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Poetry Prompt: Time Flies

By Heather Eure 44 Comments

time flies poetry promptIt seems the older we get, the faster time flies. Weren’t we kids playing in the school yard just yesterday? In the blink of an eye, we became adults.

It’s a common complaint: Where has the time gone?

Aging doesn’t create a rift in space-time, so fret not— it isn’t a scientific issue. It’s our perception of time. So why does this notion vex so many of us?

In the early 1960s, this phenomenon was studied in groups through the use of metaphors. Young people were more likely to select static metaphors to describe the passage of time (such as “time is a quiet, motionless ocean”). Older folks, on the other hand, described time with swift metaphors (“time is a speeding train”).

Yet, when it came to metaphors, folks between ages 20-59 were more likely to select statements referring to “time pressure, ” or the notion that time is speeding by and that one can’t finish all they want to do in the time allotted.

There’s also an old theory that many of us measure time by “firsts.” Youth is full of firsts (first day of school, first kiss, first vacation). As we age, time seems to speed up because adulthood is accompanied by fewer and fewer memorable events. The amount of time passed relative to one’s age also varies. For a 5-year-old, one year is 20% of their entire life. For a 50-year-old, however, one year is only 2% of their life. This “ratio theory, ” proposed by a psychologist in 1877, suggests that we are constantly comparing time intervals with the total amount of time we’ve already lived.

Interestingly, in a recent study, researchers found a weak association between age and the individuals’ perception of time; in other words, everybody, regardless of age, thought that time was passing quickly.

While the feeling may be inescapable, appease yourself by knowing that time is not literally getting faster as you age. Take a moment to slow down and enjoy spending time with loved ones. Time is on your side.

Try It

Write a poem about the passage of time. Write about your life, about sitting in the dentist’s chair, the speed at which your children/grandchildren grow, or waiting in line at the DMV. Whatever you decide, create a rhythm that reflects how fast or slow time passes.

Featured Poem

Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a poem from Glynn, celebrating the legendary funny lady, Lucille Ball:

Monday night: sitting in front
of the electronic box, enraptured
as any kid in front of any video game.
But not a game, an entertainment,
on those Monday nights when
a country knew itself, believed
itself, believed in itself, believed
the legend. And we laughed,

The genius was in the face,
the expressions, a raised eyebrow,
a focused frown, a slight tilt of the head
to indicate a feeling, a reaction,
an emotion, an entire story told
without a word uttered.

And grapes, this one was about grapes,
feet smashing them into juice and pulp,
the juice to be siphoned off into casks
and bottles. It didn’t matter how she
got herself into the vat, not really,
because she was there, in the moment,
and we stomped the black-red grapes
with her, and we laughed as she wrestled
and rolled in the grapes, drenched
in the juice, caked with the pulp, wearing
them like black-red diamonds.

—by Glynn Young

Photo by John Linwood. Creative Commons via Flickr.

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  • Author
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Heather Eure
Heather Eure
Heather Eure has served as the Poetry Editor for the late Burnside Collective and Special Projects Editor for us at Tweetspeak Poetry. Her poems have appeared at Every Day Poems. Her wit has appeared just about everywhere she's ever showed up, and if you're lucky you were there to hear it.
Heather Eure
Latest posts by Heather Eure (see all)
  • Poetry Prompt: Misunderstood Lion - March 19, 2018
  • Animate: Lions & Lambs Poetry Prompt - March 12, 2018
  • Poetry Prompt: Behind the Velvet Rope - February 26, 2018

Filed Under: Blog, poetry prompt, poetry teaching resources, Themed Writing Projects, Time Poems, writer's group resources, writing prompts

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Comments

  1. Glynn says

    March 7, 2016 at 8:17 am

    Heather, thanks for featuring the grape stomp!

    Reply
    • Donna says

      March 7, 2016 at 11:09 am

      I love that, Glynn… and when I get to the grapes part I laugh out loud remembering her face with that mouth wide open with that expression only she could make.

      Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      March 8, 2016 at 10:28 pm

      Thank you Glynn for such a fun poem!

      Reply
  2. Samuel Smith says

    March 7, 2016 at 11:25 am

    Congratulations, Glenn!

    A terrific poem. In reading it, I really appreciated the conflict in the comedy of Lucy against your more serious nostalgia. There was something sober and thoughtful to be had behind the laughs.

    Reply
    • Donna says

      March 7, 2016 at 5:53 pm

      Sam, that’s it… I couldn’t quite put my finger on that… but there it is. .. the comedy of Lucy against your more serious nostalgia. 🙂 Well said. I felt that too.

      Reply
    • Glynn says

      March 8, 2016 at 11:29 am

      Sam – thank you! You got exactly what I was aiming for!

      Reply
  3. Michael says

    March 7, 2016 at 10:41 pm

    Time Relinquished

    I’m blank and I just can’t
    though I wish I could,
    even when I try I can’t think;
    sometimes it just happens
    in a matter of a blink.
    I know what I want to say
    it’s at the tip of my tongue;
    I can taste it though it’s faint,
    they say it’s because I’m older now
    but I did this even when I was young.

    Oh how I wish I could
    and I just might;
    I need to get up
    and I know I should
    but it’s such a fight.
    As the electronic rooster crows
    it tells me what I already know;
    it’s getting harder to tell
    this reason for my struggle;
    I’m too tired or either I can’t hear very well.

    I need to, but I don’t have the strength;
    extracurricular is harder than you think.
    My arch enemy makes it harder each day
    if I only could do what I say;
    I changed my habits, but it’s not quite enough.
    Take my vitamins and supplements
    but this loosing weight is tough;
    no matter what my regiment
    time is an inevitable fate;
    it’s catching up and will soon overtake.

    I’m reminded time and time again
    with each morning that I arise;
    every glance of my reflection
    the lines become more defined.
    Realizing I’m further away from perfection
    and farther away from the prize;
    how in youth we were eagerly inclined
    looking forward to another year in time
    but as time passes and we get closer to our end;
    we realize that time is no longer our friend.

    Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      March 8, 2016 at 10:31 pm

      Thank you for sharing your poem, Michael. Your words are a familiar sentiment. You’re in good company here. 🙂

      Reply
      • Michael says

        March 9, 2016 at 9:36 pm

        Heather thank you. I feel like that because of my fibromyalgia. I read the article it talked about time not in a literal way since time is constant, but metaphorically how people feel about time. I see how with the age differences the different perspectives of how they feel about time. But seeing other people’s poems here and people’s response as opposed to my poem and the responses here,I think I’m misunderstanding what L.L. Barkat is truly looking for.

        Reply
        • L. L. Barkat says

          March 10, 2016 at 9:18 am

          🙂

          Looking for… for?

          (and we’re glad you’re writing with us, Michael)

          Reply
    • Rick Maxson says

      March 10, 2016 at 12:43 pm

      I especially was drawn back to the beginning of your poem, where you write:

      “they say it’s because I’m older now
      but I did this even when I was young.”

      You capture the frustrations of the spirit and the flesh as we age, but also that some things don’t change from childhood. I’m reminded of Rilke’s poem “Childhood,” where he writes:

      “Oh childhood, what was us going away,
      going where? Where?

      Reply
    • Andrew H says

      March 13, 2016 at 7:45 pm

      I really liked this, in particular the last stanza. Time is, unfortunately, seldom kind.

      Reply
  4. Christina Hubbard says

    March 7, 2016 at 11:04 pm

    Hi, Michael, I enjoyed your perspective. You captured the frustration of aging for sure.

    Reply
    • Michael says

      March 8, 2016 at 11:05 am

      Thank you Christine; it’s like an invisible wall we all of a sudden hit. Accepting it initially is hard but we finally relinquish when we realize we just can’t do what we did when we were young; no matter what our minds tell us.

