Potted

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It's Time

 

Ain't you seen too much already

Ain’t the rain been too steady

Can’t you feel you’re ready

To cross the river up ahead

Bridge or no, it might be time

The time that flies in your face

And diminishes your space

That space you keep

Is only as real as it stays

And staying is only as real as it feels

And when that feeling passes

It’s time to go

 

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The Ride

 

We’re all just passing through. Like the line at the amusement park waiting their chance to ride. All for that ride. When it’s finally time you get on board. The ride lasts only minutes but it’s the time of your life. You may be thrilled, or impatient, you may become sick, you may even become famous, for a minute, and then become lonely. You may wonder when it will end, and find it ends too soon, and when it ends, it’s over. Depart. No, there’s no getting back in line, there’s only one ride per lifetime.

 

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SOME BLONDE

 

 

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TOO FAR

 

 

 

 

 

It was an Isle too far. Three fortnights away. Time, distracted by the distance, discarded the notion that it be linear, instead opted to set itself back to somehow compensate for the journey. Ships bound for her found themselves confronted with the past, while ships outward bound were confronted by the future even though it was their present. When they arrived they arrived as boys and upon their return, they were aged men. It was a confounding journey to be had in both directions, one that would be agreeably avoided if not for the necessity of removing the worst of society upon her shores. And so it was that Donald found himself on the beach alone. The birds, which were ordinarily loud and abundant, were instead, stunningly silent. Even the waves through which he waded ashore were quelled, quietly lapping listlessly at his knees as he stumbled to the rocky beach. What was this odd place and how did he find himself here, he wondered? He had no perspective or directive as if awakening from a coma in a cove devoid of life.

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SMEAR

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Oh, Dreary Day

 

As welcome as thrice warmed coffee. Damned if the day didn’t beckon him from his bed all rumpled and spent but he resisted instead feeling no guilt whatsoever while insisting on pulling the quilt up over his tussled head. As spittle dribbled from his cheeks onto his pillow, the gauzy windows ran with thick dew, trailing down and seeped into a steady stream to the street below. At least it was cozy warm and toasty in here whereas outside was dank and dreary, damp and weary, a day not fit for man or beast as he considered his druthers from under the covers he decided to hesitate and reconsider. Calling in sick could be an option, but three days in a row, they may be of the opinion that he was in fact derelict and without discretion. Could cost him his reputation, but that too was thrice worn, and thread bare to the bone so why venture from his home where he had known the cozy embracing and warm encasing between flannel and feathers if only short term, if not forever.  The dilemma was more to his liking than the act of rising so he chose to roll back over and continue his dreaming.

 

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