Member Poem

Hour hands of o'clock get set back
sixty minutes gaining extra hour of Autumn
round about this same day of November
every year, what a bum
er, and inconvenient truth diverged
from this wayfaring chum
purposelessly manipulating a hold
over sans yesteryear
(first implemented in United States
with Standard Time Act of 1918,

a wartime measure for seven months
during World War I in the interest
of adding more daylight hours
to conserve energy resources)
doth rat a tat tat drum
a plain sensation of jet lag
(with earthling in the balance)
as if flying backwards
within Herbert George Wells
celebrated time machine

at warp speed from
this station, where bumpy ride
invariably finds me
feeling ticked off and glum
in no mood to rhyme, nor be funny,
cuz I recall experiencing
exactly lxii previous instances
being forced to spring ahead,
when countless months before viz
Sunday March 13, 2022 at 2:00 AM

one twenty fourth of said day
surrendered to Father Time
finding yours truly juiced barely equipped
to cope mentally, physically,
and spiritually whipsawed tantamount
with impossible mission
to get smart and gather scattered wits
sun tide, and express mood as hoe hum
analogous to coals (essence)
raked over me noggin

fortunate, this chronological
seismic shift nada wider I assume,
nevertheless mein kampf
cerebral hemispheric plate tectonics
comb pluck hated
brush against jangling
black keys helplessly boom
fancifully drifting and
boring into quick
ribald sand trap doom

mining an inducement
for emergency convoy,
when pitched from
sea to figurative shining seagram
defunct company name brand
once the largest owner
of alcoholic beverage lines in the world
nsync with Johnnie Walker Scotch
quite the ginned tonic he brewed,
where live yik yak
(going tiktok) wired vanguard

trulia tried optimism to hum
a lively Irish air, cuz I
(Bailey) of Bailey Banks & Biddle
the crown jewel scion
scion of a wealthy family
swallowed down sorrow
regarding cremains of mother
her inert ashes boxed
for more'n an (eat turn) eternity
like talcum powder went – me mum
Chris Anne her namesake

bling bloviation, emasculation,
insinuation, nomination, termination
once worth matchless peerage,
now pitched numb
skull into morass
of temporary confusion, where plumb
line delineating circadian rhythm offset,
when athwart pilot rum
dire straits found motley crue bickering
where Lilliputians slum

bring wherein Gulliver's Travels
landed me upon islets of langerhans
(endocrine cells scattered
throughout the pancreas)
defiantly, ham-handedly, liberally thumb
ming nose, where body, mind & soul
weeknd viz a bully did cower,
hence mister clock,
who got hijacked to Cuba
3600 seconds per hour

experienced head, thorax
and abdomen diminishing in power
wrought indistinguishable
Whitsuntide as sour
grapes of wrath imposing
ill fitting sea legs,
which folded like a faulty tower
crumbling skeletal carapace,
quickly resoundingly surrendered,
and back slid vis a vis
space/time continuum did devour.

Black hole (sun) event horizon indeed
kept lock step as das joint mill hoard
Sucker punched the band wagon
of father time, whose riffs a silent chord
nsync with atomic fractional second bored
pesky quirky shenanigans
toying with chronometers
counter point of view shifted
to oppose this minute accord.