Now Autumn is here and the seasons have changed and to everything there is a season. A time to be born and a time to die. A time for every purpose under heaven. We are inspired by these truths. We will write “A TIME TO _________” poems. Turn, turn, turn!


A Time to Hear

Don’t speak.
Don’t read, or write.
Quiet the background noise.
Then, listen for The Still, Small Voice.
Listen long. Relish your God.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

(My first Parsons Appreciate Form. 😊 )



To every word, learn, yearn, turn
and write what your heart offers.
Your coffers overflow with a wealth
of expressiveness, an excessive mess
Of sound same games. Names
become fodder for verse and you nurse
your poetry through every nuance 
of absurd words. You gird your loins 
and coin a phrase or two and you come to view
life in terms of verbiage. It becomes your time
to rhyme. There is a season and a purpose 
to everything under heaven.

(c) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022

118 thoughts on “PROMPT #405 – ECCLESIASTES


    It’s almost time
    to fall back
    in time

    It’s the only
    we can meddle
    with the past.

    To come to terms
    with that which
    one last time.

    ©️ Benjamin Thomas


    One autumn day I travelled through my past,
    a journey braced with bows to time and place;
    the childhood scenes came back so thick and fast,
    no album could contain sufficient space
    to hold them all; I had to rest at last.
    It all called for a setting laced with grace;
    I found it in a Pennsylvania dell
    whose center held a little old hotel.

    The picture it commands is tinged with gold:
    it sits within the valley, by a stream;
    each room is small and quaint and warm and old,
    the kind that holds on fast to each sunbeam.
    It seems at home in cloaks of colored cold,
    the perfect setting for a time to dream
    and recollect the memories begun
    within an inn beside an old mill run.

  3. To live
    Without Jesus
    An empty hopeless heart
    Void of eternal destiny
    A life lived but for nothing

    But wait
    Hope eternal
    Is just a prayer away
    The Savior’s hand is reaching down
    The eternal choice is ours

  4. A Time To Remember

    It’s been a peaceful month
    in our home near the sea,
    where the locals are old,
    visitors are grateful,
    distant poets all in good form.
    It’s been a month of reunion,
    and daily thanksgiving,
    of many old friends
    and a new few.
    We live mostly for today,
    knowing the gods will laugh
    at foolish plans beyond
    breakfast or lunch.
    Winter’s not yet here,
    the heat lingering on.
    No complaints heard, however,
    not so much that they aren’t made,
    just not heard.
    There’s much to be learned
    at this age, in this age.
    A little loss of sound can be a blessing,
    a chance to return to the
    total self-absorption of youth.
    This month brings homecoming reminders,
    a time for connection and reconnection,
    visits, phone calls, letters, cards, and emails,
    in that very descending order of intimacy.
    It really is unfortunate
    what that email thing has done to
    letter writing, ancient and loving art.
    Letters give more time, have more heart,
    allow the writer to be reflective, like a poet,
    searching, reaching, looking
    for just the right words.
    A writer of letters gets to recall,
    to muse a bit about the addressee, to
    remember precious moments, to dream of
    better moments yet to come,
    maybe even to plan some, to say so.
    It is a peaceful activity, letter writing,
    perfect for the cooler days of year’s end.
    We’ll tiptoe through these next few weeks,
    knowing soon, the new year will come
    and we’ll make it our peaceful own.
    My sweetie, our old cat and me.

  5. a time for poeming

    skies of gold
    and shadows
    summer nor fall
    a soft wind
    sings a song
    of passage
    on a sun day
    I’m a day
    and a year
    older now
    late morning
    words inside
    my head stir
    while a car
    crawls down
    the side street
    I ponder
    passages of
    the many lives
    I live again
    and again
    through passing years
    meanings found
    when words
    cluster on a page
    and they long
    to escape
    my sweet solitude
    words framed
    in stanzas
    the poem I post
    inside and outside me


    there are so many things
    that take our endless time
    waiting for a bird that sings
    hapless poems to gently rhyme

    but the one sure thing
    that makes me cringe
    one certain action to bring
    on which I’ll never binge

    sorting out empty hangers
    as they insist on being a pain
    they’re annoying cling and clangers
    hanging them straight, rarely a gain

    every time I set a space
    to put them in a row
    they seem to multiply in place
    in the night, I think they grow

    once the clothes are on them
    their behavior will neatly change
    unless there’s now a fallen hem
    and in chorus, they’ll rearrange

