From Time To Time Poem by Scott J. Shepard

Time, a sequenced art.
A yellow ribbon stretched, the sun,
or the face of a clock,
all certain with its condition;
follows its equation,
but doesn't make room
for the philosophical figures
awaiting at the cross paths.

Those times left behind us,
soulfulness trapped in a tear.
all the sadness a bird could cry
swallowed, lumped in the back of our throats
till a sudden shrill is released
into the background, blue.

Seconds, only for the moment
cannot be contained
programmed, assembled
stored away in grungy warehouse walls,
but are brief poses like the lotus,
before it's expansion
projects what growth may come.

Minutes that travel onward.
the memories layered,
those that do permit being tucked away
neatly into valises. carried around,
are the sightseers, soothsayers, astrologers
climbers of hills high and what's below.
Anticipation of cheer, joy waited for,
that same silly bird, electric and tingling
now providing a smile.

Time in all its embodiment
is not just mathematical calculations
plain and hanging on the surface,
nor trapped in desperation
merely measured sparsely.
Time is free flowing,
it's what we know and we'll soon encounter.
It is rare, has purpose.
It is everything old, all that's new
and everything caught between