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Tag: time

The Echo Cages: rubai

You can twist and turn them round
and then pretend they are profound,
but words are just like prison bars
constructing cages out of sound

we carry with us, though we are
fine specks of dust from the small stars
flung out and free in space and time.
We dare not travel quite that far.

We seek the edges, so we climb
until no longer in our prime,
and then, collapse back into sleep,
almost like death, but more sublime.

We use our words to laugh and weep,
and waste them, thinking they are cheap.
By this illusion we are bound,
just echoes in a boundless deep.

27 Jun 2025

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The Passing Game

When someone says we’re out of time, so what?
What difference does one more minute make,
if it’s just on or off, open or shut,
and more of just the same old tired mistakes?

When someone says we’re out of time, does that
mean everything so far is done in vain,
as if one’s whole lifespan’s a welcome mat
for one more doorway labeled “Try Again”?

When someone says we’re out of time, just think:
so much can happen in a minute’s span.
There in the space between two quick eye-blinks
eternity awaits your stretched out hand.

When someone says we’re out of time, hold on,
and just because the clocks have stopped to run
that every opportunity is gone.
If you get just a moment, choose this one.

When someone says we’re out of time, alas,
if only there were more of life than this,
remember, neither water nor the glass
sees anything half-empty or remiss.

When someone says we’re out of time, watch out!
They’re trying to convince you it’s the end,
and in that final moment, raise some doubt
that we are all impermanent, my friend.

When someone says we’re out of time, beware,
they want your share of minutes for their own,
as if there isn’t time enough to spare
between just what you see, and what is shown.

When someone says we’re out of time, big deal.
The end and the beginning are the same.
Who cares that you might miss the big reveal:
all life is just a moment’s passing game.

26 Jun 2025

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Outside of Time: rondelet

We’re out of time,
past the hour when clocks expire.
We’re out of time,
beyond this moment’s final chime.
We can exist, if we desire,
right now – and never age or tire.
We’re out of time.

We’re out of time.
When the last flame has left the fire
we’re out of time.
In desperation, on we climb,
the dreams to which our hearts aspire
still waiting, listening to that liar:
we’re out of time.

We’re out of time,
past all that counting, muck and mire.
We’re out of time,
Where all the world exists in rhyme
and we can join in with the choir,
with nothing left us to acquire:
we’re out of time.

26 Jun 2025

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No Time: rimas dissolutas

There is no time, we cannot start again.
The clocks do not run backwards on command,
nor do the years reverse their gears on queue.

You cannot substitute a now for then,
nor rearrange the instance where you stand.
There is no try again, just simply do.

Besides, who wants to just relive the past,
imagining again those glory days
or that crushing defeat? Who needs the stress?

It’s only memory that really lasts,
until it disappears into a haze
that we call history. Well, more or less.

There is no time but now, and it exists
for just this moment only, and no more.
What starts must surely finish when it’s done.

So let it go. It’s useless to resist.
Besides, what good is all forever for?
There is a thing as having too much fun.

20 Jun 2025

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Watching the Sunset: rannaigheacht ghairid

Who am I
to wonder at earth and sky
from such a small, useless spot?
I’ve got bigger fish to fry.

It seems odd,
to ponder fate, time and god,
to waste time at such a game.
All the same, my plan’s not flawed.

Honestly.
What other way could life be?
There’s so much of it to do,
and when it’s through, we are free.

Who can tell
what harm’s done to sit a spell,
and just watch the setting sun?
When it’s done, the day ends well.

19 Jun 2025

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Connecting Flights: ottava rima

Against the current swims the steadfast one
who thinks to beat the ocean at its game.
What starts as just a wager made in fun
becomes, after an hour, much the same
as boasting that you could stare down the sun.
You cannot win. Admit it. There’s no shame
in realizing you are very small,
and not much worry to the world at all.

Against the pull of time, our lives spin out
and at the end, our threadless, empty spools
have sewn us neither certainty nor doubt,
but just the simple winding sheet of fools,
that wraps up both the whisper and the shout
and never bothers teaching us the rules.
That threadbare piece of cloth becomes our shroud.
It’s all the carry-on we are allowed.

17 Jun 2025

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Who Really Knows: mondo

What is the point? A blue flower opens.
Who sees a flower? The sky is cloudless.

Where are we going? A wave tickles the sand.
Who feels the current? The wind tastes salty.

Why do we not know? A butterfly passes.
Who sees tomorrow? The moment is endless.

09 Jun 2025

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