Sunday, March 20, 2011

Poetry: The Passing of Time

I remember how dreadfully slow the passage of time was when I was younger.  If I wanted something and did not have it, or if I had a task that had to be completed before I could do what I wanted, time seemed to expand almost limitlessly.  A minute was a grievous weight, and an hour's interminable span was a terror.

Here's a poem inspired by that experience.  I dedicate it to every student to whom I've ever given a detention.

The Passing of Time

The quivering tongue of Time
Speaks painfully slow syllables.
With uncompromising face,
He glowers at dazed children.

His nimble, malicious hands,
Untiring throughout the centuries,
Heap burdens harder to bear
Than any devised by Pharisees.

His seconds cascade like rain
On the surface of swollen rivers.
His minutes depend like fruit
Found rotten upon first tasting.

Like hammers in giants' hands,
His hours, arrayed in menace,
Strike mercilessly at those
Who wallow in isolation.

But game, and song,
And food, and sleep,
And work, and love
Will wound Him deep.

So arm yourself,
Young lad or lass,
And you will cause
This Time to pass.

Spend your time wisely today!

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