Your vanquishing ticks
Have betrayed me with
Have held me hopeful
Of some special
Your metronomic ticks
Corrupt and beguile!
You spoil the
Fashioned by Love
When I can
When the final
I shall be
Poem by BR Chitwood – Aug. 13, 2018
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The Clock and the Car
-Some Scintillating Dialogue-
(Dedicated to John Howell – My Dialogue Hero!)
“What’s with the clock and hammer, Henry?”
“You don’t want to know, Helen!”
“You’re angry! Why are you angry? Stop walking, Henry! Talk to me! Your face is flushed!”
“I told you, you don’t want to know! Move! Out of my way!”
“My God! Henry, you’re going to crush the clock with the hammer? Henry, stop and talk to me!”
Back door slams!
Guess he’s on one of his rampages! Why bother when he’s in these moods? He has to put his fire out! That’s the way He’s made, God help him!
I’m glad we have a few acres here – wouldn’t want neighbors hearing his pounding and yelling out there! Time for my ear plugs, Social Media and the reading room upstairs.
Poor Henry! In thirty minutes, or less, he will be all loving and sweet again, asking forgiveness for his fiery temper! I love him so much, and it is kind of a comical break to the day… He’s so darned predictable. I’m surprised he hasn’t hammered his laptop…he’s threatened often enough! Oh, well, Henry got his genes at a ‘pawn shop’ back room!
He’s so sweet most of the time! It’s that blasted meltdown he inherited from his father (he owned the pawn shop!). Papa Gregory died of an abdominal aneurism! Henry gets his regular medical tests for those ‘meanies’, but his doctor tells him each check-up all his systems are ‘go’!
It’s been about thirty minutes, and this book is just not wrapping me all up in its narrative. Henry has got me spoiled! He’s an author who can really paint several portraits in a book – he’s written fourteen, working on fifteen. If his anger with the laptop doesn’t kill him first!
Guess I better check on him! It’s really quiet all of a sudden! “Henry! Henry!” (Gotta get that stair-step creak nailed down!) “Henry, are you down here?”
Darn, forgot to take my earplugs out!
“Henry, why are you sitting all alone here in the living room?”
“Cause my mistress didn’t show up for our afternoon play-party! Why you asking? I’m relaxing, having a Willet on the rocks…it’s not Maker’s Mark but it gets the job done! Thought you were gone to the store?”
“And, why would you think that, Henry? Told you earlier I wasn’t going to the store until tomorrow.”
“Well, where did you go?”
“I’ve been upstairs in the library, reading, you old fool! Did you get over your anger spell with that clock?”
“Well, yeah, and I’m sorry about that…Time is just flying by! I look at the darned clock and it’s almost 5PM – it seems it ought to be still AM… don’t like clocks not even a little bit! But, hang on a doggone minute, Helen!”
Henry is finishing off his Willett on the rocks in one gulp and getting out of the LazyBoy in a big hurry!
“Now, where’re you going, Henry?”
“Just a minute, Helen!”
He’s going toward the front door!
“Henry, stop! Where are you going?”
He’s looking out the side window at the front door!
“Henry, will you please tell me what you’re doing?”
“Where’s the car, Helen?”
“In the driveway, Henry!”
“Sorry, hissy Helen. There is no car in our driveway!”
“Oh, My God, Henry! The car’s been stolen?!”
“I’m fixing myself another Willett on the rocks, sweet lady, while you talk to the police!”
“What are you mumbling under your breath, Henry? I can hear you here in the living room!”
“Take your best guess, sweetheart! Just keep dialing the phone…the police department, not, 911!”
“The phone is ringing, Henry, at the police department. Come, sit next to me on the love seat while I’m waiting for them to answer.”
“Afraid I might spill some of my Willett on you, Helen. ‘Ain’t’ going to lose a drop of this valuable stuff! You just get our car back!”
Billy Ray Chitwood – February 28, 2018
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TIME of My Life
TIME of My Life
-(A Poetic Moaning)-
Time, Time, Time.
Tick, Tick, Tick.
Are You a merciless menace
Of maddening passing?
Time, Time, Time.
Tick, Tick, Tick.
Can you not slow your pace?
Prithee, can you not provide more
Of your endless ticks?
I yet have books to write,
Poetry to pose a riddle,
Or, think romantic allusions
Of Love and Ventures past!
Why must you be the sole
Arbiter of my Soul, while
I suspect my God might
Approve your ever rapid
Transit through my Dawns
And my restless Eves of Doubts?
Your pendulum swings to and fro
In a mocking remembrance
Of an ambiguous and most
Impassioned wayward passage.
Is it that I have betrayed you?
Or, pray tell, is it that you have
Seduced me with your Lure to
Love’s easy Manipulative ways?
When did you begin your ticking?
Are you synonymous with an
Infinite Divinity noble of promise?
Or, are you but a simple dream
That gives each of us a mare
To ride through a long night,
Some Lottery of Chance?
I plea for more thoughts to
Unscramble – an act doubtlessly
Vainglorious of deed and effort.
© Billy Ray Chitwood –01/23/18
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