The Old Clock


widow Liz Mary is lithe and bright
working two jobs
always scrimping
still penniless always

she raises her children in a house where
the rooms have to be rearranged daily
out of necessity
not for fun

she has an old grandfather clock
it shows random hours not proper time
to teach the kids the certainty of unpredictability

all in all
it would still be a good life
if not for endless cacophony outside
the world’s spinning left and right

Mobius strip concepts are stomped on
tossed aside then brought back
to show the government’s hell bent on
spreading the democracy thing abroad
defending the Constitution thing back home
no matter what it takes

Published in DV on September 7, 2025



Echo in a Bottle

 
On a Carolina beach I slogged into the labyrinth of history, or at least a lost man’s story.

old glass in the gray sand
gleamed a round bottle’s narrow neck
probably made in Europe long time back
a note was inside the message faded
someone’s last hope in a frigid flask
a longing goodbye letter sent
the ocean was foe and his only friend

I was curious what had been penned on the yellowed papyrus but there was little chance finding out; the ink had deteriorated to a sigh by the years and relentless sun.

days later odd thoughts crop up
reverie’s trans blinds and ideas roam
marooned on an island was the man
struggling dawn to dusk and then
died alone far from his country
far from his home

Reduced to a perpetual hermit, what was going on in his mind? Does belief separate from the body when no one else is around? If yes, did the two have bitter quarrels?

narrow’s the land the water is wide
as the Moon travels so does the tide
the bottle floats away the man remains
marooned on the island all his days

Weeks later I still can’t make out the words but have come to recall, I wrote the message.


A short version of this poem was published in Friday Flash Fiction, August 4, 2025.