Father Time Goes On

This year
Father Time keeps his distance.

He’s perched Buddha-style,
high atop a volcano,
somewhere far away.

He’s checking his heavy
pocket-watch regularly,
and listening to Big Ben
with his bionic ear.

He has the fear.

Somehow, he’s let it all
spin out of control:
no more, can he hold on
to the wheels
with mechanical implements-
the ones that keep us on
an even keel.
Other forces, are working now
and his grip is slipping.

Up on his precipice
as the world whirls,
he blinks at some midnight sun,
then turns his back …
and runs.

Kathleen Mortensen © 2016

If you like this poem, search my “Father Time” posts from past years at kat5361.wordpress.com

For Edgar, love Annabel

It was many a year ago, ’tis true,
In a kingdom by the sea,
A maid was I, when right on cue
Arrived Mr. Edgar, A.P.;
And this maiden lived with no other thought
Than of this man to be free.

I was a child, and he was a man;
In this kingdom by the sea;
But he loved with a love—a possessive love—
This Mr. Edgar, A.P.;
With a love he claimed the angels of heaven
Envied of him and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago
In this kingdom by the sea,
I stayed out in the cold night, chilling
Myself, to shed Mr. Edgar, A.P.;
So that my “highborn kinsman” came
In order to set me free,
And shut me up in a sepulchre
Of this kingdom by the sea.

The seraphs, now twice as happy in heaven,
They soon befriended me;
Yes! That was the reason (but no one knew,
In the kingdom by the sea)
For the wind came out of the cloud one night,
And of Edgar I was free.

But his “love” was stranger by far than the love
Of gentlemen saner than he—
Of many more normal than he;
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the devils beneath the dark sea,
Could permit the twit’s obsession
So they hood-winked poor Edgar, A.P..

For the moon never beams without filling my dreams
With the unstable Edgar, A.P.;
And the stars never shine, that I don’t hear him pine
Over poor interred little ol’ me;
And so, all the night-tide, he lies down by the side
Of his “darling”— “his darling”— his life and his “bride”,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
Unaware that they cremated me.

Kathleen Mortensen © 2016