In the early 70’s I was working at a men’s wear store in Barrie, Ontario. Some days there was hardly any sales traffic, which made the time pass very slowly. To relieve the boredom, I wrote the following little ditty.

Monastic Meter

Time

Passes

So Slowly

That souls

Become holy

By dipping their fingers in wine.

But

Somehow

The

Silence

Sets up

A defiance

So that my own thoughts are not mine.

And

Then the

Controls

Go

When singing

The soul’s woe

For all of the feelings aren’t fine.

But

What does

It

Matter

If former’s

Not latter

As long as we’re able to dine?

Over time, I realized that my poetry had an organizing theme: time. So when I went to bring all the poems into one volume, I gave the manuscript the same title as the following poem.

Time Defined

Seconds fly

Minutes skip by

Hours die

And days slip by without a rest.

Crowds hurry

Leaves scurry

Snows flurry

People worry about tomorrow’s test.

No one walks

No one talks

Watching clocks

As a fox would worry for his life.

Cooking’s timed

Speeding’s fined

Cheques are signed

Debts combine to increase the daily strife.

Noisy beats

Busy streets

Tired feet

Schedules to meet constitute what’s known as a pace.

Peacocks with hats

Night-life bats

Sleeping cats

Are all rats that run day after day in the same race.