Do you, as I, daily perform an unending juggling act with the hours, grasping at fleeting minutes, feeling, by sundown, famished for time?

Who of us doesn’t wish to artfully turn the wretched clock into origami art that would sit silent and still on the wall and evidence beauty instead of lack?

Were it possible, I would wave my surely magic arms, and weave into the moments a stop gate, then take eternity to tell you, thank you, you were right, and I love you.

No Gown

Are we okay with being alone
With no other soul to hold the ladder
To stand by us, tasting, in the test-kitchen that is life

Allowing, for once, after all the illusion
When we release our grasp and find no one but ourselves

Need we ask why
What mythical stealth robbed us here
Who climbed into this tower, cat-like, to gleefully take

What will we make of it
This secondhand plan that has nothing to do with the tales we were told
A finer legacy, perhaps


Endeavor where smallness 
Says you ought grasp
Stupidly seem to settle

Admit and tell fear
You are in fact, petrified
Let it think it won 

Reach breathlessly then, baby
Heavenward and find
Stardust-covered triumphant arms

*Original Thought Credit: Robert Browning; “Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, Or what’s a heaven for?”