hours

What is a Clock?

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

What is a clock?
A finger pointing out the time
That’s the simple answer

Counting seconds, minutes, hours
Passing slower, passing faster
A lazy, hungry creature

Time’s elastic
Drags us on
Pulls us to the future

Strips out history away
Measures out our meter
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock

It knows nothing of the moment
Or the truth of time
It will never be my master

My clock is in my heartbeat
But what if there’s no time at all
And it’s a false illusion?

What if it repeats itself
And each beat is completer?
Or everything is overlapped?

Did we meet across some bridge,
Every meeting sweeter?
And will we pass that way again?

I’m here and there and everywhere
Without time there’s no disaster
Time is not my master

 

 

People Passing By

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

sitting in a summer street beneath a sunlit tree
people passing by
fleeting thoughts showing in their eyes,
eyes that hold delight, dismay, disbelief
this moment, in this day,
memories flooding in, fading, flying, dying
the growing gravitas of this ones frown
shuffling feet, passing through the shadows
children running, laughing, shouting
a shoal of flashing fish, sparkling,
crowds parting,
flowing and repeating

i see her passing
she is thinking
can i buy that dress today,
what will I wear tonight
is my hair alright,
she sighs
i see her sorrow
does all love fade and die

a man stands alone an hour
gravity weighs him down
his feet deep rooted
i could go and greet him
a simple walk across the street
a meeting
the moment passes

i stay beneath my sunlit tree
watching how a leaf falls
the summer hours are fleeting

Fool

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Hours pass by with dragging feet,
the time runs slow, the hour glass damp
and all because I just don’t know
how and where you are today
and did I say a word that hurt?
Unwitting, blind, and stupid,
a fool will always maim himself.

The snow outside seems less white
the moon by clouds is hidden.
I search for light and find none.
I build a fire, a beacon,
and hope that, whatever I did,
I may be forgiven.
A fool will always blame himself.