If words had no commas, hyphens, semicolons, periods, would they be sentences? Would a question mark be recognized, or would they, words, just all hang like stars in an endless sky?
Each week The Sunday Whirl invites writers to write a poem or short prose using some or all of the “Wordle’s” 12 words. This week it is:
Without a Marker, There is No Time
When did the Aztecs bring in the New Year?
Was it on March 12 or February 13?
Was it really at sunrise, and not at midnight?
They lit candles, I think. Which was indigenous. Holy.
What was it like when cruel boots crushed ground
in Nazi Germany in the new 1941? Bruised bodies into
camps. Muffled pleas. Hollow eyes. Eviscerated
fingers stuck through fences. Limp zebra suits.
Did the world start on New Year’s Day
with a big bang? Does it always start with a bang?
Was there a demon there back then alongside Father Time?
Did the ball drop? Hang back? Or was it only just created?
I mean to say, that there was no cost to me last night
in celebration. I fell asleep early. Slept in. Missed the world.
I’ve missed several New Year’s arrivals, I don’t think I lost out other than having a clearer head than many. However life is so much more about now rather than then or the future.
It’s not about us oldegg. Or, Is it?
Happy New Year.
I had to laugh, Randy, as I fell asleep early, too. But we didn’t have any big plans anyway, so it didn’t matter. I pray your 2017 is a wonderful year for you and yours.
Happy New year to you and your family, Janet.
We both slept, I guess, through a whole year.
Mine started with a bang because on the stroke of midnight I nodded off and dropped my glass of fizz on the wooden floor!
Happpy, oops, one tooo many p’s, and oh.
Sometimes the questions are too big to consider and taking to our beds – and our own worlds sounds like the very best plan
Sometimes, I can’t take it all in, either.
Most times, I flail.
But it isn’t all my responsibility.
Just my little patch.
Happy New Year.
I wasn’t sure exactly what to celebrate, so I went to sleep. Great poem, Randy!
Sleep is a celebration, of sorts.
Do you have a list of what you could celebrate if you were to choose? And what you definitely would not celebrate?
That would make an interesting conjectural poem, no?
That is something I will consider. Thanks, Randy.