Fictions: One
Where does a story start?
Where does a story end?
Such questions friend
are only to be answered
by the one who weaves all stories, or
unweaves them as we dream.
And if I told you I’m this weaver,
Would you ask me who wove me?
If so, push
aside those questions
and let me tell you all
The truth is we’re all weavers
We’re weavers one and all.
The Where and the When
Dear reader, we meet
in a time and a place
But the where and the when of these?
Nary a trace.
For location - by convention -
is described by the eye,
And tonight, we’ve been gifted an obstinate sky, which -
just like our world -
gives off none of its light.
And though we can sense
the passing of time
there’s no point of reference
to anchor time’s line,
to anchor our hearts
and their time-bound beating.
No!
There’s no where or when
for our very first meeting.
Oh, reader, while waiting
something I should mention
I know what this night holds,
fear not my intentions,
tick
are hopefully noble (enough) and can quell
your fear
when I say the approaching death knell*
is not yours!
tock
not quite
well
at least
not tonight
tick
tock
tick
tock
tick
Tock
a pendulum freezes,
reaching its arc’s summit
then thaws in a flash
and a weight’s free to plummet
“Free at last!”, hear her cry
“Free am I from life’s drudges!”
But the escapement arrests it
the weight, barely budging
comes to a sudden and shuddering halt
the only freedom it owns
is the freedom of thought.
but - within that last tock
the choreography of
gears, cams, and cogs,
changed its path in the clock
from the timekeeping chain
come mechanical stirrings
the meshing of movements
spawn clickings and whirrings
another weight, waiting in anticipation
is unleashed - like its sister - and leaps from its station
“Free at last”, hear it cry
“Free am I from life’s toil”
tick
but it too is arrested
chained up - remains loyal.
its energy’s - turned
into shivers and stammers -
take a well-traveled path,
at the end: a bronze hammer
which, raising a toast
to the triumph of time,
approaches its apex
and
forgets to chime
the world holds its breath
click
but
click
fails
click
to exhale.
A Striking Clock
Between three and the approaching four,
our world enters into uproar
but before we get to hear this roaring,
we’ve time left over for exploring.
So return to horizontal
your upward inclining neck
and explore this worlds horizons,
paint its lines in
give it depth.
On the fate of the weights
these two siblings
suspended in time
in their upping and downing
stitch the fabric of time
Exploratory the First
Those of you reading this under the sheets
being barefoot are able to sense with your feet
smooth-worn stones
bleeding the heat
from a day long gone.
But it’s death-dark,
are we sure these stones are found in
your immediate surroundings?
Well, absent a torch (or a walking stick)
The safest solution’s simple: Quick!
Take my hand.
Your tremorous digits reveal those doubts
that linger within you (and without)
But once more: MY INTENTION’S ARE GOOD!
Need I drag you through this neighbourhood?
The night’s showpiece draws ever near
and you are manacled by fear.
Clock Watching
Whether you believe it or consider it myth
that the legendary sense: the sixth, exists
Your goose-bumped back insists it does
for it feels the tower’s glowering clock-face,
how it wants to put you in your place.
You move (well, shuffle) tentatively
But quicker now,
it’s ten past three!
What I want to show is fast approaching
And you delay with your slow-coaching.
Raising your pace as we traverse
to that expected of a hearse, but
what hovers at the edge of sight
growing in menace as in height:
Mad-hatted brigands wielding sticks?
A coven of witches astride broomsticks?
fear not, the palette of the night
- now enriched with anthracite -
shades in more details, and hesitant walker
the truth’s revealed: all’s bricks and mortar.
Reassured, you exhale relief.
Then freeze; for a sharply hissed and sinister sound
rushes in at you from all around,
and then you give a nervous laugh,
for it was only your rebounding gasp,
which too’s returned, and though its you,
its soft mutations chill you through.
Bird Watching
With a gnarly gargoyle for a perch
a wide-eyed ruffler observes
a somnambulist’s
hand-flailing,
probing gait
each inch of progress
is duly echoed
in adjustments
that if our night-frail eyes
could see
would still not see
Exploratory the Third
Each single step doubles the darkness
tightens the chains that form fear’s harness, which
now settled down upon your frame
constricts movements - frees up the brain
to entertain all mad suggestions,
and nag at you with troubling questions:
What, or who, will I meet?
And what, or who, do they eat?
A slavernous wolf’s muzzle
peeling back in a grin
to let you in?
Baba Yaga lying in waiting
your ears trying to unhear
her salivating?
And afterwards, my midnight sleeper,
will carrion crows peck at
your peepers?
Your fingertips, trawling the air
establish contact -
and your hairs,
stand up on end;
there’s been a pricking of your thumb:
has something wicked your way come?
This tension though is soon released
no carnivore at you unleashed
A muzzle does indeed await
but this one doesn’t salivate
Your outstretched hand is pleased no end
to trace the shape of man’s best friend
who’ll never get to gnaw a bone
the poor beast being carved from stone.
You crab-walk left, your hand detects
another dog, noble, erect
and in the gap between the pair
the flow of gently scented air
invites egress
Your ragtag gang of senses - sight, hearing, and balance –
unable to probe in their interactions
picks up a straggler: olfaction.
Dog Watching
The dog watches
that’s what dogs do