POETRY LINKS

Untitled Sonnet #69

With hands sheltered within the crystal case,

Walk three precise gates with a measured move.

One stubby hand plods with the slowest pace,

Flawlessly tracking the hours you remove.

Though this lumbering arm is passed on by,

By the limber hand of the minutes gone.

Who steps a tempo on which times rely,

Then is lost and forgotten and forgone.

Yet, times smallest unit is still right here,

Racing round the tight wheel of the clock’s face.

This second is sure and steadily austere,

Charging through time with pure eloquent grace.

   These hands orchestrate the passage of time,

   Marching their firm dance forever sublime.

Untitled Sonnet #70

Marching their firm dance forever sublime—

Each wheel readily spins, its spokes entwined,

Interlocking with each other each time.

Flawless and perfect in form so refined.

Every gear is cut and precision cast,

Weighted and measured for the perfect fit.

Stainless steel elements so built to last,

Never to quit or fail or ever split.

Perpetually grinding the time down,

As it weaves through the ancient ages lost

Ticking with each geared step now so renown.

For this apparatus is worth the cost.

   Passing the moments into seconds: gone.

   As this metal gear marks the night and dawn.

Untitled Sonnet #71

As this metal gear marks the night and dawn,

As each tick marks the passing of more time,

We sit quiet; watching, waiting with a yawn.

For we all await the echoing chime.

Stroke of midnight, the marking toll of noon,

Reverberating the air of solitude.

Be it with the sun or the splendid moon,

Each tone, bell or ring marks an interlude.

Resounding sound, echoes to us its call,

Alerting all to the silent passing—

Of, seconds, moments, minutes and of all;

Of all, everything, each form of timing.

   Be it tick or tock, a tone or a chime,

   Each of us measures the passing of time.

Untitled Sonnet #72

Each of us measures the passing of time,

Wishing for it to pass ever faster;

Or, praying for it to slow to a climb,

Lasting from here to the ever after.

Just before death, that one final long toll,

May ring in the fading head for so long.

Allowing a lifetime to slowly scroll,

Exhibiting every second so strong.

Or, as we all daydream amid our lives,

Time slips so silently beyond us all.

So we ponder its running tale, its drives;

Where this time went we still could not recall.

   Where has it been and where will it now go?

   Time is the one thing we will never know.

Untitled Sonnet #73

Time is the one thing we will never know,

Though we closely monitor it all still.

With our new clocks we watch the steady flow,

As time proceeds by, an unending thrill—

For our gears inside spin, rotating on—

Shifting the hands into their proper place.

Recording the time that now is long gone,

As we look and stare at its numbered face.

One is the first number that we can see,

And it is always followed by a two.

As you expect the next would be a three,

Then comes four, five and six to name a few—

   From one until twelve the clock runs its race,

   Turning forever, the hands march its face.

Untitled Sonnet #74

Turning forever, the hands march its face,

And our ears are accustomed to each tick.

Surrounded by clocks we can see the race,

We can watch all the passing time, each click.

In massive factories we build new gears,

We forge screws, and create each glass setting.

Built to last forever, beyond our years,

Designed to track all times endless passing.

Our clocks are in the kitchen and bedroom,

They can be found in the office at work.

Or even on people I would assume,

But, maybe that is just a simple quirk.

   Yet, timepieces remain so close at hand,

   From the digital to the falling sand—

Untitled Sonnet #75

So always with our daily passing times,

We monitor every move that it makes.

Using our guides of the numbers and chimes,

We assume that it will make no mistakes

To watch minutes we have built a device,

That ensures we can see what we have missed.

Even when unaware it is precise,

A visual log that here will exist.

A map of time with numerals and hands,

Which show us the reality: our state.

It explains in words common to the lands,

What has passed so now we can all relate.

   My dearest clockwork you do keep the pace;

   With hands sheltered within the crystal case—