple mums

Like distracted children made to see off 

an old auntie they hardly know

and who is less interesting

than today's red leaf, or tomorrow's taste of cider.

_____

for Sunday Muse #46

 

 

Song of the Silly Girl

"Be Free" by the sensational Magic Love Crow

I fall into a tree when gravity

reverses itself--

natural laws turn fickle 

this time of year

don't you find?

Anyway,

I am become trinket for my

heart's desire, Sir Crow.

He knows me--

the wench who nests in fourwalls

and sings, albeit badly.

As stunned as I am to have fallen up,

so is my Love taken aback

and gobsmacked

at the ridiculous endearments I spout in his direction,

numerous 

and fresh

as spring leaves.

_____

for Sunday Muse #45

Big Boss Z

Peanut Man goes out in his back yard on a windy afternoon, picking his way carefully over the ice beside the house, and then high-tailing it over the snow to the back fence to see what neighbor dog Quinn has to say. That accomplished, he sees the birds under the feeder and takes a duty run at them, delighting in making them fly.

windy afternoon

bird house on its string swaying

as winter hangs on

______

for Season Your Poetry pt. 2

If those birdies want their seed, got to talk to Mister Z