Bad Timing [poem]
Every
where I look
bad timing.
Every
thing I hear
unrhyming.
My jet thrust out of sync,
I took some time to think
how to manipulate the clock
back to its pristine state
so that all the angel-dusted
darknesses congregate
around the temporal lobe
without rubato’s rusted
rhythm’s pleated robe.
I hung on to the minute hand
as it clicked its way
around the moonly face.
If only I could make it go
the other way —
time’s steps retraced
When I reached
half-past the hour,
my hands slipped
from the metal ticker
I slid down from
that pompous tower;
the world thought
“He’s the worse for liquor”
That’s what happens when one tries
to bend the messy tracks of time.
For every moment has its place —
a look upon the clock’s stern face.
Ten-past ten, the plainest smirk.
Midnight, please do not disturb.
Half-past three, a gallows laden.
Twenty-past eight, crucified maiden.
Bending time to fit into our needs
demeans us and our giant ego feeds.
And so I wait for synchronicity
to work its signpost magic over me.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 