the clock

There was a clock that clinked and clang every hour, every day.
Each time I looked up into that weather-beaten face,
I saw time, walking, slipping, fluttering…away.

It had peeling brown paint, slapped onto its circular frame. Even glass glazed over the long black numbers. It reflected little spotlights onto the pavement where I stood, gazing up in awe and reverence. How resolutely the longest black arm moved, from mark to mark, stealing the hours away. Never speeding up, never slowing down. Time. Always, on and on, without one thought of the rushing world that tried to defeat it, or the plodding moments that belong to childhood and aged wrinkles. Somehow people went around it, flattened it to their liking, but it never really changed. It swindled them. In the end every person found that time had gone on, whether they had acknowledged it or not. So I stood, running my finger against the rough stones that made its fortress to the sky, and wondered.
Of course time still went on, even as I thought on it. My childhood years, though made of days and days could still be stated in a few small sentences, a few small memories of the things I noticed in the blur. They stood out as a flash of fresh color, firm in a place of a different making; where color was not real and firmness a myth, the place of forgotten insignificance. Familiar and happy faces there were, swing sets, sand, sea shells, wind, reading, writing until my hand ached, trees, blackberries, shadows, tall doors, cold water, soft grass, sudden rain, smiling dolls, and pretending, always imagining things up. I inquisitively watched the quiet moments that stole over people, when they pulled into themselves and thought of time that went on without them. Just a moment though. Then the blankly staring eyes would flicker and come back into focus. Or were the only true moments of focus when they drew back and looked hard at the road in time they had beaten?
I walked on through the days. Things I never wished to end died in their tracks, leaped from my grasp like water that slips and glides past. I began to notice that there were things I had that I did not appreciate until they were spent. I began to think of the moment as it happened. I would place each beautiful thing that came, into that other world of color and firmness, so as to never loose them to the forgotten insignificance. It served me well. I found ways to cheat time.
There was more than friends and games that needed savoring though. There were deeper things I found you could loose, in a deeper chasm than distance; trust, love, innocence, youth, even the giant life. The setting sun of my youth did come and I knew that I could only keep as much as I saved.
There I stood on the pavement, gazing up in awe and reverence. How resolutely the longest black arm moved, from mark to mark, stealing the hours away. Never speeding up, never slowing down. Time…and as I moved into a new place in life, I clutched a satchel full of time. There was no way to stop time, but there was a way to keep it, hold it in my hand. Memories of the moments…there I could hold it, in my hand, in my head, and in my heart.

Learning

I stepped into the room, onto a grey meadow with faded flowers and looked around me carefully, curiously. Everywhere I looked there were colorful signs pasted on the faded yellow walls with an abundant supply of ink to cover them. I saw the blackboard and let out a sharp breath. It was the symbol of learning to my young mind. Ominously large and dark, it quite covered the entire far wall of the room, inspiring my awe as well as my fear. Desks with stacks of books beside them and a conspicuous white paper resting atop each filled the rest of the space efficiently. I swelled with pride when my eyes found my name written neatly among the rest. It sat there expectantly, beckoned amiably. “Hello desk.” I breathed. I crept over to it, my animation rising with each tread. I ran my hand over its smooth wood and shivered. There was a golden pencil lying next to my name, sharpened to the utmost point. I picked it up with pleasure, touching the tip of it to feel the prick. I picked up one of, “My books.” I whispered. It was heavy. I turned the pages with trembling fingers, exploring the painted pictures of learning with eager eyes. I saw frogs and tigers, girls and boys, trees and boats, water and sky. The pages smelled sweet, like dry rain.
There were a few other curious faces, standing by their desks, also examining the foreign but lovely environment. We smiled at each other placidly, not yet acquainted with the hostility and rivalry that devours with age.
“Good morning children. You may all take your seats so we can begin” I turned and saw vibrant, wandering eyes surrounded by short, black locks. Her smile was heartening to us, the timid greens of knowledge. She reminded me of my mother. She was clad in a flowery dress which I thought very pretty. She strolled to the front of the class and sat down at her great station of instruction. “Since this is your first day of school, there will be no real work.” Her voice was calm and charming but firm, flowing out from somewhere deep inside her. “I’ll be introducing myself and then each of you will tell us a little bit about yourselves as well.” We proceeded through the introductions. I found she was Miss. Lewis. I tried to memorize each of my classmates’ names as they were revealed, but I had difficulty remembering every one. My turn came and I declared my name and birthday unabashedly before the crowd, hearing the strangeness of my voice against the silence. I had not yet learned to be shy.
Lunchtime came and I found I could make friends quickly. Four of us girls obtained a lunch in the cafeteria, and sat down to a metal picnic table to laugh and chatter. I thought cafeteria food a banquet fit for kings. One of the girls was Gabby. At recess she and I begged admittance to the boys’ soccer game. We stuck by each other at once because of our similarities. I liked her. Back in class we played games and sang songs. Although no “real work” had begun, I learned much and found it was exhilarating. It was a wonderful day. As I jumped down the school steps, gloriously exiting the school day, the sky sang above me.
On the way home in the car mother asked me how my first day of school was. I shrugged and said casually, “Just like any other day I guess.” Then, matter-of-factly, as if I had conquered the world, “Except today I grew up a little.”

Ever Christmas Light

last night i loved you to pieces/this morning you put my heart/together again with yours/they fit so perfectly...i had to cry

and that's why it hurts so much/when we're torn apart/and that's why it hurts so much/when we're torn apart...

the stars are looking so real tonight/they make me think of you/and how you're real/but sometimes your light fades a little...

and i become afraid/i wonder where you've gone/and i become afraid/i wonder where you've gone...

to a place i can't see/but today you shine/but today you shine

and there's not a brighter Christmas light/ever/and there's not a brighter Christmas light/ever...

and that's why it hurts so much/when we're torn apart/and that's why it hurts so much/when we're torn apart...

and i become afraid/i wonder where you've gone...

to a place i can't see/but today you shine/but today you shine

and there's not a brighter Christmas light/ever/and there's not a brighter Christmas light/ever...

Grandmere

trying...trying to get on without it.
trying to go on with something to hold onto.
living...living in this place with no air to breathe.
clinging...clinging to a hope that has deserted me.

bringing...bringing home the scent
of old photographs and flowers that grow by the side of the road.
stinging...stinging tears fall down.
won't let me alone.
but you're smiling in the dreams i have.

gone to the day when you will go away.
when you will stay away.
when you'll move your lips but
sound won't come out.

gone to the day when you won't come away
when you will stay away
when you can't answer me
anymore...anymore.

dying...that's what happens sometimes.
what a terrible dream, is what it all seems
cringing...cringing to hear those words again;
that you're gone. that it's over. there's no more time.

crying...crying we are for you.
what a heart to be lost. what your life didn't cost.
i'd pay anything just to bring
you back again.
but who could pay the price for your life?

---

trying...try to get on without it.
trying to go on with something to hold onto.
living...live in this place with no air to breathe
clinging...cling to a hope that has deserted me.

bringing...bring home the memory
of music notes and coffe and guitars
stinging...they fall down my face.
won't let me alone.
but you're crying in the dreams i have.