On My Own Clock-Summer

By: aromaproductions on 10:04 PM

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On My Own Clock

Outside the summer sun

has long been up but

my window shades

are still drawn

at half past nine

and through tiny cracks

 let sunlight in.

The squeaking churn

of raising blinds

heralds a neighbor’s

late awakening,

signals it is time I stir

and my blinds go up too.

Sun rushes in

like an excited dog

seeing its master

after a long break.

It is happy I am rising,

wants to greet me,

see me washed and fed.

It wants to push me

out the door.

Its surging rays

are sudden

switched-on lights

that charge my brain,

arms and legs.

A cup of tea

is a volcanic rouse.

Hours later I tank-up

with Brazil espresso,

the perfect fuel to sip

and dwindling vigor

is recharged before

it becomes ebbing cinders.

Late lunch eaten,

pills swallowed to regulate

blood pressure and cholesterol,

and more pills gulped down

to bulk up bones and brittle hair

are strides forward.

The day’s amenable agenda

lined up in head,

the routine is set.

There is now

a state-of-the-world check.

CNN, BBC; Al Jazeera, ITV.

Our earth is still alive and kicking,

is slowly going to hell. Nothing new!

Angela Lansbury is solving a new crime

On Murder She Wrote, and

bantering, morning show-hosts

are white-noise companions

while I read and write.

Each, in their time slot,

notifies me of passing time.

After email and mail check,

late lunch or early dinner,

a quick shower and handbag sorted.

The weather dictates my attire.

.

I race against

Dickenson’s Real Deal

that ends at five.

Must be out the door

to keep a date with friends.

© 24.06.2014  Althea Romeo-Mark

Thing Found in My Pocket

This seashell found in my

skirt pocket six months after

a tropical island holiday

has strolled with me

on a white-sanded beach.

I contemplate the journey it made

to Europe by plane and the

journeys it had taken before I dug it up

from the sand on a Caribbean Island.

What sea creature was the owner of this shell?

How long had it been abandoned?

Was it a thousand or a million years ago?

Shells are still here to tug at our fantasy

and remind us that in the future we might

have no skeletons to talk about our past.

Our ash, kept in an urn, will do the telling.

Ancient cultures burned their dead upon pyres

and their ash, subject to the whims of climate

over eons, cannot tell their story.

The remains of the entombed

lie hugged in earth’s womb

or hidden in secret caves,

and still speak to us today.

We are lucky now to have the science of

DNA to make our dusty residue

a keeper of legacy that tell us whether

our role in history was magnificent or trite.

Equal in death, we still tell a story.

The mollusk keeps its shell

if not consumed by volcanic belching.

© Althea Romeo-Mark, 01.06.2014