Given time, water cuts asphalt into black canyons, and tire tracks paint green lines. Given time, hummingbirds thrum across the gulf, find their way home again. Given time, will we inch across the chasm tiny birds braving sea? Given time, saplings sprout from rotted stumps, our breath feeds their rings.
Well done Lisa! Beyond my amazement that your creative mind finds inspiration in the cracks in the asphalt, your poem raises the swirliing paradox of time, frends, adversary, co-conspirator, partner and stumbling block all together even in the scope of the day. It brought to mind a poem that the class above me when I was a junior in high school wove throughout the yearbook. It connected with that 17 year old teen and still does, alll these years later, sappy as it may sometime seem. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3FdlAgkTI0
I had tea this moring with a brilliant former student, and we came to talk about a painful loss in our community 18 years ago of another death from suicide that tore lives apart. They were partners to the beloved who died that day, and they still move through this journey of grief and loss savoring the magical time they had together.
This is beautiful and heart-wrenching, Larry. "When the earth shifted..." and "Finally merging into that place where the loss still lives..." really stood out to me. I love the picture you paint at the end, about the loss still being there & the heart still holding it, while planting seeds for love to come.
"All the myths the family needed / have lost their meaning" - there's so much truth and pain in these words. It makes me think of Kate Bowler, who has several books and a wonderful podcast ("Everything Happens") and talks a lot about how when she was diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer as a young mother, people would try to comfort her with words like "everything happens for a reason" or "God has a plan for you," and how all those words suddenly felt meaningless and even cruel in the face of her child most likely being left motherless on this earth. Maybe some wounds are too deep to be touched by words at all, but your poem does a lovely job of holding grief and darkness and pain alongside healing and hope.
"Without it / the river will not run" - beautiful! Isn't it interesting that we can have such a sense of scarcity around time, almost as if we would pause it if we could, but all the while, time keeps ticking, the river keeps flowing, grains of sand keep falling. And if we could hit pause - what would be the point of anything? This is a lovely and thought provoking poem!
This is so moving, Tearlach. As someone in the twilight of a life, every line resonates with me. I especialy love this phrase "without it/There is no here to there." Indeed! A very special gift from you. Thank you.
Bring on the rudely long! I can't decide what I love most . . . this gorgeous stanza "What time is it for / lowland ponderosa pines / and small twitching noses / of the alpine that smell / only sky now, no more up / to scurry?" or your almost as gorgeous reference to "rat-faced billionaires / touting Mars!"
I love this: "I am such a tiny bird, and the sea is so vast. Some migrations must happen over a span of generations rather than in a single lifetime. I can still choose to be part of that movement."
That tiny river cutting into the asphalt, such a strong image. All big things have tiny beginnings. I have a brother who is a jungle canopy research scientist for the Smithsonian. He once told me that after looking at ancient Maya temples, which were huge, and covered a lot of square miles, that in a short 5,000-10,000 years all traces of human habitation would be invisible from an airplane.
Wow, that's an incredible thought, isn't it? As much as I'd like humans to survive and become better than we currently are, the thought of the planet living on without us, regrowing its forests until we're just stories buried in the soil, has its own kind of sad beauty, too.
Well done Lisa! Beyond my amazement that your creative mind finds inspiration in the cracks in the asphalt, your poem raises the swirliing paradox of time, frends, adversary, co-conspirator, partner and stumbling block all together even in the scope of the day. It brought to mind a poem that the class above me when I was a junior in high school wove throughout the yearbook. It connected with that 17 year old teen and still does, alll these years later, sappy as it may sometime seem. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3FdlAgkTI0
Another Monday, Two Months Later
Now I have the time
to take you riding
in the car
to lie with you in private deserts
or eat with you
in public restaurants.
^
Now I have the time
for football all fall long
and to apologize
for little lies and big lies
told when there was no time
to explain the truth.
