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Time added

by Brian Dickenson (Age: 83)
copyright 10-25-2006

Age Rating: 10 +

Time can only have any meaning to those who observe it.
Does time actually exist? Or has man invented it?
What species other than man, counts time?
Mans allotted three score and ten is millions of
generations for the fruit fly.
Does the universe appear ordered only because we have not existed long enough to observe the possible chaos?

Tick Toc goes the clock
Ticking our lives away.
Don't forget to wind it;
Wed hate to miss a day.

We govern our lives by the minute,
We don't give a damn for the sun,
We want it to rise when we tell it.
The universe; we want to run.

About one million years we have been here,
A tick of the universe clock.
I sure hope that we have the answers.
When we all stand as one in God's dock

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        11-04-2006     Richard Reed Jr        

The answers to what?

We are the only ones asking the questions.
Meaningless questions except perhaps to relate to our own environment. while we ponder the meaning of life it passes us by. Animals also ask no questions and they possess enough intelligence to survive in their environment.

To the empty mind
all things are possible.

This is a very thought provoking piece. You are the king of the thought-provoking pieces,

and that's only one of the things I like and admire about you.



        10-29-2006     David Pekrul        

Well spoken, Brian. We are but a speck of dust when compared to eternity. Yes, and controlled by time, which is such a waste of the same. I have found that since being retired, I look at time a lot differently, you know, "time to smell the roses" and all that stuff.

        10-26-2006     James Shammas        

I like the big space, like a void, between the 1st and 2nd stanzas. It must have meaning to the poem's topic of Time. I find it effective. The subject matter is something I too love to think about. It's why I love writers like Proust, Borges, and Beckett. The agnostic in me feels that every concept-- including of Time, God, and the unknowable-- is a human invention; like all human inventions, it can kill or aid us in our daily lives. Even more hilarious, is the idea of the human trying to understand the human: figure that out, and maybe we can go on to more abstract stuff. On this year's centenary of Beckett's birth, I'm thinking, it's all in us: compassion, anger, evil, love; all the good and all the shit.
Provocative piece!


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