    how they can have a life of their own
    I doubt I will ever know
    it makes me cross and loudly groan
    something I should just outgrow

    time and time again this occurs
    as they curve in, become knotted and dangle
    be it with pants, coats, even fake furs
    they find it much easier to tangle

    with all the time I have taken
    to undo what they’ve daily done
    I could truly be mistaken
    I believe I could’ve had more fun

    instead of feeling quite so crazy
    worried about being slightly insane
    maybe I’m just too lazy
    taking this personally or just in vain

    they are after all just to hang clothes
    not to create endless messes
    why can’t it be easier, heaven knows
    now, wait, what happened to my dresses

    they’ve no doubt taken them hostage
    somewhere deep inside my closet
    maybe if I feed them from the fridge
    I’ll get something back that will fit

    I’ll just have to make peace
    with their unruly approach each day
    not harbor frustration, just release
    keeping my obvious irritation at bay

    maybe just be glad I have some
    some times they actually work well
    their usefulness adds up to a good sum
    when they don’t, though, I’ll just have to yell

    (c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2022

  7. A Time to Rest…

    I have so much to do…
    And time is soon ending…
    I am sleeping much too much…
    I don’t need fourteen hours of sleep…
    But when I wake up, I am too weary…
    I look at all before me…
    And I want to cry…
    Because this cursed disease
    Is slamming me down,
    And I want to scream,
    But that is stupid…
    And I don’t do it…
    Despite all I have to do…
    I know the truth is
    That it is
    A time to rest.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    September 25, 2022

  8. Such nice poetic offers today, Walt and Marie! Rhyming time is always worth the time, quite agree!, Walt! Yes, time to listen to the quiet can reveal such peace, Marie, making it so worth the listen! Well done, both of you!

  9. Now Is The Time

    This is the time
    to stop second-
    guessing myself
    about difficult
    decisions I must
    address. Autumn
    is here; I do not
    want to fall. Old
    age disappears
    all those people
    who blanketed you
    with comfort. In
    this, my favorite
    season, I hope
    to find sights,
    sounds, scents,
    and colors still
    pleasing. Now is
    a time to reach
    for my inner child.


    Mud and muck and mire
    once formed a corporation
    of barristers for hire
    with little education.

    Mud was good at slinging
    and ruining reputations,
    and he excelled at bringing
    panache to gross libations.

    Muck would often wallow
    in sentimental flurries;
    his act was tough to swallow
    but sometimes worked with juries.

    Mire looked like a mutt
    whose feelings had been hurt;
    you’d think he was kindly but
    his specialty was dirt.

    So if you have no case
    and your prospect’s looking dire,
    just have your ambulance chase
    after Mud and Muck and Mire.

  11. A Time to Heal

    It was what I was…

    There came a time to heal…
    But healing can’t come
    In a heart that carries
    For love doesn’t live
    Where hate resides.

    There were little things…
    I had to let people touch me…
    Men, women it didn’t matter
    Both made my skin
    Feel like their touch burned me.
    Children never burned my skin…
    It was children that taught me
    As they cuddled in my lap,
    And came to me wanting a hug…
    That not all touches burn.
    It took time but that healed.

    In restaurants, I wanted my back to the wall…
    This is common with those abused.
    Because abusers slip up on you.
    I made myself sit with my back to the crowd,
    And the first time was like hell,
    But little by little
    It stopped bothering me….

    People never think of those things-
    The ones who were never abused.
    I don’t like my picture made…
    People don’t get it.
    But to me it is frightening,
    And freezes me, and
    Then I have nightmares.
    People aren’t there
    When I wake up screaming…
    People never understand,
    And if I had not been abused,
    I probably wouldn’t either.
    One day I will conquer this,
    But it has to be on my own terms.

    But healing of the heart is harder…
    Hate is like a kudzu vine,
    And forgiveness is the weed killer.
    Bitterness is vinegar, and hope is sweet wine.
    Anger is a storm at sea, and
    Peace is the peace that calms the storm.

    I was broken
    Beyond healing…
    But peace was a balm,
    Hope was a guide, and
    Forgiveness was my healing.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    September 26, 2022

  12. A Time to Linger

    Where are the lingerers?
    The ones who sit by windows to watch garden spiders
    weave their webs or see the abstract paintings in raindrops on glass.

