Richard Grahn

Time Travel

hourglass sand
slips through your fingers
one grain at a time
dawn breaks the stillness
and thunders through my brain

I stand on the threshold of tomorrow, examining the cracks in my psyche. Born with a blank slate, I’ve been filling it up for years now. First came play; then came disaster, the jolt of my first confusion. How could I go from frolicking to dripping like a sponge? 

We were seven years old that day, a couple of peas nestled in the garden; ours was a childhood entrenched in adventure. The morning came, and another journey through time and space lifted off. The school bus delivered us to the place of learning, and we studied our way to recess. Tetherball.

Back and forth, the ball flew, each blow stinging my hand. You beat me three games in a row as we pummeled the object du jour. Every laugh heightened the play, drawing us closer together. The bell rang, but we continued the game until the playground cleared.

sunshine escape
impossible to resist
daydreams
meld into memories
guiding us through the moments

The last bell rang; we were on the bus toward home—you cracking jokes from the seat behind me—me in the front row. When we reached your stop, you passed me by, and we wished each other a “See you tomorrow.” You stepped into the street.

Bang!

tomorrow never comes
yesterday always was
when a friend passes
now is that day forever
locked in deafening silence

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About the Author

Richard Grahn writes and creates art from his home in the northern suburbs of Chicago. He enjoys chasing moments through the lens, the art of nature photography, and creating digital abstract art from that photography. He is the founder of Drifting Sands Haibun and The Abstractaphy Initiative, two poetry journals featuring readers, writers, volunteers, and donors from around the world

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