Don't look


Don't look

the clock rests gently on it's wooden rounded edge,

rescued one handed and missing it's pendulum.

there's no telling what's been reflected in it's glass.

the memories of clocks only stay

in places where tendrils of smoke from long cigarettes,

kites that broke their string in highest windy flight

from starry ghetto rooftops,

the sound of Mothers singing to themselves alone

and the edges of a new leaf moving inside live.

in this place all broken clocks are royalty,

striding the avenues in top hats with pendulum canes taptapping,

greeting their fellow clock kings.

metronomes flock on city beaches watching waves

in charming velvet and leather carriages with handles on top.

past great hurricane names write themselves sinking into shores

of blown and blasted pyramid edges.

Cracked hourglasses love the opera

leaving trails of sand behind for the mindful to rake

floating in bright orange robes on ohms from ago.

golden gear tables perch eagerly

stacked with large reading glasses.

for this world is bright

and can change suddenly and impermanently.

the queens wear large head dresses made of roman numerals

held up by the attendants with long chimes,

their trailing painted moon and sun disk dresses glitter gold stars.

over there in the castles live the laughter and sighs,

cohabitating quite happily, growing the gardens

of swept cobwebs for weaving fog.

but the best places of all are to be found out forest way

and mountainside.

here are the unuttered lines

that haunted the barely waking.

whispered in mind

certain as brilliant and forgotten,

rilling in the streams of wisdom.

erased drawings are glowing in the rockface

reflecting light of birthday candles in loved children's eyes.

ignore the caves of mourning howls beyond

there are terrible giants of lost wars living there.

nearer to the mountaintop

the dragons and witches fly

over colonies of mapmakers scanning skies

with obsolete cameras.

surreal poetry
Susan Loehe
Susan Loehe
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Susan Loehe
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