Oh No! There went the Bell...and I'm LATE!
NO! There's that Hall Monitor I HATE!
First, he Knocked off my HAT...
Then, Clocked me with a BAT!
Oh, why did his his Parents have to MATE!
Next day, Slapped me and Spit in my FACE!
Then he Pepper Sprayed my Eyes with MACE!
With Burning, RAGE FILLED TEARS!!
And Prior SOCCER YEARS!!
I Kicked his JACK JOHNSTON into SPACE!!!
This is MY body. MY temple. MY fortress,
It doesn't come with permissions through the way that I dress.
You have zero rights to do what you please,
If I show some skin, it doesn't make me a tease.
You cannot grab my cookie and expect to be safe,
You should however prepare to be clocked in the face.
As a woman who's been silent for way too long,
Nows the time to stand up and its time to be strong.
When I dress my body its for my own pleasure,
Not for you to go forcefully digging for treasure.
When I dress provocatively it is NOT for your ease,
It certainly doesn't mean I belong on my knees.
I choose to dress in all sorts of ways,
Depending on what I'm needing those days.
To feel powerful, confident, sexy or comfortable,
Not for you to sit there and judge if I'm able.
Women keep rising because we are unbreakable,
We come back harder, stronger and less amenable.
You don't own me, my body, or my rights,
So stop trying to dominate the women who bring you life.
Another horrible deal, mouth, cloth, chlorophyll
Lie still, lie still, in the fires burnt chill
Tiny blue pills, professional rookie kill
Amateur without skill, dripped blood spill
Please don't ask me how I feel
Buried casket Underhill
Life is such a thrill.
Tick, tick, tick, clocked a thousand clicks
Passive pointer spun out spin stick
Decipher riddled trick, oiled up slick
Candle odor sick, the everlasting wick
Pull another lick, pistol pop click
Finger triggered quick
Dead man Dick
Strangers wander about outside my window glass (gift daydreams to hurry along my time clocked in)
Roomie erupts into our pod post-trek home (every 4:57pm, I – a dog – wonder at her return)
Dad scribbles out his end of week “thought you’d get a kick out of” list (always squints to read on call)
Partner hoists arms to let me settle on their chest before sleep (I regale, they smile, I quiet, they breathe)
Me, myself, I pick how to spend each second (growing weeping willow, who will sway or stay?)
ephemeral are objects heart desires
fleeting is joy and lingering is pain
cause of suffering is seeking outcomes
ignorance is our sin, desire the chain
simply recognising that body-mind
is an earth vehicle, an interface
which we as eternal presence ensoul
by God’s grace, steps towards truth we retrace
everything in this realm is polarised
enabling movement in space, clocked by time
yet do not both these fetters disappear
whence drenched with rapture betwixt bliss beats chime
God speaks to us as whispers in the void
His language is love, as conscience cajoles
befriending silence, clear light within dawns
when ego recedes, soul re-writes life’s goals
simply by melding our head with the heart
inner conflict ends and we stand erect
pheromones mingle, our eye’s then single
no longer on shores of darkness shipwrecked
upon choosing to dwell in cessation
divine magnetism pervades feeble form
we become that we had set out to seek
transmuted thus in love’s benign bliss storm
There were six witnesses when the police arrived
The detectives took their statements
Six ethnicities were mentioned.
How many perps?
One
Two said he had a long face; one said she had a round moon face.
Eye colors mentioned were blue, black, green, brown and amber.
One said he saw a dragon tattoo; no one else saw it.
The detectives looked at each other.
The only thing the witnesses agreed on was that the man had been assaulted.
Knocked out of his wheelchair – clobbered, slapped, kicked, slammed, clocked.
The old man had impaired eyesight so he was no help at all.
Or as much help as the others.
Nothing seemed peculiar or out of place.
Just another day at her workspace.
Bright and early at 7 am, she clocked in.
It was
Friday, a time for some productive work before the weekend.
She had plans to work and return home.
But angels had other plans for Ms. Prudhomme.
From her cubicle, she quietly took flight,
Away from the daily grind and futile fight.
For four days, her avatar sat alone,
No more life, no more earth to call home.
For four days, nobody came to see about her.
Maybe there was a phone call, text, or email, but there was nothing after.
Nothing peculiar or out of place,
Just another day at the workspace.
The dishes can wait, they have waited before,
All my work problems, I’ll simply ignore.
The email pings call, they too can wait,
For I'm on my break, to procrastinate.
I’ll slouch in the couch, maybe stare at the sky,
Watch clouds drift by, as day's cares pass by.
My brain is in neutral, my worries on pause,
I’m doing my best to never show cause.
With coffee in hand, I’ll stare at the wall,
Pretending I’m thinking deeply, pondering on it all.