^
I am finished
with whatever tasks
kept me from walking
in the woods with you
or leaping in the Zanford sand.
^
I have so much time
that I can build for you
sand castles out of mortar.
^
Now I have the time
to see bad movies
and read bad books
aloud to you.
I can now waste time
on you and on myself.
^
Mid-week picnics.
Minding my temper in traffic.
Washing your back
and cleaning out my closets.
Staying in bed with you
long past the rush hour
and the pangs of hunger.
And listening
to the story of your life
in deadly detail
whatever time it takes
I have that time.
^
I've always wanted
to watch flowers open
all the way,
however long the process took.
^
I'd hoped that I might
take you traveling
down the block
or to wherever,
now I have the time.
^
Now I have the time
to be bored
to be delivered
to be patient
to be understanding,
to give you
all the time you need.
^
Now I have the time.
Where are you?
Rod McKuen
"I am finished / with whatever tasks / kept me from walking / in the woods with you." This is so lovely and sad! Thank you for sharing, Larry!
Rod was a sort of poetic hero when I was a boy.
I remember the song seasons in Sun
Same for me. Very cool…
I had tea this moring with a brilliant former student, and we came to talk about a painful loss in our community 18 years ago of another death from suicide that tore lives apart. They were partners to the beloved who died that day, and they still move through this journey of grief and loss savoring the magical time they had together.
All this time later
we speak of it,
the curtain of shame removed,
the drowning incapacitation of silence
the darkness smothering light,
lifted like sea fog
dissolved into wide beauty of the ocean.
^
That beautiful autumn day 18 years ago,
When the earth shifted.
Cataclysmic messages coming forth
like missiles from unseen invader
as Elias slid into a world beyond our own.
^
A million tears have not brought him back.
All the myths the family needed
have lost their meaning,
gone like the bright life that once was.
^
At this table sipping tea,
I listen as you share the dark roads
that tragic passing led you down.
Finally merging into that place
where the loss still lives,
and your heart always remembers,
planning the seeds for love to
grow again.
This is beautiful and heart-wrenching, Larry. "When the earth shifted..." and "Finally merging into that place where the loss still lives..." really stood out to me. I love the picture you paint at the end, about the loss still being there & the heart still holding it, while planting seeds for love to come.
Thank you Rebekah. These losses stay with us, just rotate to other parts of our spirit.
What a beautiful way to put that.
"All the myths the family needed / have lost their meaning" - there's so much truth and pain in these words. It makes me think of Kate Bowler, who has several books and a wonderful podcast ("Everything Happens") and talks a lot about how when she was diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer as a young mother, people would try to comfort her with words like "everything happens for a reason" or "God has a plan for you," and how all those words suddenly felt meaningless and even cruel in the face of her child most likely being left motherless on this earth. Maybe some wounds are too deep to be touched by words at all, but your poem does a lovely job of holding grief and darkness and pain alongside healing and hope.
Time
is all we have
Without it
The river will not run
The key will not turn
Time
Without it
There is no here to there
No rocking slowly
In that comfy rocking chair
And even when our time runs out
Still the ticking hand of time tocks on
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock
Or with an hour glass in your hand
Till that last glistening grain of sand
Falls
"Without it / the river will not run" - beautiful! Isn't it interesting that we can have such a sense of scarcity around time, almost as if we would pause it if we could, but all the while, time keeps ticking, the river keeps flowing, grains of sand keep falling. And if we could hit pause - what would be the point of anything? This is a lovely and thought provoking poem!
This is so moving, Tearlach. As someone in the twilight of a life, every line resonates with me. I especialy love this phrase "without it/There is no here to there." Indeed! A very special gift from you. Thank you.
Twilight time for we two
My poem is rudely long. I just couldn't stop writing!
.
'Clock of the Rock'
.
What time is it on the clock
of the world? asked the podcast host:
a softball question
with as many right answers
as there are bodies.
.
Which world? I would have asked
if I were her guest.
