Counting Sessions Poem by noel maddock

I count the sessions like shekels
The greed absorbed into the auto-angst
The number short of feeding what really matters

I describe the sea like a forecast
Neither knowledgeable nor enhanced
The awkward stance suspicious
Like a suitor rising, but can’t dance

The days get fat on floating trivia
Parsed by meditation’s tremor fist
A moment charged with possibility
Disembarks to follow faceless kiss

I am aware of supercilious
But meaning takes its pound of flesh
Humour tries to face the critics
While bullshit martyr flunks the test

I cook time like a TV chef
Sieved into sterile leaking ramekins
Baked into a hardened half bake

I, I am, presides over moments, through eons, lurks ahead, behind
Corralling time and space for me and mine