#timepoem

[jtsteiny]

Big Book Pages One Hundred And Fifty Two - ABAW Publishing House - jt-steiny.com - #ducksinarow #words #poem #poetry #timepoem #melodypoem #moneypoetry #rhythm #comics #panelsnarrated #dogdance #dogs #pigsin #piggoo #pigwords #dogs #cows #simplecows #lettersandwords #ok https://www.instagram.com/p/CpDggcRvKGQ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[lunavallefuocopoetry]

L'Amore non teme il tempo⏳🕰️💞 Love does not fear the time . . . #poesiatempo#poesiaamore#antoniomassimorugolo#lovepoem#timepoem#poetrylover#amorenontemeiltempo#lovedoesnotfearthetime#frasibelle#leggerepoesie#scrivereemozioni#booklover#writingemotions#readingpoetry#instapoem#instapoesia (presso Mantua, Italy) https://www.instagram.com/p/CBTbC22CY5i/?igshid=17vts85vi9e64

[poetryhouseblr-blog]

Hindi Poem - Aap 4 Din Time Se Gayab Ho Kar Dekho

(｡♥‿♥｡) Aap 4 Din Time Se Gayab Ho Kar Dekho, Log Apka Naam Tak Bhul Jayenge Insaan Saari Zindagi Iss Yaad Mai Guzaar D...

[gisselstark]

"When as a child I laughed and wept, Time crept. When as a youth I waxed more bold, Time strolled. When I became a full grown man, Time RAN. When older still I daily grew, Time FLEW. Soon I shall find, in passing on, Time gone. O Christ! wilt Thou have saved me then? Amen." - Henry Twells

[theundercover-poet]

In One Minute

11:59 pm in one minute, in 60 seconds, the day will be over and a new one will began. today will be yesterday, and tomorrow will become today. it's quite surprising, how all the things you said, all the things you did, became a part of the past, they became merely a memory, a moment to never forget. time is a gift use it wisely, it comes so soon and leave so quickly. today is ending, but tomorrow has just begun. in one minute, time will start again.                                   12:00 am Today. -megan demuth

[doorwaydance-blog]

calendar feelings   (january) some months begin   like this: i midnight kiss in a corner i twelve times kissed the first boy i loved. the hot tub is salt reflections. we drive the desert in silence, mouthing music as if it is gum. these weeks are gummy— each city sticks to the next: brine valley pacific lines seeped tea abbeys. i dance in the sundown light even though my arch hurts & i have forgotten what it feels like to move, to betray home with parched eyes.   (february)   if we begin with blue rain, it will all fog. cheap wine, flower wine, wine he buys me the night he finds my doorstep. we make floor love this month; it is carpet war.   everyone is fighting for something. chase dies & it all bursts: the beginning of spring is interrupted blooming.   the paris streets are green & we flit the streets in black, eat ghosts in bed for hours. i have snuck into this pent house. i have snuck into this city for coffee and flaky butter & all the myths of the rodin gardens:   every stone is human, & it is okay to look back with an apple wedged between my jaw each night and noon.   (march)   store street espresso is four blocks from my room. if you walk ten minutes on gower you may find a stone bench with a man in torn shorts, eating flowers. but i cannot draw a map of this city. too much is sketched underground.   (april)   i admit, april is difficult to date. we are travelling. we are caught between images, culled only in city light: our tongues and bones too lost to write what city is.   (may)   it all leaks. it is as if the earth has paused mid-pivot & the sun has moved closer & we can’t tell time of day.   these hours are april transposed:             & in april, we eat eggs with wine on stone corners.             we cry below a bridge.             we take a train to milan & fly to berlin.             we buy cortados from airport vending machines at 4 am.             we live on the 6th floor. we sleep in nine cities.             we decide to be friends. we pick keys             to the roof and scale the wall. we are falling             on street corners. we are locked             out. we are locked into this moving. i kiss             these town walls and they build a cardboard             tree house in my dreams.               i fly home drawing squares,             smelling of espresso and rain fall.   (june)   this is a waiting time. they can’t find my visa in the stacks of paper. i drive home with my brother, but we don’t live in our house anymore. the u-shaped hills are calling and my heart feels four years old. i fly to see my grandmother because she is sick but doesn’t know it.     (july)   we celebrate her birthday toasting ginger drinks with cardamom rims. my lips are sugar and i believe in astrology this time of year. the stars misalign & we are drunk in the vineyards.   (august)   this month is phone dead. this month is spider bites. this month is sunrise sunset beers on the stoop, sideways glances. this month happens in a stranger’s friend’s room. this month happens in his car, happens four years ago. this month is dragged across nebraskan plains. this month is an unsettled midwestern sky—a blue dust arch.   (september)   here, everything is tapping wood, is re-beginning, is foam.   (october)   we fly to austin for music and iced coffee caramel drinks. this is a muddy fall & i say what i didn’t mean twenty nine months ago. he knows only where to put hands,  place eyes, squeeze limes with tart lips. i am twenty two this month, in a room i thought i’d never be.    (november)   there is one day i remember best: waking on their floor on a pink mattress, meeting her for americanos & seeping egg toast, walking the Chelsea market for whiskey caramels & picking books & postcards, highline city light, the line between afternoon and evening, margaritas & subway buzz.   (december)   it is hard to write something so close. time is unwordable in this way.  it rains in the sun. we drive the salt hills kissing in the trunk. we ride the ferry city underground. i am not wanting calls, wanting to call. i am on the street corner, maybe needing home, maybe wanting water. it is hard to see the surface.