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

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The Oppression of Father Time*

24c26-fr-time

(image by crilleb50)

 

The days weigh heavily upon him.
He hunches against the necessity of change.

Seasons are not his friend.

Just when he’s locked in to the way things tick,
the leaves begin to fall,
signalling the call
to wind down.

Nothing for it,
but to buck up and reach for those hands
that never fail.

Time to pull the tides from their safety nets,
and wash away all traces of the past.

Where’s my wrench, he asks himself,
and unbenches to his duty.

His rumpled suit, his derby—
all camouflage to the naked truth:

Time marches on.

Kat Mortensen©2013

*I have written a few pieces with Father Time as the subject. If you’re keen to read more, type “Father Time” in the search box and click.

The Occupation of Father Time

Daily, he finds fault,
with the world,
and reaches for the tool
locked up
in his supply-vault
(thinking he is Mr. Fix-it).

He cranks the massive bolts
with his combination wrench—
tries to unlock
the secret, but Time always
gets the best of him.
(Tick-Tock.)

His workload
persists.

Never, do we think of him,
or stop to say, thanks!
We just moan, about the long
days—the weeks that lag.

He polishes the tool
with a dusty rag,
and calls it a day.

He knows, he is up against it;
his efforts can come to nothing,
and try as he might,
he can never turn
it back,

but he won’t
quit.

Kat Mortensen©2012

Originally posted in response to this image by Robert and Shana Parke-Harrison:

ftime

The Return of Father Time: Magpie #189

image: crilleb50

The Oppression of Father Time

The days weigh heavily upon him.
He hunches against the necessity of change.

Seasons are not his friend.

Just when he’s locked in to the way things tick,
the leaves begin to fall,
signalling the call
to wind down.

Nothing for it,
but to buck up and reach for those hands
that never fail.

Time to pull the tides from their safety nets,
and wash away all traces of the past.

Where’s my wrench, he asks himself,
and unbenches to his duty.

His rumpled suit, his derby—
all camouflage to the naked truth:

Time marches on.

Kat Mortensen©2013

Visit The Mag for further explorations of this image.

How Father Time Spends New Year’s Eve

Photo adapted. Click image for original source.

We think he’s in a panic,

As the world turns over to a new year;
We think he must be stressed,
With the manic countdown 
To another series 
Of daily grinds.
In fact, he is not.
No.  He sleeps well,
As the bells sound;
For this time he knows,
It’s out of his hands.

Kat Mortensen©2013Creative Commons Licence

Father Time* Comes In From The Rain

The tide is in,
and time rides on;

the wedges hold strong,
while Father Time
takes his tea.

When the squall halts
and roygbiv crack the sky

it’s back to work,
keeping the edge straight—

wrenching gravity
into submission.

Kat Mortensen©2012Creative Commons Licence

*The saga of Father Time continues.  Read the original poem, “The Occupation of Father Time”

Both this poem and the original one linked above are the direct result of images posted at The Mag #144. Please visit the link for other excellent pieces inspired by the following image this week:

“Squall” by Andrew Wyeth (1986)

The Occupation Of Father Time

(Listen to me read this poem)
 

The Occupation Of Father Time

Daily, he finds fault,
with the world,
and reaches for the tool
locked up
in his supply-vault,

(thinking he is Mr. Fix-it).

He cranks the massive bolts
with his combination wrench—
tries to unlock
the secret, but Time always
gets the best of him.
(Tick-Tock.)

His workload
persists.

Never, do we think of him,
or stop to say, thanks!
We just moan, about the long
days—the weeks that lag.

He polishes the tool
with a dusty rag,
and calls it a day.

He knows, he is up against it;
his efforts can come to nothing,
and try as he might,
he can never turn
it back,

but he won’t
quit.

Kat Mortensen©2012 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

Image by Robert and Shana Parke-Harrison

The above poem is the result of the image-prompt above. This can be found here at The Mag #109. Please visit the link for other interpretations of the image. Thanks!