Chop, Chop. Chop the wood. Repeat. Chop. Chop. Day ends — Supper. Shower. Sleep too deep. Jarring alarm, awake again. Breakfast. Shower. Sore muscles hurt. Heat eases. More coffee. Uniform and axe. Greet the guys. Say hello — going off. All directions on the forest grid. Each with a partner. Nick is with me. A cadence of chops. Echoes. Chop. Chop. Chop the wood. Split it. Chop, chop. Chop the wood. The trees are felled. Grinding buzzing. Giant chain saw. Felling trees. Cutting logs. Then we chop. Chop, chop. Chop the wood. Lunch. Hungry. Seconds. Chop. Home. Shower. Supper. Eat. Sore muscles. Sleep and dream. Standing there. In her T-shirt. Sweet lips. Short shorts. Gentle laughter. Stroke of hand. Touch. So real. Chop, chop. Chop the wood. Dreaming. She’s gone. Three hours. Then, chop, chop. Chop the wood.
And now, for our prompt (optional, as always). This one sounds simple, but it can be pretty difficult. Today, I challenge you to write a poem that includes a line that you’re afraid to write. This might be because it expresses something very personal that makes you uncomfortable – either because of its content (“I always hated grandma”), or because it seems too emotional or ugly or strange (“I love you so much I would eat a cockroach for you”). Or even because it sounds too boring or expected (“You know what? I like cooking noodles and going to bed at 7 p.m.”). But it should be something that you’re genuinely a little scared to say. Happy (or if not happy, brave) writing!
I tried to measure out the day. Spread my time as it were equally. But time doesn’t stretch easily. It appears and then disappears in moments. There are seconds ticking by.
Some of them are meaningful and some of them are small and incidental. You never know the meaning of each second.
You can’t stretch time backwards; you can only move on. Until you sit in bed at night and realize the whole day is gone.
What tomorrow brings is a mystery that enfolds? What if something unexpected occurred? What if the day wasn’t usual at all.
And you can’t stop time either, although sometimes you can get stuck in a moment and it feels like time stood still.
Moments and memories, clippings from the magazine of life and stories spread across the wall. Taped and cut hastily, with little bits of memoriabilia here and there.
A movie ticket here, a picture drawn here, a cut out of an image of your tattoo. There are locks of hair, old poems and essays, photographs, and the first outfit you ever wore after you were born.
That is when the moments came to be and stuttered and started as you rode up on both feet, developed a voice, and learned to read and write. When you wrote the last essay for your Bacholer Degree.
And every now and then I here time ticking in the night. I wonder if have spent it right?
If I can divine some meaning from life so far. Make the seconds count more and make certain memories freeze.
But all hope is in the future and I’m looking at poinsettias on the coffee table. I think life life is something like a poinsettia.
It’s lovely to behold and you need to maintain it and grow well; but for those who take piece out your life, who bite in and destroy you. They can’t handle the poison from a plant so beautiful at Christmas.
They inhale the parts of you that are toxic and we all have these parts. They are a bitter pill to swallow and can rip another person to pieces.
But better are the people who have always been here and see the poinsettia lose all it’s leaves until it is baron and stick -like.
Better they see a person in a moment for themselves and accept them anyway. They have seen us beautiful and they have seen us weak.
Then we know in a second, those who loved us first.
” How much time until I need to go to work,” you ask your partner as you get ready in the morning. ” What time do I pick my son up from soccer” you ask your sons coach. “How much time do I have?” you ask your doctor after discovering you have cancer in your bones. Time. There is never enough of it yet we seem to be overwhelmed by how much time we have.
” I should be doing something, I feel bored” you say as time ticks by slowly. ” There is such a long time between rounds in play off hockey” your husband says thinking the time off will spoil his teams victory run. “I wish the time would just fly by” an expectant mother feels as she labours for the twenty-forth hour.
However, if I were to think about it I would say we have a great deal more trouble with not having enough time in today’s society as we fill every moment we have with work, gym, and meetings; piano lessons and sports for the kids inbetween school and homework and friends; preparing healthy meals, and keeping your white picket fence house clean and designer looking; all the time we spend on technology googling, answering emails, typing documents, creating presentations, tweeting, face booking and text messaging; there is never enough time to do it all.
Time is something of an interesting term because it will exist long after we and our descendants are gone. What is time? That’s a hard question maybe a philosophy professor or physicist could answer exactly but I don’t think so.
Time is what we live in, what limits us from living to long, what limits are cells from regenerating after 120 years if we make it that far. Time is moments we wish to remember forever, it is memories lost to itself, it has a beginning — a Big Bang from an intelligent designer I believe — but we don’t know of times end. We can’t function without time, it would be impossible.
I guess since we don’t know how much time we have we had best use it well, to help others, and make the world better for a future time. Because we can’t change the past we need to live with passion because every day draws us closer to the end of time as we know it.
At the end of that time I see God and Heaven, a place that is timeless. What you see, you must decide in what time you have.