    Where are the ponderers?
    The ones who stand on porches thinking about the aerobatics
    of hummingbirds and the sonography of bats.

    Where are the wonderers?
    The ones who watch the monarchs on Zinnias and marvel
    at their courage as they migrate to Mexico or gasp in awe
    at pink and purple sunset clouds.

    They are still here, in our midst.
    You will find them disguised as poets and painters and
    weavers and potters and photographers.


    for those who sleep
    well before us,
    as they settle
    down into the dust.

    memories in the closet
    make their way
    to the forefront
    of an open mind—ready to weep.

    and as we sweep away
    the clutter,
    and discover
    the forgotten smiles,
    laughter, happiness…

    we reminisce
    the reels of joy.
    And although we lack
    the real McCoy,
    we remember—we weep.

    ©️ Benjamin Thomas

  14. A Time to Reap

    As he clears brush we talk
    with the farmer who combined our corn
    and he shares its miraculous yield
    for this year of brutal drought
    withering stalks and yet

    this ancient grain persisted
    in the bottom land north
    of Middle Creek somehow
    drawing deepest damp
    from turned clods gone gray
    topsoil merely dust even as news
    bulletins lamented the lack of rain
    now a five inch deficit and
    yellowing soybeans too early

    but here bushels of corn tumbled
    into the grain trucks trundling the load
    to waiting elevators so that
    it’s almost like thanksgiving
    in September and you remember
    how this same corn once filled
    other ancient granaries’ stone
    mounds gone from empty to spilling
    dried kernels against lean times
    to be pounded into blue and gold meal
    then mixed into soft masa
    patted into the day’s tortillas and
    laid on the sizzling

    sated bellies gathered round as
    flute and guitarrón
    send music rippling down the flanks
    of the Andes down through time
    until it reaches Kansas disguised
    in the notes of birds gleaning while
    we lift our hands in gratitude.


    It’s time…
    for open windows.
    To allow the passage of restless
    breezes to entertain darkened skin.

    It’s time to begin…
    another sweetened season
    of open windows,
    unobstructed toward heaven.

    Her rays,
    never stay far, far above.
    They heat, comfort, reach me
    in my darkest moments.

    The crickets play—
    dance a dirge,
    display violin to a woeful soul
    leaning astray.

    What do
    the bending of branch
    and bough dutifully say?
    As winds rummaging through to play?

    That’s it time,
    for open windows.
    An open heart,
    and open heaven.

    ©️ Benjamin Thomas


    There’s a time,
    to take up the weighty hammer
    and break the leaden shackles
    of yesternight.

    Bathed in the cruel
    bane of shadows,
    and quickly turn away—
    toward the light.

    ©️ Benjamin Thomas

  17. A Time to Bask in the beauty of the Japanese Maple Tree…

    As I came home this afternoon
    I spied the light cascading
    Through the Japanese Maple at my home….
    I smiled at the bright red leaves high on the tree…

    Nearly fifty years it has glowed orange red in fall.
    Such loveliness each year overwhelms me.
    It will deepen to dark red before the leaves fall
    Making a carpet of burgundy and brown,
    And then I know I must wait another year.

    A cousin who lived in Aiken
    Gave to my father as a housewarming gift,
    And how it has warmed our hearts.

    In winter I have seen its limbs
    Gracefully coated in snow and ice,
    And in spring the leaves uncurl
    From mouse-eared pink to light cherry red
    Before they change to green…
    In Summer it shades my deck
    Which is useless because it needs repairs,
    For which I cannot afford to make.
    (That alone makes me weep.)

    As the days chill
    The Japanese Maple will glow
    As embers in a fire
    To warm me…
    It is at this time I bask in its beauty,
    And savor its gift to me.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    September 27, 2022


    We never make time
    for thorns, yet
    it is they—

    That give way
    to the way
    of one’s beauty.

    There’s a time,
    a season,
    for a thorn.

    That punctures,
    one’s inner fabric
    of mind.

    Until it blooms

    Until its striking

    The pain
    of open wounds
    with more beauty

    ©️ Benjamin Thomas


    It’s that still time of the day to hit the sack.
    No looking back, but let bygones be bygones.
    There is no greater joy than a time of due rest.
    To breath deep with a leaden head upon pillow,
    exhale, and cast away all encumbrances.
    To become lighter—than a feather released.
    To be at peace, as a troubled beast of burden.

    ©️ Benjamin Thomas

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