Feature Image Above: Created by Copilot and me. “Time doesn’t tick—it unlocks. Not with rhythm, but with riddles.” And thank you to Beth( https://ididnthavemyglasseson.com/) whose comment on my post, “Time, My Muse,” inspired me to create this poem. “love it! time makes its own rules for sure”
Time Doesn’t Go Tick-Tock
Time is neither tick nor tock; Time cannot be deadlocked. It takes no notice of the weather sock.
Time never throws rocks At either the Eastern Bloc Or the future’s aftershocks.
A glimpse into the strange places time wanders when it looks back.
Feature Image Above: was created by Copilot and me. The trials and tribulations of the aging process — where questions deepen, and the hills keep rising.
After flooding my kitchen last night (again), I found myself wondering where simple mistakes end, and something more unsettling begins. This poem grew out of that quiet, uneasy space — the place where aging, memory, and meaning start to blur at the edges.
What’s the Difference
What’s the gap Between insanity and humanity Is there a difference Between oblivion and infinity
What’s the gap Between failure and fruition Is there a difference Between carelessness and forgetfulness
What’s the gap Between here and there Is there a difference Between thoughtlessness and memory loss
What’s the gap Between now and then Is there a difference Between Alzheimer’s and Dementia
Some days, the questions echo louder than the answers.
Feature Image Above: was created by Copilot and me.
Over at Weekly Prompts, the Weekend Challenge is the word “Squish” To visit their fabulous site, please click >>Here … and I think everything about censorship is awfully “Squishy.”
Nancy’s story on The Elephant’s Trunk [https://theelephantstrunk.org/2026/01/20/rdp-tuesday-disapprove/ ] stirred an old frustration in me — how easily free expression can be twisted, muted, or dismissed. I left a brief comment there, but the idea continued to nag at me throughout the afternoon. Sitting in a quiet corner of the café, I found myself shaping those few lines into something fuller, a small protest poem about the weight of censorship and the stubborn resilience of words. This is where that moment led.
When Words Wear Chains
Words wearing chains, Pages awash in teary rain; Quills feel the pain, Like wisdom without veins Inside lifeless brains.
How to explain The inhumane Of censorship’s careering train, While the reigning regimes Sip on foreign champagne.
Government – Corporate piracy – Rife everywhere in our binary society. Ironically, our privacy is *actively* The policy of every dynasty’s refinery. Corruption: slavery, bribery, impiety. And privately, I worry about the impropriety, The calamity’s spidery finality.
Underneath all the mounds, we are all bound together by the same ground, whether we are lost or found.
The packaging is losing its gloss, but the contents are not lost – still spirited like an albatross.
Bluffers and shovers Swoop like overprotective plovers, act like “Big Brother,” ring the buzzer, usher out the duffers, and snuffer the crushers.
Oh, so many detours and hidden contours. Who are these saboteurs?
Lisa O’Neill’s music has a way of grounding us in what matters. This song, in particular, feels like a quiet reckoning—an honest look at the world and the winds that shape it.
Lisa O’Neill, The Wind Doesn’t Blow This Far Right, Lyrics
[Verse 1] I’ve lately been thinking of an old friend Who I haven’t seen in a while Last night I dreamed that the same friend Passed without sayin’ goodbye
[Verse 2] Oh, to be wild like the roses Oh, to be red with delight My blood is red out of fury The wind doesn’t blow this far right
[Verse 3] Some terrors are born out of nature Some terrors are born overnight Some terrors are born out of leaders With their eye on a different prize
[Verse 4] The thing is, some leaders are players And players sometimes can be clowns And clowns then sometimes can be dangerous When they’re there and yet they can’t be found
[Verse 5] The Big Mac, the big man, the big bomb The power of money and lies The power of fear in the people The wind doesn’t blow this far right
[Verse 6] Some terrors are born out of nature Some terrors are born overnight Some terrors are born out of leaders With their eye on a different prize
[Verse 7] Oh, to be wild like the roses Oh, to be red with delight My blood is red out of fury The wind doesn’t blow this far right
[Verse 8] Drill, baby, drill Don’t, baby, don’t Don’t you hear the winds, feel the fires as they burn? Beautiful planet, beautiful home Drill, baby, drill Don’t, baby, don’t
[Verse 9] Kill, baby, kill Don’t, baby, don’t Don’t you hear the kids as you blindly bulldoze on? Beautiful children, starved to the bone Kill, baby, kill Don’t, baby, don’t Kill, baby, kill Don’t, baby, don’t
There is a number attached to everything, Tracking them down is overwhelming; Tallying the total is mind-boggling.
I perceive, with a twinkle in my blurry eye, an extra wrinkle on my milky thigh. But I do not cry at the number of crinkles that falsely belie the sounds of my life’s happy jingles.
The number of memories shall not diminish until time decrees, “you’re finished.”
Accompanied by Sleeping At Last’s “Saturn” performed live with the Symphony Orchestra, this poem listens for the echoes beyond numbers—where memory, music, and existence intertwine.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 