Writing poetry at 9:00 at night when I need to be in bed and sleeping means that I have entered into a surreal landscape of silliness and much ado about nothing. Writing poetry at 9:00 at night, after recording a lesson that is too long but needs to be kept in tact so my students know how to write body paragraphs means that my poetry is going to be rather cheeky.

I wrote about the moon. Flashing the earth.

I wrote about a clock face with personified hands, specifically the minute hand is jealous of the hour hand who is a bit snobby and austere and thinks its rather remarkable when all it did was move one twelfth of a clock face which really doesn’t measure up to anything when that poor minute hand keeps running in circles.

Oh, and the second hand is all twisted up. Into a mobious strip. Which doesn’t make sense but the title is When Time Unfurls. Or maybe it was When Time Unspools.

I don’t know. I just like the idea of time being unleashed and the chaos that happens when time is sentient but is not an old man or a tiny baby but a pissed off clock face that is arrogant or petulant or suffering from ADHD.

Time really is such a fascinating aspect. We search for it. Try to buy it. Want more of it. Wish it would stop. Wish it would speed up. My students all want to grow up and I want aspects of my youth back including relaxed hips and stronger ankles. I don’t want teenage immaturity. I am haunted by my memories of my stupider years. I can’t apologize enough and I’m tired of apologizing anyhow. I guess I’m the second hand. Tangled up around myself.

I come home to blocks of time. Care for pets. Make dinner. Complete evening chores. Read. Grade. Shower. Write. Read some more. Or maybe play stupid phone games. On top of that, I want more time to get more chores done or take the dogs on a walk or play more games or dump the ice into the center of the sidewalk so that the ice will melt faster and my pansies will grow and the tulips will awaken. If I have any tulips that will grow from last year because I didn’t plant any bulbs last fall.

I live in units of time. Not just months. But nine week periods. Or 95 minute class blocks. I live between bells that are separated by five minutes and will sometimes sound like the bell on the Titanic or an old railroad or something antique. Wide mouth and deep voiced and fake vibratoed. Clang. Clang. Clang.

Note, when I am only five minutes from bed time, now is not the time to try and write something deep or thoughtful or lustrous or intellectual. I’m too damn tired and the hours are spinning by and I have only eight hours until my alarm will sound and it’s time to start getting ready for work. When all I want is fifteen more minutes to snooze or doze or think of something that is not whatever it was I was thinking about when my alarm busted through my sleep.

Okay. So I’m being down right silly and rather free writey tonight and it’s time to rest. Actually, it’s time to read a chapter in Genesis (ha, more time references). And then maybe a page or two of Adam Johnson’s Wayfinder. And then I’ll roll onto my right side. Turn off the lights. And sleep. Good night all.