poetry in progress <br /> <br />the old wooden clock at <br />the grocery store ticks on <br />and on on the wall of my mind <br />taking me back to childhood years <br /> <br />it peeks at me every time <br />i pass by one lone child <br />hungering for love and <br />sweet adventures <br /> <br />in it a mirror pendulum <br />stands very still to the one <br />in my mind that tilts to <br />to and fro, to and fro <br />a child concentrating <br />on his yo yo <br /> <br />the golden horse on its top <br />gives it a different chi <br />with spanned wings that <br />looks ever anxious to <br />take me to wherever <br />i wish to be - carte blanche <br />so long i have the time <br /> <br />it is a no show though <br />the minute and hour needles <br />do the same hands over head <br />posture of a ballet dancer <br />yesterday, today and tomorrow <br /> <br />and the clock looks onto me <br />like a deaf man with all the <br />endowments to talk but without a <br />proper word to get things across <br />so that he is all hands and fingers <br /> <br />a round and well bred <br />attentive audience numbered <br />one to twelve sit like ministers <br />as they wait for hands to point out <br />the importance of each, why <br />they should be at their place <br /> <br />the clock is old as myself <br />even time must grow old and <br />must stop one day and what a <br />graceful way to do so with <br />such a glamorous and <br />flamboyant posture and on <br />a face everyone once confided in <br />- a face that blandishes <br />a rough mole where <br />its owner would work <br />every now and then <br />to put back the health <br />of his time so that <br />it would chime at the right time <br />morn, noon and night <br /> <br />the clock invariably <br />takes me back to years ago <br />when our house was flying high <br />with a horse with spanned wings <br />that promised much fun with its hourly <br />ding dong ding dong solemn call <br />that never failed to to plough into us <br />the seriousness of time <br /> <br />then it was a new clock and <br />had dutifully counted the minutes <br />and seconds with absolute accuracy <br />as we inched our way up the <br />expectations of dad and mom <br />grannies, teachers, and friends<br /><br />john tiong chunghoo<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-clock-stopped-2/
