by James Blaylock
my clock has no manners, none, and as
I'm sleeping, he's always there... plotting,
I know he wants me gone - but this is my house;
I know because I pay all the bills and buy the food,
although none of this fazes his desire for my dismissal,
and if worst comes to worst there can easily be a fire
then who shall be the truest victor
in this heated battle for living space?
james kenneth blaylock
Posted on 03/12/2011
Copyright © 2022 James Blaylock
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 09/08/13 at 06:54 PM|
There are times when I'm stretching in the quiet living room in the morning when the various clocks ticking seem to invade every crevice of my ears and I could do them damage. :) That constant tick surely reminds me of "thinking, thinking, thinking" - what, what is he thinking??? I get your point. Nicely done.
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 09/09/13 at 06:12 PM|
Well written and powerful reminder of my own run ins with the dastardly alarm clock. Good to read you again, James. :)
|Posted by Glenn Currier on 09/12/13 at 09:08 PM|
James, you aptly represent the dictatorship of the clock. But oh how I conspire with it at times. Those times when I obey its dictum I have scant inspiration for poetry. It is my visits here that erode and excite rebellion against his stern rule.
Good write, my friend.
|Posted by Linda Fuller on 09/14/13 at 04:27 PM|
A fire would make that clock melt like Dali's - that'd show him! Enjoyed this, James.