The Water Clock

Water
d
 r
  i
   p
    s
and flows
and fills
         t
         u
         b
         e
         s
            flow
which over/
        then
           d
            r
             i
              p
and flow
and fill flasks,
then bulbs
as the rhythm of time
moves forward,
relentlessly forward
until it is full.
Then it drains
and begins to fill

itself again.

* The water clock in this piece is from the Children's Museum in Indianapolis. We had a very nice visit.

The Next Sound You Hear

The pack of runners

hustle past with the sound of

athletic shoes on gravel

and snippets of conversation.

On another day

I would join them

but today, it feels like an invasion

by those whose measure distance

in miles

while I measure distance

in the time between ridges

on the bark

of a one hundred year-old oak.

Redefined Oasis

Heat
radiates from progress.
Blacktop and concrete,
redefined oasis,
melting my resolve.
Feet ache as they melt
and meld,
ceasing to be a part of me
but becoming a part of it.
Wishing for rain
but knowing it brings
only brief salvation
as the dial changes
from bake
to poach
and nasty.

* In response to Three Word Wednesday

How Many Petals Fall Before it’s not a Flower

One last call.
One last obligation it seems
and with no answer
we head out,
down the highway.
Travelling, at first,
the same way we travelled
on our last trip - toward Detroit
and Comerica Park.
But we veer off,
toward Ohio. Toledo
and beyond.
And it seems
that we buried our family.
First Mom, then Dad, now you,
my brother.
Now it’s me
and our sisters
but the glue is in the ground
and I know that the final pages
of the family album
will flutter free on the wind.
Never filled.

But next time, for sure

The Sun settles lower,
changing the shadows,
playing with the light
between the slats of the fence,
catching the robin,
partly in shadows,
part way in golden light,
making me wish
for a camera.
But Time
sends the robin away.
And the day
soon follows.

Show them what’s behind Door #1

A small package of rebellion
shows up on the steps
as the brilliant Sun and
morning dew
open the shopping center
of ideas
which lead away from door #1 --
another day at the grind.
Aluminum desks,
topped with windows,
programmed to show
only prescribed content,
fit for a late spring day
of heretical thoughts,
as eyes travel
and thoughts meander
like water from spring storms,
cutting new paths
in dry dirt.
Pyramid shaped tracks
as resistance
channels
the stream
and finds
me late
but not sorry.

Let them eat . . . oh, Never Mind

He wore his camouflage hat,
sitting on his stoop,
smoking a cigarette,
and I wondered why he bothered.
He was invisible to most people
anyway. Maybe
he sat there, watching them
scurry past, eyes averted,
hoping to be a beacon.
Flashing his message:
Life is not always
tea and cake.

* In response to Sunday Scribblings