Standardized Time

Whoever standardized time

did a piss-poor job.

I could tell them for a fact

that Wednesday move more slowly

when there is less to do,

and Mondays always arrive

much quicker than they leave,

yet Fridays take their sweet time

no matter the cheering from the stands

because let’s face it

they’ve worked out who’s top dog

before the firing pistol went off

and they don’t need to rush

to prove their walking home with gold.

Whoever standardized time,

did a piss poor job of the whole damn thing.

Because a second becomes a moment

when the right person holds it,

and a minute becomes an hour,

when your waiting for the answer

or the result,

or the next sentence in a conversation

you really don’t want to see through.

Worst of all is the touch,

that barely lasts at all,

that goes before you noticed it

and leaves you wondering for months

if you should have seen it coming.

Standardized Time – Audio Recording

The Clocks

They forget that we mortals are tied to the clocks

Lashed to the turning of gears and old cogs

While their youth remains endless and death a rare myth

Our years roll by and so grows life’s rift.

 

Her beauty entranced him when the gardens were young

And the rose bushes held buds still to be sprung

But restlessness grows in the white of new wings

When the promise of flight in the wind whispers and sings.

 

She’ll forget that mortals are tied to the clocks

Lashed to the turning of gears and old cogs

And the gardens will bloom in the promise of spring

But mortal hands will stop when the final chime rings.

 

So she’ll lie across steps where their feet once fell

And the memories of smiles can still yet be held

For his bones have been lost to the passing of time

To mix with the soil from where the ivy does climb.

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Exhibitions, Readings and Wrong Turns

 

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Last Saturday Shrewsbury Museum and Art Gallery opened an exhibition called ‘Impressions’, running from the Saturday 5th May to Sunday 3rd June at Rowley’s House. The exhibition is designed to celebrate the art of writing

On the eve of the opening there was a (mini) grand opening where all the writers who could attend were invited to read our their pieces to all the other contributors and explain why they chose the subjects for their works.

Sounds simple right? Well apparently it’s not.

I had originally intended to take one of my best friends and her boyfriend as my guest, thinking that it would cheer her up since she has been a little down recently. However, that day she called me to tell me she was ill and couldn’t make it, so I tried one of the other best friends and invited her and her boyfriend. (My two old best friends have both apparently become surgically attached to their partners.)

The plan was that I’d drive the best friend and boyfriend to Shrewsbury and we’d all go to this exhibition opening do, and then we would go back and hang out at mine for an hour or so before I dropped them both back at my best friend’s. (If you’re confused don’t worry, half the time I haven’t a clue what’s going on either.)

Boyfriend was of course late, and since best friend wanted to wait I had to leave without her. I was still running on time to get to the museum/art gallery before the reading started and I hoped they would just sneak in late.

Then I hit Wem. Now Wem itself is not a problem, the roundabout which signs for Shawbury and Shrewsbury is the problem. I of course, being me, misread the sign for Shawbury as Shrewsbury and ended up driving off in the completely wrong direction, leaving me fifteen minutes late sneaking into the readings. (It was O.K, my poem was last anyway.)

Best friend never made an appearance, and after an argument with my traitor of a mobile phone I eventually got hold of her using a landline and found out that boyfriend had finally turned up. Just as the readings event came to a close…

Overall it wasn’t too bad of a night. I thought my poem went down fairly well and there were some fantastic pieces included in the exhibition. For anyone who can get to Shrewsbury I would sincerely recommend going and having a look around at the ‘Impressions’ pieces, even if museum are not normally your cup of tea.

For those of you interested here is the piece that I submitted for the exhibition.

The Boats

My history lies in roots and hand

One to severe, mould and man.

Fell might and age to brothers’ floor

Where tools bite, bark and saw.

Hollow out my chest of oak

To fill with saplings, young folk,

Then fall to where my roots remain

Let only my rings now hold your name.

 

 

Shrewsbury Museum and Art Gallery – Facebook Page

Shrewsbury Museum and Art Gallery -  Website

Credits for Shrewsbury Museum and Art Gallery’s exhibition ‘Impressions’ goes to Adrian Perks (Museum Assistant), all the writers involved (that bit includes me) and Sue Jones who helped put together a fantastic programme of all the works displayed. 

Lost

If I stopped you one day and asked you for a moment, would you spare it? You see I need to ask you a question and only you can give me your answer, but if you can’t spare me a moment then I suppose I’ll have to be willing to let your answer slip by.

You see I can’t promise I’ll be quick, since it’s you who will hold the clock and seconds, minutes, hours can only be counted in your mind. But I’m sorry; you don’t want to hear me rambling. I’ll ask you my question, perhaps you will answer and I’ll move on.

Who do you think I am? I’d be very interested to know. I’ve tried to answer myself, but I need a second opinion and I’d like to hear yours.

Would you mind terribly? I do hate to be a bother, it’s just I’m a little lost. Not geographically of course, in that sense I’m well and truly… un-lost. But within myself? Well, that’s a little more complicated I suppose.

It’s a bit like a maze, and around each bend is a promise. But if I choose the wrong path I’ll trip and the promise holds out to be false.

It was better at the start, there were more paths to choose and less of them had roots or brambles to trip me. Then the paths began to narrow, and of the few that were left, even the ones that seemed right, grew to thwart me and catch my feet.

So if it’s not too much trouble, could you please tell me who you think I am? You see, if you can find me, then maybe I can too. I must be in here somewhere, just tangled in the undergrowth, like a coin someone dropped without notice. I only need a little help and if you would I’d be so grateful. Can you spare a moment? Or maybe even more? I won’t hold it against you if you don’t; I’ll just wait a while more.