Tempus Fugit

vinyl record

 

The more I have lived, the more I realize how there is never enough time to do everything.

There will always be those setbacks upon the plans of the day, and when I get back to them, I’ve already lost it.

It seems that the harder I work, the faster the clock ticks;

until its gone out the window and I’m down here crying on the floor.

All of the chances I get are gone in a snap, its all I can do not to lose my grip when I reach for them.

Just when autumn’s leaves start to turn, the snow is suddenly falling from grey clouds.

And you might as well just say Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas are all the same thing.

Life is a record, going around and around. We’re just changing the music.

So however long I live, I know that time will never stop.

And just like life, time is never going to slow up and wait for you either.

 

Marie Walters, 2018

 

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Ghoulish Ditty

 

Jack-o-Lanterns

The devil’s in the parlor

fiddle striking up a tune

The werewolf’s in the courtyard

screaming at the moon

The ghost is at the piano

playing with his keys

The bench is empty where he sits

but no one needs to see…

 

-Marie Walters (10/14/18)

The Aspect of Poetry

Yallfest

There aren’t any rules to creative writing;

you just… write what’s in your head.

Using you’re emotions to guide you,

so… being a poet is more what you feel instead.

Then onto translating that into words (good luck)

Pen to parchment, parchment to laptop.

 

They may choose to judge you

or appreciate your work with a compliment!

Either way, it doesn’t matter, but you judge you.

 

When I write rough copies

my handwriting is absolutely terrible

and cat fur always somehow ends up on the journal.

It is both funny and maddening the fact that my brain thinks faster than my hand can form words

 

Poetry is hard in the eyes of some

or easy in the eyes of others,

but I believe its all about how you interpret it.

It doesn’t have to be the most complicated, long-worded essay

because even the simplest words can be charming

depending on how you fit them together:

to create a poem.

 

Crescent Companionship

See the source image

 

The last of the songbirds cry

when the sun sets behind the trees

And out appears that light

not from our great star

not as bright

much too white

not as plainly sighted

Shadowed by lone clouds

that are still visible by dying rays

drowning in the fire of the sunset

The time is waxing

light to the right

and another friend beside him

burning in the night

Our beloved crescent moon is there

and his terrestrial companion:

Venus.