i don’t really

understand time, —
i mean i’m only a witness
to the wall clock’s arms going limp
its heart still ticking (so sad)

ain’t it always
tomorrow for you,
today for me,
too late for some?

straightforward, —
i’m not taking sides

i don’t mean to blink my eyes
super annoyingly slow
i’m just glad i can feel it

fuzz balls clinging to
my favorite sweaters,


5: Real Toads


this is all for you

the sky
is yellow
the fields
are blue
a meek sparrow
overlooks the swine

is this what i’ve become?
you’re sleeping on un-
cased pillows
i’m living with
crazy unbattened buttocks
a heart no longer
beating on my sleeve
it’s closer to center

time, you’re doing it right
– you are a friend


for Real Toads

Dear God, It’s January

Therefore, it’s Saturday & I’m home.
My fingers are electrically quipped,
but I’ve not much to say about the wall
clock & its battery constantly running low.
Rain funnels steady through the back awning
gutter. No one else hear its pent-up expression.
I respectfully remain quiet as can be, robed
and sitting cross-legged on the floral dining
chair I will name Lydia. My feelings deepen
about why I’m here. What gives with all this typing?
Why this derangement? And if I’m being perfectly honest,
what’s the real reason I pull my feet up off the floor?
O, – I’m cocooned in a refrigerator hum and a metronome
{tick, tick} as I peck out a life in unexplainable, unimaginable,
and more often than not … unintelligible clicks.
Dear God, you know how much I’m ardent for visionary composition,
per chance, per chance. Sacred words saved for another time or day.

(day 7 “time” for Quickly)

Half-Thoughts On Time Rushing By While I’m Not Wearing a Sweater

I’m in and out of seasons; a half-wit about most things.
Still unable to dress myself presentably, because I’m just
not into layers, or scarves. They make me feel like I’m trying
too hard. Don’t drink wine for the very same reason.
But I confess when I was contrary in Elks Lodge #1675, –
I turned to the projected light. I sucked in my cheeks
slightly. To be, – startling or statuesque. You can guess.
Half hoping I was half-seen, you called me out on it, –
The December issue of Seventeen. My feathered hair,
bedroom eyes. Where is the record of those years?
For a while, I admit I was a lush. Half-spoken, broken.
You can guess. Truth be told, – there was a time
I was desperately into coffee. Purely for the stimulant.
Not for the company. In truck stops, in casinos, I was
a most social butterfly. The loneliest of them all, –
drifting long and far.
I’m not wearing a sweater and time is zooming.
I know it’s too late to start for home.
I can’t pretend, and suck in my cheeks anymore.

for Real Toads

One Boy Told Me

Music lives inside my legs.
It’s coming out when I talk.

I’m going to send my valentines
to people you don’t even know.

Oatmeal cookies make my throat gallop.

Grown-ups keep their feet on the ground
when they swing. I hate that.

Look at those 2 o’s with a smash in the middle—
that spells good-bye.

Don’t ever say “purpose” again,
let’s throw the word out.

Don’t talk big to me.
I’m carrying my box of faces.
If I want to change faces I will.

Yesterday faded
but tomorrow’s in boldface.

When I grow up my old names
will live in the house
where we live now.
I’ll come and visit them.

Only one of my eyes is tired.
The other eye and my body aren’t.

Is it true all metal was liquid first?
Does that mean if we bought our car earlier
they could have served it
in a cup?

There’s a stopper in my arm
that’s not going to let me grow any bigger.
I’ll be like this always, small.

And I will be deep water too.
Wait. Just wait. How deep is the river?
Would it cover the tallest man with his hands in the air?

Your head is a souvenir.

When you were in New York I could see you
in real life walking in my mind.

I’ll invite a bee to live in your shoe.
What if you found your shoe
full of honey?

What if the clock said 6:92
instead of 6:30? Would you be scared?

My tongue is the car wash
for the spoon.

Can noodles swim?

My toes are dictionaries.
Do you need any words?

From now on I’ll only drink white milk
on January 26.

What does minus mean?
I never want to minus you.

Just think—no one has ever seen
inside this peanut before!

It is hard being a person.

I do and don’t love you—
isn’t that happiness?

(from Fuel. Copyright © 1998 by Naomi Shihab Nye)
Bringing what I like to Blogging University‘s Weekend Poetry Potluck
Read more about this poem and poet on the Poetry Foundation website

At the Seashore

free time races by

    in a nimbus stratus spree

      white smoke puffed from blue

clouds racing