behind a mask

swinging long hair behind her
she finds moving harder than ever
her limbs won’t obey her whims
too many phases of the moon
not enough dawns in her memory
walking by hordes each with stories
she carefully avoids interaction
for fear of her fears rising to meet her
easier to pass by rather than through

my heart breaks when I see her
so fragile and almost empty
behind the thin vellum she hides
her face animated
more a grotesque mask
betraying a life within

does she recall her youth
toiling in fields in hot summer
walking to school in the snow
falling in love at the diner
or is she already buried
a walking ghost

does she know her loneliness
is etched upon her face
and that all could change
if she opened
unhinged her rusty gate
she says it’s too late
with a crooked grin
but somehow
there has to be a way

we bend

time seems to bend

like a Dali clock

sort of warped and messy

when I’m with you

or talk to you

or think of you

I feel like myself

during our time

sort of warped and messy

with no constraint

or restraint

or construct to hinder us

flutter by time

thoughts fluttering
scattered like falling leaves
only I can’t seem to rake them up
and put them in neat piles

gasping, grasping
trying to form letters into words, into phrases
coming up with gibberish and lunacy
which may be OK since that describes my Monday

Tuesday has no excuse for taking more than it gives
while it is not thrilling like Thursday
so close to the freedom of Friday

I don’t want to focus on time as it stands or as it passes
except the lines being drawn on my face
tell more of my story than I’d intended

fall has always been scattered
while spring seems quieter
but then there is that pesky problem
of time again

if we just feast on senses and not schedules
will our bodies take control
despite what our cumbersome brains tell us
and will we become animals reveling in anarchy

or can we listen to our bodies
feel nature as we encounter it
and not question why but how and perhaps find more enjoyment

living like children
with simple faith and open hands and brutal honesty
not bemoaning every event and how it might ruin us but expecting joy and surprise

am I really that scattered or am I more in tune
with the child I once was and refuse to forget to be
I see time but am not captive by it
and am constantly questioning and rarely surprised

if I stop and acknowledge seasons changing
time being printed on my face
will I be forced to grow up or can I remain a child
because I would like to stay open and joyful

Time With Waits

Time, Time, Time
but not the way it’s read on a clock
and not in a fuzzy way storytellers mean
but Time
the way Waits sang it
with wind making speeches
not men full of bluster
with saints inhabiting dreams
not self proclaimed saviors
with fiddles playing
til he comes back again
gusty, gravelly
truly, terribly
surely, shudderingly
with no breaks
moving ceaselessly
sweeping everything in its path
like Waits sang it
with storm clouds
with dusty spangles
with stale scotch

Looking Now

Shadows that came after
Hid discovery and laughter
It was all new once
Before views were dimmed by others
When imagination was shiny and new
When fun was fun and blue was blue
Before I knew the backstory
It was simple not labyrinthine
Now overgrown and hidden
Logic erupts unbidden

Ghosts of who we were emerge
Dreams we once thought were plenty
Tearing away vestiges of youth
We hope but come up empty

Returning each season
We suspend most reason
Look for magic
Ignore the naysayers
Those who look for patterns
Those who look for answers
They dwell too much it’s true
In the past or the future
We enjoy words, shapes and lines
Travelling in the now of time.