Hour Glass Hearts

I had wrote this poem in a more simplistic form a few years back in response to the unfairness of time in my own perception. Looking back I revised and reworked the poem and I think its meaning is still applicable. I hope its meaning and feeling can be felt and can inspire. -Michael Aden

 

In my hour glass heart

your sand shifts

through my veins.

His heart pushes

the same grit

down the tracks of our lives.

Through dusty glass I see:

inevitability.

The sand runs out.

Then what’s left?

Before it ends,

Flip your heart around.

We survive.

Pressures against

the weight of your will

can be overcome

when we change.

Hornets in My Hairnet

I wrote this poem inspired by my work in food service. Hairnets are something that becomes quite annoying… I hope you find my poem humorous and maybe you can relate!

Never before was there something I hated

more than I now loathe

this God-forsaken hairnet.

Forged in the fires of Mt. Doom,

this object is able to break

any man’s will

within a simple few minutes.

The constant itch

can drive the perfectly sane

to madness.

It’s like a twisted

schoolyard game.

“Who can last the longest

without itching?”

I always lost those kinds of silly games.

It feels like a hive

of angry hornets

are attacking my head.

Perhaps God will look down

on me and pity.

Perhaps my hair

would Spontaneously

combust

They’d be forced

to send me home.

No.

That would be too easy

wouldn’t it?

I have to endure.

I have to survive.

Like a man lost in the Amazon

I must do what is nessesary to survive.

To live to fight another day.

I must carry on.

I must face this peril

despite its perilousness.

Only

forty-seven more

minutes

until I am released from this torture.

Freedom.

Sweet freedom.

You’re within

my grasp.

And more importantly

this hairnet

is that much closer

to the trash bin.

Down to the Wire

This poem I wrote during the stressful times of finding my classes in my last semester of college. I think is accurately described what goes through my head during times of crisis. Perhaps you too can relate?

Stacks of regrets piled on top of remorse,

on top of ever-growing mountains of panic.

That fake smile as I nod to strangers,

all of whom are thinking in their heads:

why is this guy look like he is a lost child in a supermarket

why is he running around like a chicken with his head cut off?

Heavy breaths help disguise my muttered expletives;

I should have looked for this place days ago,

before my life was turned into some sort of sick rat race

as I scramble for books and classes.

I was running through the corridors of my mind

That number-

What were those three important digits

And what time does this thing start?

Is it ten minutes or an hour?

Were the people who numbered these rooms drunk?

There isn’t a 205

Is this like the platform for the train to Hogwarts?

Should I feel for the entrance or just run straight into the wall?

My only ray of hope way the glimpse of a familiar political science textbook

out of the corner of my eye

I must have misread the number of the class.

Huzzah! The day is mine! I misread it!

Of course the boring lecture and forty-five minutes of diligent note taking

helped my head screw itself on straight and

realize that this building isn’t even Brandt building…

And that I remembered my class was at noon…

My Broken Dream Catcher

In a night as blackened as tar,

through the clanking metal blinds

stripes of light seep

up the walls of my bedroom.

Dangling from the ceiling fan,

feathers and string and beads.

Beautifully interwoven,

tangled,

like a masterfully crafted spider’s web.

A net meant to catch the bad dreams

buzzing in the air like gnats

circling above a motionless body.

I thought you were supposed to catch the bad ones.

Mom said you would catch the nightmares,

yet you unleash them from the stables of the mind.

Galloping through the night with fiery eyes

stampeding through a silent night.

Often, I open my eyes to a dreary day and mistake reality

for the doppelgangers you introduced in my sleep.

There has to be some weaving witch 

cackling over her magic imbued loom,

Satisfied in the irony of the whole situation:

A dream catcher that lives up to its name.

It catches dreams, alright.

And it never gives them back.