The Sea Deceives Me
The pages of the calendar fall to the ground,
crunch crunch crunch under our feet,
grinding themselves to dust.
Hours and numbers, days and months cover the earth with mosaic colors
as if a tempest had broken open a damn and they flood out into our fields, we rake them up, unspoken we burn them, we stuff them in threadbare and patchy clothing, we make scarecrows up to look like our former selves,
others we stuff in gutters and drains.
There are pages from a hundred years back in some darkening silence in the deepest of woodlands, these leaves mixed with the dirtiest of branches; histories at the foot of precipices slouching on the meanders of rivers flowing into the sunset, they dwell in the pits of caves, and in the nests of baby birds.
We lay our backs down and swim through the pages, we fall asleep and neglect our lazy day, the sounds and the smells, the tastes and the textures of the times we've inherited (we have (and the time ahead.)
New years take shape and more time buds, the seasons pass and we decorate the decaying earth.
new days are piled up: in piles of bills, piles of events, piles of junk mail, invitations torn and abandoned, occasions attended and written about, solidarities and intimacies cherished and worshiped
They are still there in the air- you act as if they're not passing by,
new pages swiftly sway in the winds hand and rest on the earth. In numbers and records.
The pointless statistics of time, taken time and time again.
We waste our time on something like memories and plans
until time our runs out for us
like counting the fallen leaves as a derelict train creeps through the country - how absurdly endless a task
time is not statistics nor even measurable
time is not a standard of options weighable,
time is not a parquet floor where a curtain stretches, that you shoot marbles across, or even throw a rug over then slowly rock yourself to sleep on
time is chiseled in caves and evolves with man
time is all things existing and all things alive
time is being and being is timeless
(time isn't for a spitting audience but for the expression of the mind the body the expansion of the soul; don't sit back and watch life ebb into the dirt; create explore, and experience its glorious spray and the endless internal tributaries to your mind.)
(The motions of our glorious feet sweeping and gliding acting out the moment part in a tenuous spectrum of soapy film and endless possibility that will survive untouched by the stone pillars of sleeping spectators)
poem by Jerome Moore
Added by Poetry Lover
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