.
The Big Bang
that dumped snow in my yard
before Thanksgiving is not unlike
the one that heaved everything
into being, each crystal now
going about its business of clumping,
settling, splintering,
and redefining itself,
unhaunted by the inevitable
bloodletting of March.
.
It is barely past midnight for the snowpack
but don’t be fooled. Its fragile world
will implode before ours
most likely.
.
That was a slip, I said ours,
but whose is that? What time is it for
the fascists? The artists?
The housewives? The oppressed?
Maybe ours should have read Rs:
a world for every letter,
each orbiting independently around
a galactic Bluetooth keyboard.
.
(I have a soft spot for R.
May its feet grip the path after
S slides and O rolls away,
long past the detonation of X
and concomitant taking out
of all bystanders
except U, of course.)
.
What time is it for
lowland ponderosa pines
and small twitching noses
of the alpine that smell
only sky now, no more up
to scurry?
.
What time is it for the heavies
of Animalia -- the grizzly bears
and orcas and dragonflies and rats
and rat-faced billionaires
touting Mars?
.
(I love this place and will not be leaving.
Look for me here until my midnight or its,
whichever comes first.)
.
Two feet under this early winter
are rocks that have been buried
more times than any clock can measure.
When the first flakes
fuzz their faces they don’t know
whether their next sun
will be in this revolution
or a million years out.
They turn the epochs like pages,
like hands dialing round.
They keep time for us
as we have our day.
Bring on the rudely long! I can't decide what I love most . . . this gorgeous stanza "What time is it for / lowland ponderosa pines / and small twitching noses / of the alpine that smell / only sky now, no more up / to scurry?" or your almost as gorgeous reference to "rat-faced billionaires / touting Mars!"
I love this: "I am such a tiny bird, and the sea is so vast. Some migrations must happen over a span of generations rather than in a single lifetime. I can still choose to be part of that movement."
Thank you, Margaret! Sometimes I have as much fun writing the reflections and prompts as I do the poems.
I know I keep sounding like a creepy super-fan, but seriously—it takes a great deal of talent to do all three in the same post.
Oh PLEASE be my creepy super fan! I’ll be yours!!
😁😁😁 With my crazy eyes and gushing comments, I hereby pledge my creepy fandom.
I looked through the emojis to try to find the creepiest possible response, and I think maybe this melting face is the one - 🫠🫠🫠
😁😱
That tiny river cutting into the asphalt, such a strong image. All big things have tiny beginnings. I have a brother who is a jungle canopy research scientist for the Smithsonian. He once told me that after looking at ancient Maya temples, which were huge, and covered a lot of square miles, that in a short 5,000-10,000 years all traces of human habitation would be invisible from an airplane.
Wow, that's an incredible thought, isn't it? As much as I'd like humans to survive and become better than we currently are, the thought of the planet living on without us, regrowing its forests until we're just stories buried in the soil, has its own kind of sad beauty, too.
Meaning sad for us. Probably not at all sad for most other beings on this planet!
Exactly what my brother said.
Just stories buried in the soil. That's not a bad legacy I suppose, especially if you were to create a poem for us.😉
Haha, I’ll keep that in mind! Maybe we can all be poems buried in the soil.
Written directly from the prompt
Nice poem Lisa. Time is a great prompt. Enjoyed your post Larry.
Found this in some old lyrics about “real love”:
Real Love
RL is hard to come by
RL is hard to find
RL don’t run away child
RL don’t change its mind
RL ain’t got no grudges
RL ain’t bound by time
RL won’t leave you lonely
I say RL is hard to find
I love these lyrics! If you ever record the song, I'd love to hear it!
I’ve got a recording on my phone. It’s sloppy, a start. Happy Thanksgiving 🦃!
So nice Billy! Is this your song for from another song? Keny Loggins has a lovely song called The Real Thing" about real love.
And it can be so hard to find in this earthly realm!