Time

Is there such a thing as
time; measuring out of
moments, where some
thing concrete is made

and holds fast, regard
less of whether we are
aware of it, or if we
are awake or sleeping?

Time can drag through
seeming eternity, or
vanish in an instant at
the moment of sleep.

Where does it go, and
did it ever exist when
its form and shape are
so unreliably existing?

Time mocks, consoles,
weeps with us and
rails against itself, in
endless, full motion.

And it is silent beyond
the slow ticking of its
heart, which beats in
rhythm with our own.

Reduced

We are reduced, brought
down into small places,
long ignored in the days
of youth, if indeed, ever

imagined. But time trims
and prunes inexorably, to
bring the minutiae of life
into our minds, in order

that the trivial, banal and
inconsequential, can be
known for what they
really are - the building

blocks of our being; the
atoms of our soul; the
threads offered for slow
weaving in allotted days.

Wintered

As the days draw tight
and darkening, calling
to the remnants of
light, to remain in

shadowed hope, so
does the season pass
and we are wintered;
cold soil beckons to

remaindered leaves,
sucking final songs
of warmth from a
mellowed sun, even

as we grieve for the
loss of what once
was known, and in
silence wait, for new

beginnings, which
have yet to push their
way through chilled
unforgiving memory.

Words

When there are no words
to convey, hold, nourish
the feelings, then, what
do we have, but lingering

emptiness and the sense
of being unfulfilled,
where grief sits sullen,
sodden, sorrowing and

cannot lift her skirts to
walk beyond the misery
of the moment....such
is the gift of words. 

Positioned

https://jhurlbert.com/

Positioned neatly on your
simple shelf of reality, so
do I sit, dangling over
the edge of that wooden

mind, beakening you to
return and enfold me in
your arms, wrap tight
the empty naked space

I have become; before
the tears fold through
shuttered eyes and fall
down into that other

world, where my weeping
will go unheard, in this
drop from great heights,
to unfeeling oblivion.

https://dversepoets.com/2019/06/18/meet-jackie-hurlbert/

Fret

Anxious, alarmed, grimly

haunted, so does the heart

fret, as time plays sorrow’s

song, demanding that the

fingers be placed just so,

across the bars of cold

memory; sounding bitter

notes of hope, reflected

in bleak, stark shadow

lines across mind’s sad,

sullen symphony. 

https://dversepoets.com/2019/06/17/quadrille-82-fretboard-of-poetry/

Wintering

as the days breathe chilled
air through the cracks of
hours, so do we settle
into the chest of Winter,

pulling close to its slow
beat, huddling to warm
moments, nestling into
hibernation of soul, and

frosted self; such is the
way of it when this
season calls and holds
us to its ancient breast.