A Birthday & Blake

A Birthday & Blake


Time to move along. Whether forward or parallel, a step above or below, shifting or grinding. Indeed? Time to move along.

Tomorrow I approach a step, 365 days have passed and with less than < 24 hours I tick to 56 years of age.

In my bedroom is a clock of a century and a half. A length of time I would not enjoy reaching, as the first 50 have been long in life, not of unsatisfactory labor or achievement, but the testament in time to the body is culmative. Scars become permanent. Weathered landscapes transformed from labors, disease, repair even the natural order or mechanics of human biology.  The clock is stopped. Yes the clock is stopped.

This I know, I know I know. Never once have I inquire as to why?  Never once in all of these years have I wondered why? The thought beyond it is broken has always, always remained too distant and with no need to be answered.  Yes, my entire life I have look and watched, slept beneath, day dreamed and imagined of my ancestors before who stopped and looked as the pendulum shifted too and fro, the hands ticking as the moons shifted with the seasons.

Until the year 1989, I knew a woman my Grandmother who had the key to wind the clock. Upon her passing I visited only occasionally with another woman until she passed away in her 90’s, Mozell, my Grandmothers’ housekeep, for 2 generations.   These women turned the key and set the time of my clock making accurate the moment and the day.

Today to myself I think, “ I was born and raised to be keeper of the clock?” I wonder now is it or is it not a clock?  For all my life has never kept time or day or month, but only sat upon the mantel. Never a tick-tock, nor a chime of the hour breathing of life from sunrise thru a Sunset.  Never has it lived, never.

In my life and the lifetime of generations of family before me, Hailey’s comet arrived and departed, keeping to its rhythm I submit as an active timekeeper. Yet my clock has no rounds, nothing approaches and nothing departs. May-be we are both destined to be a simple zero, neither adding to nor subtracting from, simply a placeholder.

Accepting my clock will never keep the time, it stopped and has never again started from the moment I was born…..10:30am, Sunday March the 27th 1955.

I keep my clock and now wonder?



THE BLOSSOM a poem by William Blake, published in Songs of Innocence in 1789.

Merry, merry sparrow!

Under leaves so green

A happy blossom

Sees you, swift as arrow,

Seek your cradle narrow,

Near my bosom.

Pretty, pretty robin!

Under leaves so green

A happy blossom

Hears you sobbing, sobbing,

Pretty, pretty robin,

Near my bosom.


William Blake in cliffnote form if you will allow began his life as an engraving apprentice, set to a 7-year term he fulfilled.  His engravings embellished the works of authors from the 18th century.  Becoming a writer in his own, his works were all but forgotten for the better part of 100 years. Have no fear Blake is now properly seated with the pantheon of writers.  The above poem illustrated quickly the studies applied to authors and in Blake’s writings and poetry sometimes the string of diagramming to some may be a stretch of imagination unless one knows of the writers’ philosophies. Best say the poem is of two different birds!!!….