      Reply
  5. Glynn says

    March 8, 2016 at 11:31 am

    Time and its verbs http://faithfictionfriends.blogspot.com/2016/03/time-and-its-verbs.html

    Time oozes with a slight squeeze,
    a new tube of toothpaste

    Time meanders, lazing in the sun,
    a fat garter snake on a warm rock

    Time screams, a hawk pouncing
    on a field mouse, or a rabbit

    Time trots, a muscled marathon runner
    chugging her way to a finish line

    Time ages, a collection of liver spots
    on the back of an old man’s hand

    Time hurtles, a roller coaster headed
    downward into a dark tunnel

    Time stains, a broken pen spilling
    its blood on my hands

    Time rises, and tans, and burns, a sun
    in the noon sky, heating to afternoon

    Time freezes, a pond kissing winter
    as snow and ice begin to fall

    Time stops, a casket closing
    at the end of the funeral service

    Time ends, as the sky gates open,
    bursting into the radiance of no-time.

    Reply
    • Samuel Smith says

      March 8, 2016 at 12:25 pm

      Incredible, Glenn. I don’t believe I can describe it; no word seems out of place, every thought comments on another thought. It’s a series of sharp moments, be they lovely, cruel or final, strung together like beads. Beautiful!

      Reply
    • Samuel Smith says

      March 8, 2016 at 12:29 pm

      My days have anymore become a slip
      From any quivering semblance of the grip
      That held me to a limb above a field.
      At once I am too cumbersome to wield,
      And like a gathering pearl of dew
      Protracting toward the ground below
      Until the limb recedes,
      I slowly gather speed.
      I feel the wind —
      I’m falling, and
      I will
      Until
      I
      Die.

      Reply
      • Samuel Smith says

        March 8, 2016 at 1:21 pm

        Oh, I’m sorry — I forgot the title!

        It’s “Loosing Any Sense of Longevity.”

        Reply
      • Bethany R. says

        March 8, 2016 at 8:57 pm

        Samuel, I like your image “like a gathering pearl of dew.” And I enjoyed the structure of the poem too. I definitely get that sense of hanging on until that last second – and then the slip. Thanks for sharing it with us.

        Reply
        • Samuel Smith says

          March 10, 2016 at 9:27 am

          Thank you, Bethany.

          Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      March 8, 2016 at 10:34 pm

      I really like this poem, Glynn. Lush words. Although it was hard to pick, this is my favorite line: “Time stains, a broken pen spilling/ its blood on my hands…”

      Reply
    • Rick Maxson says

      March 10, 2016 at 12:55 pm

      Glynn, this poem highlights time’s association to the world of things, even the sun and seasons. It is provocative to me ultimately in its ending “bursting into the radiance of no-time.” It leaves me with many questions as all good poems do.

      Reply
  6. Monica Sharman says

    March 8, 2016 at 1:10 pm

    Normal Life calibrates the clock. You awake,
    prepare strong coffee, check off to-dos, come home
    to a dinner of leftovers, and whether thinned hours
    whooshed in a storm of stress or minutes ambled,
    Normal is the standard of the speed of time. But

    a glitch, a tilt
    of life over a pivot,
    a fault line shocked

    to magnitude
    seven point nine
    splitting a fissure through now

    and an hour before,
    cancels the calibration.
    Quantities of measurement shaken,

    the observer, moving or not, changes
    frames of reference—stretching, blurring,
    curving the line from yesterday to forever.

    Reply
    • L. L. Barkat says

      March 8, 2016 at 8:56 pm

      Monica, I find the form of this poem intriguing. The run-together feel of the opening, which then does actually pivot in both sound and visual effect right at the point of the “glitch…tilt…pivot.”

      Also, I love that your math-science side is shining through after the pivot (and I also love the sounds associated with the changes of the second half of the poem. Almost machine-like. Until there is eventually a feeling of infinitude in the final sounds—three “ings” in a row).

