I've been alive for 28 years now,
And my owner has always been very good to me.
Making sure my hands have always kept moving,
And my tick has always tocked.
I've sat on her wall since she was gifted to me
On her 50th birthday by her older sister Sharlene.
The first time she saw me,
She said I was the most beautiful of clocks she had ever seen.
Hand painted with pink and blue roses
And a beautiful shine.
She hugged me in her arms
And for the first time I felt the warmth
Of loves touch.
Like clockwork, the first day of every third month,
She'd take me down off the wall and replace my batteries.
Didn't matter if I needed new ones or not
She always made sure I was alive and well.
...
So if I'm being honest I'm a little concerned,
Because it's now the second day of the third month, and my owner is nowhere to be found.
...
It's been about a week now
I finally understand,
My owner went to bed peacefully
And never woke again.
Her younger sister is packing me away, neatly in a box.
They packed me with a picture of her,
So at least I'm not alone.
...
I'm not sure how much time has passed,
My hands keep skipping beats.
I'm getting kind of tired now,
So I think just like my owner,
It's time for me to go to sleep.
About the Creator
Tressa Rose
On a serious self-discovering, soul-searching journey. Breaking myself out of a stagnant shell and reaching out for my dream of being a writer. Small steps but this is my start! Please help me by commenting your feedback, I'd be grateful!
Keep reading
More stories from Tressa Rose and writers in Poets and other communities.
A Flower Song
Apparently the Aztecs, Toltecs, Chichimecs and other Mexica were crazy about poetry. Despite the book-burning, slaughter, and epidemics that characterized the early stages of the Spanish conquest of the empires of Mexico, some hundreds of poems from the height of their tradition come down to us in Classical Nahuatl, preserved by Nahua and Spanish scholars of the 16th century. One of the most famous poets, Nezahualcoyotl, was a sage-king who opposed the cult of human sacrifice associated with Tezcatlipoca, God of the Smoking Mirror, and favored Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent. Flowers and feathers were the favorite offering of the Plumed Serpent. Moreover, flowers and feathers are a metaphor for poetry. Individual words, scattered petals, the down of tropical birds. The temples of blood sacrifice could be transformed into temples of flower and song. A sublimated offering to the Heart of Earth and the Heart of Sky encapsulated in the Classical Nahuatl kenning for poetry: in xōchitl in cuīcatl, meaning, "the flower and the song." The following poem is part of a longer work, and is in a state of flux, so take the waters as they flow:
By Rob Angeli7 days ago in Poets
Standing Still
There are very few moments in life where time truly stands still. When your breath is taken from your chest and your body hangs weightless in that moment. Just long enough for it to stay with you from that day onwards. Deep in the red sands of the Australian Outback, I found that moment and clung to it forever.
By Kevin McLaughlin6 days ago in Wander
Comments (3)
Aww. For the first time ever, I actually feel bad for a clock. Very well done.
Oh my goodness so sad! Great story though Tressa.
Awww poor clock. I feel so sad for him! Loved your poem!