22 November 2022 · Uncategorized
Time
Time
I don’t know if I believe in
dead people looking down,
the scrutiny in your frown,
the feelings that compound,
an aching, weary head.
Nor the tragedy of your death .
The latency of time,
The gift, the present, the divine.
The moment where you drift,
the old memory that you ditched.
The guilt that comes wailing back in from behind,
with no real concept of time.
Yes time.
Time is a lapse, a vacancy , a trap,
a minute, a figment, a segment, a sun god,
a silver moon submerging into gloom.
What is time anyway? But a forever ending chain,
an incessant domain, an ache, a pain, a reminder you’re insane.
Just a body,
Just a shell,
something else a
shadow can’t foretell.
Body broken,
body tired,
body frozen
And expired .
Head marks and dentures ,
scrutiny and ventures.
It goes on and on, until the feeling has gone,
and you turn your head in like a crocus.
You dissipate into vague, blue numbers ,
where you may walk freely unencumbered .
It’s dangerous outside,
I’m so infused by my religion,
that I’d forgotten my own opinion.
As I watch your eyes burrow deeper in your head,
I see the clouds turn a deeper shade of red.
I’m renewed, I’m revived, I’m alive.
Even in death, and outside of time,
I can feel the energy subside,
as we rise again.
We resonate,
we smile,
with no feeling
or denial.
But what is time anyway?
A forever ending chain,
an incessant domain,
a latency, a gift?
or the moment where you drift?
You spend so much time, wasting time,
just to make time.
Yet, time is all you have,
a paradox that you thought you’d hacked.
The enemy you thought you’d cracked.
a vicious circle in a wheel , whose castings are made of steel.
You can’t teach time how to feel.
For time is a lapse,
a vacancy , a trap.
A minute, a figment,
a segment,
a sun god,
a dial,
a silver moon ,
submerging into gloom.
A lullaby we mourn in , a concept, a threat,
another day adorning.
A remedy we are born in, and often,
a circumstance ,we are torn in.
Time – The ultimate epitome of doom and gloom.
It’s the worry of things ending way too soon.
And how much time is time?
And is there enough?
When the reigns wear tough, how do we know
we’ve achieved all we must?
For time is of the essence
in which there is no control,
a purgatorial suffering
a burning black hole.
A numbing compulsion, that dismembers your soul
A stimulant, a sentence, a bewilderment of penitence.
You can’t always resolve the calamities that make up a whole.
But time, oh time, it will take its toll.
So, disarm your body
dissuade your thoughts,
For it is just a shell, a membrane,
another thing that we’re taught.
That’s really all it is, an analogy that’s been bought.
Managed by a word called time,
that echoes glimmers and flickers of divine ,
where destruction and coercion are gracefully benign.
We are just bodies,
stupid shells
wasting our time,
worrying,
about a place
called hell.
But how can you even tell?
Maybe you are already there:
The diversion of black and white,
That disintegrates into fight or flight
Summons a space time can’t foretell.
The mental affliction,
the terminal addiction,
the consecutive restriction ,
and self-serving infliction.
are the opponents of losing time’s spell.
Time is time and something,
has to make up everything.
For it casts dispersions,
where the wind runs riot,
at the centre of your thoughts
when the world stands quiet.
And all these things take time
and time is wasting time
failing the divine.
But time is just time.
Poem Copyright © Lindsay Ullmann 2022 All rights reserved
8 September 2021 · Art
We are made of stars
We are made of stars
Aches and pains, mimics and strains.
Fall from the sky.
The colours live, and then they die.
May I choose life, or may I choose death?
Neither I, nor you are blessed.
But, go ahead, swallow, take your last breathe.
Time is just a limit with no means to an end.
The stars, a sacred guide, our honour that no subconscious hides.
If we formulate a track, we’ll never look back.
We’ll go on and on again, with various ruptures, movements and structures.
Lessons to be learnt, until we’ve earnt, until we’ve burnt.
In every seed that grows, is just another capsule of what we used to know.
Fate may be the trick, but those dark memories stick.
Unyielding to let go, the mind is like snow.
But, you look different in the rain,
transparent, closer to my veins.
Perhaps time is telepathy with no hands on the clock,
we tempered and trespassed amongst thoughts we were taught.
I’m a female with no fertile soils, but let my heart sing in the sea with no vacuous animosity.
And as you fall into the bowels of the earth,
I’ll reach for that virile star and become the saviour,
another part of who you once were, another part of the crossing and the blur.
But we won’t disintegrate into nothing,
No, my friend we are not a crumble nor a fragment or a speckle in the sand.
We are part of one, as we formulate a circle, we hold onto God’s hand.
We build a pillar,
we build a quest,
a demeanour until we’ve figured out the rest.
Time is without limit until you’ve passed the infinite test.
Painting and Poem by Lindsay Ullmann – Copyright © Lindsay Ullmann 2021 All rights reserved
