ProetryPlace Blog26 TIME FLIES

    Since I have been posting these literature related commentaries each week, Blog 26 means that I’ve been playing this game for six months, half a year. During this time ProetryPlace has been visited just short of 1000 times while I have continued experimenting with the subject matter and form of the writing within the broad limits of poetry and prose. The majority of the writings have been nonfiction, dealing with the wonders of language in many forms. Others have included samples of my short stories and poetry.

    Today I am on vacation in the cold and colorful mountains of North Georgia. After we have bid a fond farewell to our weekend guests, we will settle back to a quiet week of reading, writing, dining out (or in), sampling some fine German draughts like Warsteiner Dark or Oktoberfest Brew, and visiting a few favorite shops and sights. The dwindling flames and ebbing sparks of the fireplace log each night will rekindle memories of previous travels and visits with family and friends. We recharge. We rejuvenate. We reminisce. And the time flies by.

    

    A lovely little poem, not mine:

Time flies like an arrow

Love flies like a sparrow

Fruit flies like bananas

    haiku in observation of the passing of Daylight Savings Time:

cruel Chronos laughed

watching mortals falling back

daylight savings lost

    And from my volume of poetry Another Season Spent:

Fall Back

I have an extra hour today

to use as may occur to me.

Reprieve, reprise, or red-hot new—

what will my extra hour be?

It’s a gift when daylight saving ends,

to throw away or keep.

Maybe I will read a book

or get some extra, needed sleep.

I have no plan to spend it well,

although I had fair warning.

One problem is—I cannot claim my gift

till two o’clock in the morning!

Set back the clock hands for one hour,

it should be automatic.

Yet, fulfilling all this encore time

is becoming problematic.

A list of chores looms now in mind,

un-started or undone.

Maybe I can use this hour

to list them, one by one.

Pad in hand and pencil poised

my vision’s getting bleary,

just writing all these undone tasks

is making me so weary.

Maybe I should rest a bit.

Let’s see what=s on TV.

But now my clicker thumb grows sore,

I can’t find anything to see.

I know what I can do

to commemorate this date!

I will write a clever, little poem—

but heck, now it is too late.

Richard Allen Anderson     richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com

  **  Another Season Spent is available online from Barnes and Noble, Amazon, and Vabella                Publishing or by request from the author at WordWaggler@gmail.com     **