SHE LIKES THE MANY FACES OF CLOCKS

1.

She makes time
for the time she has,
should she run out
she’ll wind herself up,
minute by minute!

2.

How many faces can she see?
How much time will she need?
It isn’t continuum greed!
The lady loves clocks.
They knock her socks off!

3.

Digital is all I command.
I can’t stand analog any longer.
The time is stronger in the dark.

4.

Three in the bedroom,
five in the kitchen,
three in the living room,
and my daughter’s room,
and the computer room.
The bathroom has one
in the shape of a toilet seat.
A shower gift from an aunt.
She doesn’t have the heart
to part with it!

5.

Her internal clock
keeps me awake at night.
Right when I think
I’m on the brink of slumber,
she wakes up alarmed.
I sleep with one eye open.
I know it’s coming!

6.

Does anybody really know what time it is?
Does anybody really care?
~ Chicago

She cares about time.
Rarely ever late.
Great at punctuality.
Even with the fragility of life,
my wife is rarely late.
But, one day we will all be!

7.

Every hour on the hour,
our hours are ours.
Every waking minute
I’m taking stock in our
continuous clock.
Tick-Tock,
tick-tock,
tick

8.

Time is fleeting,
it is eating away our days.
If it stays in sync
I think we’ll be okay!

9.

Passing the time
in her company,
I’m finding my peace
in every numbered face I see.
Is it me or is number seventeen
running a bit slow?

10.

I make time
for the time she has,
should she run out
I’ll fall apart,
minute by minute!
There’s no disgrace
in losing face!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik

LOOK AT ME, I’M THE FUNNY MAN

A tear grease painted here on my face
in case the well’s run dry.
The tears of a clown roll down
my bulbous proboscis, sadness
in hiding, providing the greatest spark
on earth to offer my mirth for the joy
of others. It is laughter they are after.
But, it bothers me that I can’t lighten
my own heart. I fall apart and land
flat on my face. Traces of tears
grease painted here, just in case!

© copyright 2013, Walter J Wojtanik

HE HAS HIS MOTHER’S EYES

This sad smile has come honestly
from trial and error, and every glaring
mistake, was one made in
denial of all that I could be,
this ersatz writer; poetic-wanna-be.
But, if it’s in me, it must be true.

And these ears appear to me
to be oversized and the wisest explanation
comes from the frantic tug
by the nuns in school; a rule of thumb
and forefinger, and the lengthening
seems to linger longer, the stronger they were.

This chin has seen its share
of craggy facial hair and crass pokes
with close fists; a glass jaw
that any southpaw could crack
and still lack the seven years bad luck.
The jawbone of this ass was not meant to cushion.

The protruding proboscis is not worth a damn.
The only thing this nose knows
is how to sniff out the business
in which it did NOT belong. The road less traveled
is straighter and more true in comparison
to this garrison of snot and sniffles.

But the one attribute I possess that I cannot despise,
is the sight I’ve seen through my mother’s eyes.
With every vision and cry she expended
in her unending heart, I start to appreciate
the gravity her shoulders carried; the gift
she bestowed on me at birth. Everything I see inspires me.

All that went into me as far as these eyes can see
are all the things that bring an albeit sad smile to my face.
And in case you wonder, that is purely me!

Written for WE WRITE POEMS – PROMPT # 108 – FACE UP TO IT