      Really nice 🙂

      Reply
    • Bethany R. says

      March 8, 2016 at 9:01 pm

      “splitting a fissure through now

      and an hour before,
      cancels the calibration.”

      Love the smart way you cut the lines and stanzas in your piece, Monica. I could feel the effect of that split.

      Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      March 8, 2016 at 10:39 pm

      L.L. put it perfectly. This is an intriguing poem, Monica. Change as an earthquake. Well done.

      Reply
    • Christina Hubbard says

      March 9, 2016 at 7:25 pm

      Monica, I love the breaks in this poem. Really jilts the pace and shifts my attention. Love the visual of the blurred curve at the end. Very nice.

      Reply
    • Rick Maxson says

      March 10, 2016 at 1:12 pm

      Monica this is that moment before, during and after, when “time stands still” from some force on our lives. We have a poem coming up on EDP that you will like, called “The Phone Call.”

      Reply
    • Monica Sharman says

      March 11, 2016 at 12:26 pm

      Wow, thanks for all the insightful feedback. It’s definitely worth mentioning that this is only the second poem I wrote after reading Tania Runyan’s How to Write a Poem! Rick, I look forward to seeing “The Phone Call” in my inbox!

      Reply
      • Heather Eure says

        March 12, 2016 at 1:33 pm

        Love it!

        Reply
  7. Christina Hubbard says

    March 9, 2016 at 7:27 pm

    Telling Time, Tough and Tender

    I tried to teach you to tell time

    With paper-handed clock bound with gold brads.

    We turned those hands together, your small fingers under mine,

    Frustrated and outstretched for a second.

    Then clenched fist…

    http://www.creativeandfree.com/time/

    Reply
    • Bethany says

      March 9, 2016 at 7:42 pm

      Christina, thank you for sharing this. I love the physical details here – the paper hands, the gold brads, and the “small fingers under mine” line.

      Reply
  8. Rick Maxson says

    March 10, 2016 at 11:08 am

    Glynn, it is the grape episode and the chocolate episode I remember best. It was a different time when willing suspension of belief was easier. You captured many things in your wonderful poem. And yes, it was the face and eyes that communicated. Her words were almost a mere commentary on her facial expressions. I saw very few shows of I Love Lucy, but the few I saw left an indelible laugh line on my face.

    Thanks for sharing this.

    Reply
  9. Maureen says

    March 10, 2016 at 6:37 pm

    A little silly something in honor of kids. . .

    Time never flies

    if little bro pouts
    and you make mom shout
    and you’re in time-out

    alone in your room
    sitting deep in gloom
    hear the voice of doom

    dad’s home for the day
    he’s happy to say

    but his knock no doubt
    spells trouble about

    so you’re quick to share
    how you broke the chair
    no, it’s not the spare

    by the stair, you swear

    Reply
    • Bethany R. says

      March 10, 2016 at 11:32 pm

      That was fun, Maureen. 🙂 Thanks for sharing it here.

      Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      March 12, 2016 at 1:31 pm

      Your poem made me smile, Maureen.

      Reply
    • Lynne Cole says

      March 12, 2016 at 7:49 pm

      Maureen, this was fun to read. I’m often putting my kids in time out!

      Reply
  10. Lynne Cole says

    March 12, 2016 at 7:55 pm

    I got a bit bored one night and thought I would time myself to try and write something in a minute. It’s quite good fun. Time seems to go really slowly at first, until you get towards the end and then it feels like it’s speeding up. Well, here is my poem in a minute believe it or not…

    The Minute Poem

    This is the minute poem,
    A minute I will spend.
    Not more than sixty seconds,
    Or else I’ll go round the bend.
    A minute lasts for ages.
    Forever and a day.
    Ok, I might be exaggerating,
    But it does seem that way.
    The minute’s nearly up now,
    So I’d better end this rhyme.
    I can’t write any more,
    As I’ve just run out of time.

