Minute Hours

The clock strikes twelve:

The minute hand goes back and forth
Undecided on the twelfth hour
Whether to be five minutes early
Or five minutes late;

The hour hand looks on
Almost in disgust at how
The minute hand oscilates
As though in two minds;

Between the hour and minute hands
They can’t decide who moves on
Or who calls the shots
In affairs of moment and time;

Little wonder when it comes
To the brain and the heart!

The Storm

As things get messier
A turbulence ensues
That sweeps the lining
Right off the bed cover

Leaving everything under
Exposed with a stench
A sight so gruesome
Even the Joker looks away;

There is no order
Underneath this disorder
Only chaos beneath
An unlikely cover;

Smile at me for awhile
As I clean up the mess
Or salvage whatever
If there is anything left;

Maybe the storm hasn’t started
Perhaps there is hope as yet.