01-07-2016, 09:29 AM
Current Revision:
He is time
who kisses me hello with golden dawn,
soothes my wounds with balm,
loves me from the winking moon,
and offers wisdom from the stars.
But he moves too slow when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last,
teases me to try and catch him.
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.
During revolutions around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, and frisky,
to vibrant like new green leaves
and virgin blooms--to tired,
weathered as wood shingles
near the shore--pounded by storms.
Learning the art of balancing hourglasses
and walking without watching the sand drain
is in vain. Only for a little while can one fight.
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”
Revision
He is time
who kisses me hello with golden dawn,
soothes my wounds with balm.
He loves me from the winking moon,
and offers me wisdom from the stars.
But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last,
teasing me to try and catch him.
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, and frisky,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as wood shingles
near the shore--pounded by storms.
To learn the art of balancing hourglasses
and walking without watching the sand drain
is in vain. Only for a little while can one fight.
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”
Original:
He is time
kisses me hello with golden dawn,
offers me wisdom from the stars,
soothes my wounds with balm,
and loves me from the winking moon,
But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last.
Sometimes he even teases me to try
and catch him.
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, frisky and coltish,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as untreated
shingles near the shore pounded
by three category fours in a row.
Sometimes he seems cruel.
Teaching isn’t always kind;
the learning is hard. But in the end
knowledge, a friend. How else
is one to learn to balance buckets
overflowing the brim without sloshing
or spilling; lifting makes you strong.
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”
He is time
who kisses me hello with golden dawn,
soothes my wounds with balm,
loves me from the winking moon,
and offers wisdom from the stars.
But he moves too slow when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last,
teases me to try and catch him.
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.
During revolutions around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, and frisky,
to vibrant like new green leaves
and virgin blooms--to tired,
weathered as wood shingles
near the shore--pounded by storms.
Learning the art of balancing hourglasses
and walking without watching the sand drain
is in vain. Only for a little while can one fight.
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”
Revision
He is time
who kisses me hello with golden dawn,
soothes my wounds with balm.
He loves me from the winking moon,
and offers me wisdom from the stars.
But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last,
teasing me to try and catch him.
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, and frisky,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as wood shingles
near the shore--pounded by storms.
To learn the art of balancing hourglasses
and walking without watching the sand drain
is in vain. Only for a little while can one fight.
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”
Original:
He is time
kisses me hello with golden dawn,
offers me wisdom from the stars,
soothes my wounds with balm,
and loves me from the winking moon,
But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last.
Sometimes he even teases me to try
and catch him.
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, frisky and coltish,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as untreated
shingles near the shore pounded
by three category fours in a row.
Sometimes he seems cruel.
Teaching isn’t always kind;
the learning is hard. But in the end
knowledge, a friend. How else
is one to learn to balance buckets
overflowing the brim without sloshing
or spilling; lifting makes you strong.
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”
"Write while the heat is in you...The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with." --Henry David Thoreau