Monday, June 25, 2018

James Walton #103 Three hundred and sixty seconds is all it took

fewer than a ghost town
where the currawongs
scrawl their names

the half tail feral cat
hiccups the last budgie’s feathers

the post office doors
open outward

once a river dawdled
many places to go

environmental flows
lapsed in occupation
big trees rolled
throughout the compass

six-minute people
scratch out lives
the win beneath the crinkle

hesitates for bearing

set and dawn
the twenty-four hours persist
faith swings
out of the pendulum chime

call out the broken testament
see what time it is


  1. A wonderful poem. Thank you. I'm a bit reminded of this old thing of mine...

    Three Minutes With Reality

    after Astor Piazzolla

    It takes so little to get the three minutes
    Or so much depending on where you are
    Those three minutes might be sombre
    They could be ecstatic or just be quiet
    The only trick is to be there at the time

    After that they who look back will say
    Your life is never going to be the same
    Three minutes of a battle or a burn or love
    You were outside it and now you're in
    Well what do they know it's not a club

    You survive that and you survive the next
    And the three minutes fall on like the rain
    That keeps on getting louder and then it stops
    Three minutes with reality float by like clouds
    But I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea.

  2. Oh yes! The genesis for me was the comment by a young indigenous commentator that if you saw the indigenous presence on this continent as 24 hours, European occupancy amounted to six minutes!


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