Thursday, March 5, 2015


Minutes struggle into hours,
born in tears and loss,
tracking memory and pain,
dragging into days and

months, shuffled together
as years where time weeps,
and hope shoulders heavy
burdens, wrapped tightly

in cloth of disappointment,
tied with knots of silken
possibility, slippery, and
barely holding it all in

place; parcelled on that
plate of becoming, with
edges chipped, stained
and soiled; residue of

sorrow, which can never
be scrubbed clean, cast
eternal, written in stone
of being, as Fate mocks.


  1. WOW this is good--I could feel it deep inside.

  2. I always enjoy the tightness of your verse.

  3. It seems that somebody has a heavy past that time cannot erase or at least make lighter.

  4. There is a darkness to this made possible through you wise choice of descriptive verbs and adjectives. The structure hurled me through the poem much as those minutes do to our lives. BTW--I agree with your views on climate change hysteria. What is needed is balance--in many ways.

  5. Sorrow can always be scrubbed clean, but it takes time & effort, & one must be willing to try.

  6. That is a very sorrow to keep if it can't be scrubbed away ~

  7. Sorrow will make itself felt! It is the way one relates to it that is important. Overcoming sorrow will be a test for everyone!


  8. Somehow I imagine sitting in a room with just a ticking clock as company... Very vivid with the time as tears.

  9. time heals all? Maybe not in this case... Gripping verse!

  10. As time passes, sorrows stain life's plate and disappointments chip at us...perhaps we can tie a knot and hang onto some silken strand of hope. Excellent write!