Play with time. Some ideas.
-Begin your writing with Time is...
-Write about learning to tell time or your first watch.
-Write about a significant time in your life.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Time
Time is Cinderella in a round case fastened to my wrist
with a powder blue leather band.
Time is my father holding his alarm clock in his big hands
with me at his side, Cinderella on my arm, explaining.
Time is when to get up, go to school, take a bath, fall asleep.
Time is hands, circling, circling, in a forever dance.
Time is the big hand, thinking it can tell everyone what to do
but it’s only there for a minute and always always
it has something to say about the little hand.
Time is never the big hand by itself
even when Cinderella drowned
in the bathtub still buckled to my wrist
and even when my father said it was time for him to leave us.
Time is to write Cinderella a brand new fairy tale
one that doesn’t require rescue, a prince or a happily every after.
Time is someone else’s until you learn to tell it.
Time is to lose track of her––her hands, big and little
and even the sweeping fairy wand of the seconds.
Time is to drag around like a pull toy every day every hour
thumping through the house behind you.
Time is as incessant as a baby’s cry.
Time is not to waste, but to ignore
to stop keeping her prisoner fastened to my wrist
when my hands are always underwater, in the sink, in the bath
in the kiddie pool, holding on to mother-daughter time.
Time is to hear my children say remember the time…
and half the time I don’t.
Time is told by bodies—crawling, walking, dancing, graduating.
The hands of time play tricks.
Endless yearlong days later seem like minutes
a pile of sand in the bottom of a timer
I’d like to turn over and live through again
understanding this time that no time lasts for all time.
with a powder blue leather band.
Time is my father holding his alarm clock in his big hands
with me at his side, Cinderella on my arm, explaining.
Time is when to get up, go to school, take a bath, fall asleep.
Time is hands, circling, circling, in a forever dance.
Time is the big hand, thinking it can tell everyone what to do
but it’s only there for a minute and always always
it has something to say about the little hand.
Time is never the big hand by itself
even when Cinderella drowned
in the bathtub still buckled to my wrist
and even when my father said it was time for him to leave us.
Time is to write Cinderella a brand new fairy tale
one that doesn’t require rescue, a prince or a happily every after.
Time is someone else’s until you learn to tell it.
Time is to lose track of her––her hands, big and little
and even the sweeping fairy wand of the seconds.
Time is to drag around like a pull toy every day every hour
thumping through the house behind you.
Time is as incessant as a baby’s cry.
Time is not to waste, but to ignore
to stop keeping her prisoner fastened to my wrist
when my hands are always underwater, in the sink, in the bath
in the kiddie pool, holding on to mother-daughter time.
Time is to hear my children say remember the time…
and half the time I don’t.
Time is told by bodies—crawling, walking, dancing, graduating.
The hands of time play tricks.
Endless yearlong days later seem like minutes
a pile of sand in the bottom of a timer
I’d like to turn over and live through again
understanding this time that no time lasts for all time.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Writing Prompt 11
Find a scripture you've always thought strange––Ezekiel in the valley of dry bones was my choice––pull on the thread of theme from the scripture and allow it to appear in poetry or prose in an entirely different setting.
Zeke Can't Dance
Zeke borrows a trick from God
Puts on a record
Makes dry bones dance
In my living room
Zeke divines blood
And bone between us
When what exists
Are brittle fragments
Best left unexhumed
He tries to strip us
From love's grave clothes
I want to believe he can
My flesh and bone
Long to dance
In the living room
Sinewy breath
Pulsing blood
Revived by Zeke's bones
The record skips
The beat is off
Zeke's sharp elbows
And bony protrusions
Jab
We fall
Flesh away
Revealing the valley
Between us
Prophetless and bone dry
©Cathy Warner
Puts on a record
Makes dry bones dance
In my living room
Zeke divines blood
And bone between us
When what exists
Are brittle fragments
Best left unexhumed
He tries to strip us
From love's grave clothes
I want to believe he can
My flesh and bone
Long to dance
In the living room
Sinewy breath
Pulsing blood
Revived by Zeke's bones
The record skips
The beat is off
Zeke's sharp elbows
And bony protrusions
Jab
We fall
Flesh away
Revealing the valley
Between us
Prophetless and bone dry
©Cathy Warner
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