    Reply
  11. Andrew H says

    March 13, 2016 at 6:37 pm

    Where oft the Dionysian sits
    And sups his cup of wine
    In maddened thought of older days –
    When gods controlled the heavens
    And all the careful, rule-led ways
    Of man were charted as the stars,
    Each in his own allotted time –
    There fills a pool made of eternity.
    Here the fair drinker sighs into his cup
    And thinks that pool is nestled in his glass,
    Never aware that as he dreams, he drains
    Into the stillness of the water, drop by drop.

    Reply
  12. Andrew H says

    March 14, 2016 at 9:33 pm

    You Must Grow Up

    You sit, and think of little much of matter
    For you are young. You have just started books,
    A bit late but you do enjoy to read of Harry Potter
    And all of his adventures. Life is such a journey,
    But less friendly. There is not one Dark Lord,
    But many. All of them will name you friend
    And not betray you ’til the end. But you must beware
    Of falseness, hidden though it is in frown and stare.
    You must grow up, alas, and face the world.

    The times to come will not be hard, not in the measure
    Of true sorrow or of pain, but they will be a trial for you
    If not to others. Soon, you will know what is death
    And see the coffin walk the long black mile,
    The people trailing through in double file.
    They’ll weep, and shower on the dark-stained soil
    But in the end they’ll talk and laugh, for they
    Have walked that road a thousand times and know
    You must grow up, alas, and face the world.

    Then comfort comes upon you like a wave
    And drags you down. You study for a time,
    And live the life you wanted. But what end
    Was there to reach for? Nothing but the endless dark,
    The grasping of the years. But you are just a child,
    And so you can not understand. That rests in front,
    That wondering on why and where. Because of this,
    I beg of you to pity those who whisper in your ear that
    You must grow up, alas, and face the world.

    Reply
    • Andrew H says

      March 14, 2016 at 9:46 pm

      Ah….oops. Wrong week.

      Reply
  13. Andrew Sparkes says

    April 5, 2016 at 1:38 am

    E.T.A.

    TIME
    IS
    MY
    EDEN

    The garden
    In which
    My dreams
    Earn interest

    Tell me
    I’m
    Making too big a deal of
    Everything

    That
    I
    Might have
    Ended

    This verse
    In haste
    Maybe but
    Eh

    That
    Is the
    Meaning behind my
    Early departure

    This
    Is for
    Me my
    E.T.O.D.

    TIME
    IS
    MY
    EDEN

    Reply
  14. Rory Fry says

    May 10, 2016 at 9:29 am

    A piece I wrote about time…quite some time ago

    “Hours and Ariels”

    Time is such a bitter thing
    Like an enemy one cannot resist
    Undaunted advance
    It capsizes the robust walls of awful stone
    Inebriating all defenses
    Helplessly we submit to the pendulums recoil

    Though I’d scream my throat is limp and mute
    My tongue a knot of string caught between the floorboards
    The discords have been muffled
    The riddles have been stumped
    The protesters are all silenced by aging’s clammy hands
    Cupped across the lips

    This is our sure thing
    To wither like everything imagined
    All joins in one song
    A rusted symphony
    A thread worn waltz
    Baffled lines of mirth devoured by times vast expanse

    I say
    Burn the clock
    Turn them off
    Awaken the dead
    Stand upon the grave
    Twist the numbered days
    Shift the photographs

    Shift the photographs
    Break a smile through
    Shift the photographs
    Change the limited view
    Shift the photographs
    Stand another year
    Shift the photographs

    Photographs capture ever hour we have lost
    Photographs remind us of decay
    Pictures freeze the party’s outcome
    Pictures resist the clammy hands of the grandfather clock
    Photos plug the time’s oratory
    Photos never rest
    Pictures never fade

    Time knows no bounds but we are bound by time
    Plug the stopwatch
    Shift the photographs
    Pictures defy decay
    Change our sure thing
    I’ll camp out on a memory
    And remain in the painting
    To never die I’ll shift the photographs
    Keep me in the past

    Reply

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