The world can wait, it won’t implode,
While I forsake my workaholic mode.
Stuff the to-do list? Do nothing at all, that's the go!
The churning of tasks is set to real, real slow.
A nap sounds good! Perhaps a little snooze!
I’ll wake refreshed, with nothing more to lose.
So I'm clocked off for now, I'm just taking five.
If you call me in, with can't-wait excuse, to contrive
My break will become ten, even twenty-five I'll yen.
Perhaps I'll take the whole day off, once and over again.
So here I sit, without a care,
Switched-off in my comfy chair.
Learning the art of taking a break
Goodness gracious! Am I still awake?
A cowboy stormed into town
He seems to be hell bound
To challenge and fight
Cuz he was uptight
But he came to an end
When he challenged an old friend
Who was quicker and real fast
Who clocked him in his ass
He’s not here anymore
So, they closed the door
Devil Clocked Angel
In the midst of fire and brimstone, stands an angel dressed in white, Her beauty beyond compare as a mask hidding her true self, she leaves nothing to chance. With eyes that sparkle like diamonds, yet cold as ice, She waltzes through life, spreading sweet lies.
In whispers soft and subtle, she sways their minds,
Leaving them enthralled, as love and trust intertwined.
A soul trapped in a web of its own making,
Behind those eyes a darkness dwelling,
A hunger to destroy that witch tries to love her.
No longer able to deceive, she finds herself in precipice of staring into the abyss she created.
The reflection staring back at her reveals the monster she truly is.
Her once pristine wings now tainted with sin, she falls from from grace,
Plummeting towards certain fate.
She becomes nothing more than a specter haunting the underworld, a reminder of the price of hubris ambitions.
Classes started up again today. Soon, we’ll be gloriously stressed, and clocked-up on whatever. Our hearts will swell to the pre-med symphony - a frantic opus, composed in the key of no sleep.
In seminars for rising pre-med seniors, (What's needed to get that med-school slot!), it’s obvious that 60% of the students who started out with us, on this track, are gone - left for other majors. “I wasn’t happy, it was too much,” they said.
I feel a pang when I hear that undergrads we’ve shared a trench with have switched their major to basket weaving (‘political science’), TikTok (computer science) or Phys-Ed.
I envy those defectors, I pity those defectors, I envy.. Wait, aren’t deserters supposed to be, well, you know.
Meanwhile, the rest of us, the stubborn few, cling to the dream. It’s a waking dream, for caffeinated zombies, obsessive-compulsive workaholics and maladjusted wonks who neglect personal needs, relationships and in some cases personal hygiene (not me, of course) in favor of a goal.
Maybe there’s something wrong with us?
Back in the day stares into space
Many a moon
Never is a one-track mind
Forever one moment at a time
While it seems like a decade ago
Sometimes clocked out yesterday
Hours are away operating
Infinity is perhaps everlasting
Days on end makes a statement
Chronology hides the logbooks
Present being invariably in season
Later is a future occasion
Tomorrow right to the left
In a second too far
Indefinatly is instrumental convergence
End is fueled by absence
Possibly without a cause
Today is a good day
It's back to the wilds, for the unexplored
Panama's island, Pygmy Three-Toed Sloths.
Tree huggers, twenty hours daily, course, lots
of trees. Four of a kind, their fifth, record
as the smallest. Clocked slow, a leaf lasts one
month in its tummies till its slow slop drops.
They're six pounds and twenty inches, a pop.
Furs algae-fied hide them. Swim can be done.
Again, it resurfaces, a world-wide
dilemma, in pictures and portrait drapes
over a posh hotel table of crepes.
Concerned and unconcerned, great the divide.
In twenty-twelve, I.U.C.N., counted ...
less than eighty, now ... they're, unaccounted.
Surrounds cast fawning more pain and pleasure,
bring it on, union or naught, clocked watchers,
measures measure, pound for pound, face to face,
Curt or wordy, conscience be top-notchers,
as precious song of convenience, eeks breath.
Stage of a day's bliss follow edge to edge,
affair due course of day's light, naught Macbeth.
Fingered tip trace a fashioned grin, lips wedge
made verse presets rhythmically, whispers
to soft caressed, infant coos to gold.
A mime mimics, entertainment lifters,
puppy love hugs, sweethearts caress, gramps hold.
Be he the fourth wiseman of the Magi?
Ascends a moon, grays an eye-fools goodbyes.
It was quarter after nine
When I clocked in on that stop sign
What an insignificant design
Yet it provoked desire
Watching everything realign
Only one thing crossed my mind
Whilst everything roared tow that line
Two opposing thoughts intertwined
Once a beautiful sign
Now an unsupervised lifeline
Once a benign incline
Now a constant race against time
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