Dancing With Time
This poem is related (only by marriage) to another poem, "Time To Kill", published on June 1st. There I was waiting on a train. Here I am in Heathrow Airport.
Little Miss Second is a snit. Time is female and a femme fatale who will have her way with you on the dance floor and off. I like genders cause they instantly create personification and make me laugh. From all points of the compass, time is ludicrous concept and yet it runs our lives.
Dancing With Time How long have we been waiting? It must have begun when we first chopped up Time into little bits. I wonder which came first, the hour, the minute or the second? I’d like to think they all arrived together, a tad late, (a typical squabbling family) with hour married to minute and second behaving badly spoilt by too much attention on her every moment. Is it any wonder so many of us find her utterly exasperating? Prior to the clock was anyone ever late? Long ago Time was fluid, poetry in motion. She had a lovely, languid stride and terrific rhythm. From daybreak to sunset she flowed unimpeded by count. But, then again, the great dancers don’t need to count and after dark, it’s not really about the dancing anymore. 6/23
Part the process of converting notes to formal screen.
I once opened up a clock and got rid of the minute and second hands. Can’t say it was life changing but I think I should do it again.
"But, then again,
the great dancers
don’t need to count
and after dark, it’s not really
about the dancing anymore."
Funny, imaginative, philosophical, spicy ... all the good stuff! Thanks, Weston.