Poetry In Time
By Zachary Howlett
Poetry in Time
Zachary Howlett
Copyright 2010 by Zachary Howlett
Smashwords Edition
Poetry in time
By Zachary Howlett
Rhythmic writing, Melodic notes, the Harmony of Speech
My Entrance can be made, Women, Children, and Man, My Benediction
Emotions are calling, Hate and Happiness, To have sympathy
When Time Became my Enemy
Frozen with movement, feet locked in rhythms,
What never-ending repetition,
The few ways out of this place become paradise,
When I see the sun's warmth
contrasted by the crisp morning
I feel a difference, and realize perception.
Unbalanced
I am sure, but not how they want me to be.
I am only unbalanced in that I don't know how long I can stand this,
and how much longer they want me to stay.
They want my sureness to describe how they have helped,
But nothing they have done has changed me emotionally
Trust
People have a calling of not listening,
Of thinking they know.
Even when told that they may not,
Love can get in front and behind,
So can pride, jealousy, and anger,
It is trust I look for
A Wink
What is a wink?
A half-blink in this eye.
When a mind finds another who is it that thinks?
A desperate attempt not to fall.
Shining at the voice that comes along,
A smile that could last a life,
Two notes that create a song.
Sly is the hope in the face of a wrong.
A wink is that hope beyond a moment,
Can't it not be taken or taken aback after it is sent?
The quickest way to vent,
Is a lifelong friend.
Reinventification
Which words would sound right when compressed,
as tight as a block if possible,
Definitely not these words.
If you slow down, would they become clear?
I do not think so,
If they are written as fast as the hand could speed would they come into realization,
Beyond any others?
Doubt rings true,
I would try anyway, for it is an idea,
Sounds like mist the hand tries to catch
A Voice
Something unshaded can lead dozens out of their murky thoughts, add
melody and you give their hearts a beat to follow. But they expect too
much, they expect embarrassment for mistakes. That is the only thing of
dirt about it.
Wait
All of my time has become this spinster,
I feel it weighing down upon me. I split
into smaller sections to try and make pieces
faster. Only really the opposite is found.
So I write, it does seem to be, stopped minimal.
Lost Connection
To become lost,
Lost in the sun's presence,
lost with the chimes and birds,
A chirp, a bark through a cool day,
Means more than any whisper.
In Cold Blood
I look at the ashes,
All I find is dust.
Slowness
Caught.
In slow.
Freedom is nothing,
Fighting for something, diminished,
Caught,
Too slow.
Forget, figure, fidget,
All to be darkness,
There is nothing to this something.
With
She is gone.
The radiance to never know,
The real so sweet is
Missing before ever found,
My need is not,
The flow is still connection
As a river to find the ocean,
The peace is reaching,
Years or minutes pass,
Eyes do not close,
For she could be as with,
She always is.
Talents
Talent is used time,
And memory
The ability to learn in time,
And to remember those mistakes
Flecks
I feel the mindlessness stretching,
into minutes, hours, even seconds,
Trying to fill such with the arduous sense of intensity I no longer have