A Pitcher Full of Time… By Toni L.A. Cross


My fellow poet Charles Martin sent me this photo of his as a photo/poetry challenge. (Make sure you click on his name, to check out some of his work!)

Having recently watched the movie Inception, I’ve been thinking extensively about time. Thus, the two things have melded into this.



People ask how time as we know it


And why cruel death stole into our world

They ask if eternity

Is a line or a circle, meter or a wheel?

But it is neither and it is both

Eternity is liquid

Within an endless, bottomless void

There are no lapping shores of time

There is no rocky bottom

Its ripple-rings spread out


Eternity cannot

Should not

Be contained


Long ago in eternity past

Whispers of doubt and deceit

Filled the once untainted mind of man

Pride was born

And stretched itself

Like a cat awakening

What if eternity was caught?

What if it was compressed

Into boundaries and space?

Ageless immortal hands

That had never known disease

Dug into the earth from whence they came

And scooped up humble clay

Moist and soft

He flung it on a wheel

Spinning, spinning wheel.

Man shaped his own creation

Dampening his labor

With the sweat of his own conceit

Building and throwing down

Immense and elaborate plans

Grandiose schemes made of mud


Simplicity struck his tired being

And in that blasphemous workshop

A rude pitcher resulted

The surface he hardened

With the heat of his burning anger

To think that God had lied

That eternity was now his to control


He grasped the handle

Reaching into the void

He scooped up eternity

Into his vessel

And held it triumphantly aloft

But some things are not meant

To be made that small

And unbeknownst to him

The essence within had changed

He grasped not eternity

But lost it altogether

And was left with a base extracted matter




But generations lauded

This failed attempt of man

Raising a temple of sorts

On an arid desert plain

Guarding the pitcher

With great blocks of sandstone

Until time was lost within itself

To evaporate slowly


In this sepulcher of independence