Time Flows

I analyze the viscosity of time,

its rate of flow,

its tendency to stick in tricky places,

and sometimes stop

while I hold my breath

and wait.

Who can say how long it takes

to become adept
in time’s meanderings?

For though it appears to run

in patterns

(its own peculiar channels),

in truth it follows paths
of its own devising:

Random

Rambling

Rampant

If hours were edible,
I’d choke them down.

If bankable,
I’d save them in a jar

(under my bed)

like private fireflies,
just for me.

Instead, time flows,

through my fingers and my hair,

out the back door,
across my yard,

vitreous and virulent,

hard to measure.

But still I attempt
(in spite of everything)

to rate the viscosity of time.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

55 - Insect

I was there when the strange winged creature landed. I wasn't sure what to think. A few curious people wandered over and we speculated. We weren't afraid of the monster, but maybe we should have been, since the odd being's presence led to an invasion of art-seekers, followed by that even more noxious species: tourists.

Note: This work of art was observed in Terlingua.

This is your last time to submit your 55-word story to Mr. Knowitall, so get on over there!
 

Phoenix

I saw you

emaciated,

hungry,

with a hole inside

that could not be filled

with mercy

(though I tried).

With the cunning
of a judo master,

you took my food

milk of human kindness

and turned it into
something foul,

fuel for self-destruction,

an ugly, noxious thing,

a flame

that gives no warmth,

only ash.

And so I waited for the end,

wrote the obit,

held my breath,

picked out my widow’s weeds.

But you have emerged
from the fire,

cleansed,

purified,

a degenerate angel

transformed to man.

And now I see the truth:

that all our darkest moments

precede dawn.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

Fuel

Each fever runs its course:

white heat,
unquenchable,

unrivaled.
No quick healing here,

just an endless grind:

ground down

blunted

broken

hunted

haunted

and plenty of

obsession.

Cast into the desert,

stung and sweating,

searching for something

(to hold onto)

searching for someone

(with an answer)

but in response,

the dismal quartet of words:

It's not my job.

It's not my job.

No one can help you here.

So I watch the time

tick away,

each additional second

a further weight to bear.

Longing for escape

is only natural,

for the fever burns,

consumes

conflates

conflagrates

and contains no answers.

Today i am made of little pieces,

tied together with twine.

Fuel for the fire.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

55 - Silverware

Too many spoons.

What should he do?

Though he pondered it often,

he hadn't a clue.

Then a friend said,

"Go make a zoo.

Take that old silver

and make it like new!"

So that's what he did,

using forks and knives, too.

If you're near Big Bend park,

you can now buy a few.

Does your work of art contain exactly 55 word? Tell the G-Man!

Phobia

It’s just a little phobia,

paranoia

paradox

that we can love

and yet despise;

hold each other close

while miles apart.

And though I search

for something true,

true to life

true to you

(and me)

authenticity eludes my grasp

and I am left

with empty hands.

Should I try again

and risk contempt?

Oh, hide away the ego

and enlist common sense

to guard it,

lest we do more damage

than before.

Tiptoe quietly past.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Turning

Green days and sunshine

turn to Indian Summer,

and the small but telling signs

that winter comes.

Nothing in a bottle will save you.

Season's turning

strips us bare,

and truth's towering form

casts its shadow.

Dust to dust.

Youth is squeezed out

of mottled hands,

flesh goes slack.

The body yearns

to plop into a wicker chair,

fuss and  fury ended.

But the mind still feels

spring's caress

and, seeing youth

pass along a city street,

recalls an earlier season.

Fires die but sparks remain,

and I will eat of the apple

all the days of my life.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.