The stairs feel longer this year.
Nothing in the house has shifted,
yet something gives a small clink behind me
whenever a name slips loose.
A sharp snap in the wall,
and I tap the switch out of habit.
Mornings thin out.
The kettle sits cold after I set it going,
then later boils over quietly,
frost sliding across the bench
and soaking a list I should’ve tossed.
On the fridge, April carries a red smear.
Most squares are rubbed pale.
Pages press through each other—
May over June,
a birthday leaning on a funeral.
The kookaburra magnet keeps slipping
as if the dates drag it down.
I kept small lanterns of memory—
their glass fogs,
their wicks cough out smoke
that drifts into rooms
I’d rather leave shut.
One still holds a faint eucalyptus scent,
though some days it’s only dust.
The rooms feel scooped out.
The air thickens.
The walls give off a low static,
as if the house is holding its breath
longer than I manage.
A cupboard door clicks on its own.
I blame the house,
though maybe it’s the weather.
Still, I move.
A step.
Another.
One of them out of order.
Somewhere between beats
I check the kettle again
and find it warm,
though I don’t recall touching it.
.
-
Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 11th, 2026 05:01
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
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Comments8
In this poem of a day in the life of a man time seems to have caught up with consciousness and pulled back memory wrestling with awareness it has awoken concern and depression is coming through the door of indifference. Where did the time go? A lovely? Well written poem of grey haze where I picture a soul wandering in circles not remembering where he had been or what he had done last. A feeling of being stuck in a haze where time has stopped
It does get hazy with everything that’s blowing up around us. Thanks, Soren 🕊️🙏🏻
Most welcome Cryptic
excellent write
Thanks, Norman. You are most appreciated 🕊️🙏🏻
Most welcome
Yes - I recognise this.... but then I've been retired 25 years, while you are still working. Felt I was there a little too much!!...🙃
They also moved the dates on us from 50 to 60 and now 67
Yeh - There was 65. but I got out at 60 with some excuses - never a moment of regret.
(You keep late hours...)
( Ah, I get up in the night to leak the lizard. )
This house breathes its own cold memory, every clink and snap a ghost whispering through the walls. I felt each step, each lost moment, right in my chest.
Lost moments are intricate parts of our selves, to find them even fleetingly in poems brings a sense of momentary reunion. Thanks so much, Thomas, for such an excellent read🕊️🙏🏻
Maybe Polly had put the kettle on before you! lol.
I got the crackers, though 😜🕊️🙏🏻
That image of May pressing over June, a birthday leaning on a funeral, is exquisite. Time isn’t just passing here…it’s crowding, overlapping, refusing to stay orderly. Beautifully done, my dear friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Reminds me if my passed father who was born in June and went on ahead in April. Thanks Tittu 🕊️🙏🏻
Mmm. Indeed. Not sure if that was recent or a while ago, but my condolences friend. I can see how it would! Most welcome, Rik!
It's like the Home is a Microcosm of Life itself.
Memories and the slow Pulse of the Days.
Enjoyed.
These things happen as we get older Rik.
Andy
No escape🕊️🙏🏻
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