Art Time

One hundred and fifty representations
of time before my eyes.

What is time?
Merely a tool
to measure itself?

But what is time, really?

We can't think about time
because we can't abandon it.

I see so many expressions
of time:

time past
time moving
old and new
clocks
more clocks
time space continuum
death
motion
decay
waves
speeding
curves
memories
more memories
events
passages
squiggles
changes
transformations
corrosion
aging
Phoenix
burnt

crude time
and
wonderful time

Time to do this or that
timelessness
Old things representing time.

Your time is not my time,
but is our time to settle in
and settle down.

We all have different times.
Mistakenly we say,
what IS the time,
as if there were only
one time (we know
from Albert E. that
there are many times.)

Motion
is an object moving
through space in time,
but what about a
still object. Can it
not move through a
space that is constantly
in motion?

The clock runs away with time
measuring our precious moments
that never existed before,
and will never exist again.

No One Home

He arrived early,
and no one was home.

The door was unlocked
so he walked in, thinking
this will be a nice
time to be alone.

The floor was cold,
chilling his body
through his stocking
feet. Shoes weren't
allowed in this
sacred space.

A nice caretaker
came in and turned
the light on, not
knowing the dim
light from the windows
was perfect for his PDA.

He thanked him, and
before he knew it,
others came in, crushing his
moment of solitude
but providing good fodder
for this picture poem.

The Soccer Game

It seems like
the wind has been
blowing for days.

The tall grass is
facing northwest, tired
of the indecision surrounding
the upcoming election.

The leaves appeared to be
playing soccer this morning,
with the players tirelessly
running back and forth
on the field.

The wind chimes
cheered the leaf
players along,
encouraging them
to keep running
despite the bitter cold.

Now it is dusk and
the field is almost
cleared of the leaves.
They finished their game
and decided
to spend the night
next to the wood pile.

The Last Resolution

Four days
into the new year
and already
I'd like
to start anew.

If I had
made the last
resolution "don't
follow any of the
above"
I would have
been fine.

What is it
about resolutions,
apparently a
secret weapon
of the devil,
to make us feel guiltier
than sin (what does
that mean?)?

In fact, it seems
one way
to be sure something
is not going to be
done is to make it
a resolution.

How about you?
You can comment
below — click on
"anonymous" after
you click on
"comments."

Sharp Shadows

Finally this morning
my dogs decided
they wanted to go out.
It was a short bout
with the elements,
and then they came in, hoping
that my wife would give them
some scrap.

The shadows are sharp today
as the the wind is cold.
The wind chimes ring like
a siren, inviting me outside.

The bird incessantly bites
his mirror, letting us
know the meaning of the
phrase "bird brain."

The oak tree leaves open up
in the sun and face its
warmth like good soldiers.

The oak tree itself is not
worried about growing during
the winter. It is deep in
thought about one year past
and another year to come.

Two Worlds

The pond is frozen over,
except at the bottom
of the waterfall.

The old bird taps against
his mirror as if he has
found a new friend
who he doesn't
quite understand.

I woke the dogs up
too early. They went
out in the cold and
came right back
in to continue
their sleep.

The oatmeal on the
stove simmers,
provoking an
aroma that fills
the kitchen.

Nothing other
than the tall
golden grass
and the occasional
passing cars
dare to move
this cold early
morning.

Oh, yes, the
curled leaves
on the oak tree
still defiantly
dance in the wind,
determined not
to hit ground
until spring.

In the other room,
there is a philosophy
book, filled with
"deeper" subjects
like "what is piety?"

Socrates

Poor misunderstood Socrates,

indefatigable in
his search for
the truth, and
a gadfly in his
dialogues.

His subjects
were too busy
to talk to him,
especially
when they realized
the shortcomings
of their ascertations.

He never published,
so he wouldn't have
a chance getting
a university job,
but he didn't think
teachers should be
paid, anyway,
especially
since they didn't
know anything.

In the end,
perhaps the wisest
and most influential
thinker of the West,
was sentenced
to death for "corrupting
the youth" and other
serious infractions.