The Time Waiters Poem by Dickson Wasake

Time,
She surely has a most twisted sense of humour.
I am not Armstrong,
bobbing up and down lunar surface,
except as in days past,
when as kid dreamy in bouncing castle,
imagined my baby strides,
to be giant leaps for adams race.

Time,
she too often leaves me out in cold.
I missed laying stone upon the sphinx,
and on stone henge too!
I am not in the age of conquering Shaka,
encircling enemy man, with formation of the cow head,
Or general Tzu,
writing a war art,
upon sword blade,
and severed heads of Ho's two consorts.

Time,
ever the silent trickster,
robbed me of moments in her clock over life,
so am not in the rape of Carthage,
or in the horse of troy,
just an old sod,
watching times past
through lens of web encyclo,
while waiting for time
to slowly turn me,
into stone engraving:
'Here lies a strange man,
who was waiting,
waiting for the world to change.'

Time,
does her no good too,
each freckle mark
reminding her of days past,
each a mark of times cruel hand,
how she has millions of them!
They slowly turn her into a leopard,
before turning her into stone:
'Here lies a strange woman,
who was waiting,
waiting for her heart to un-break.'

Time,
always running fast,
over hurdles of our days here,
Its Olympic time again;
watched the BBC today,
why they paid tribute to John,
and his Munich '72's 47.81 record!
Mr Akii Bua died in abject poverty,
At the ironic age of 47!
In Abako's forlorn fields,
Lies an Olympic hero,
who was waiting,
waiting to rise again.