The Pendulum Swings
The pendulum carves a hollow groove in the air,
With each tick a falling grain of sand,
She sits within the velvet of her chair,
With nothing but the shadows within her hand.
She does not see the walls or dusty frames,
Nor the silvery light the moon has cast;
Her eyes are fixed on ghosts without names,
Staring back into the space of time past.
The gears are teeth that grind the day to bone,
A rhythmic pulse against the silent wall;
To sit within the dark is not to be alone,
But to answer when the vanished voices call.
Through the gloom, the hall begins to bloom
With phantom echoes of a kitchen chair,
Of muddy boots and sunlight in a room,
And hands that used to tangle in her hair.
They grew toward the light and left the shade,
Carried by the current of the years;
The house is silent now, and the echoes now fade.
With only ticking clocks to reach her ears.
The gears are teeth that grind the day to bone,
A rhythmic pulse against the silent wall;
To sit within the dark is not to be alone,
But to answer when the vanished voices call.
Copyright © Deborah Seale | Year Posted 2026
The Tea-Leaf Looking Glass
The ticking of the clock
Always in time
Tick tock tick tock
A steady march, a rigid line,
The sun obeys its slow design.
The pendulum swings, a loyal blade,
Cutting the light to stitch the shade.
The blueprint was drawn by a steady hand,
A straight-line walk across leveled sand.
But the map is not the mountain.
She lifts the cup, a porcelain moon,
Stirring the shadows with a silver spoon.
But the tea is a mirror, deep and wide,
Showing the world on the other side.
The brass begins to melt like wax,
The Roman numerals lose their tracks.
“You’re late! You’re late!” the pendulum cries,
Swinging toward the lilac skies.
Through the Oolong Glass
She leans to the rim, she tastes the air,
And finds she is no longer in her chair.
The tea is a lake, the spoon is an oar,
And the “Keeper” is keeping the time no more.
Deep in the amber, a girl appears,
Unstained by the “current of the years.”
A hand of shadow, a hand of light,
Touching where the day meets night.
“Who are you?” the Keeper cries,
With the Alice-fire in her eyes.
But the girl just laughs a tea-leaf sound,
As the world begins to spin around.
SNAP.
The porcelain clicks against the wood,
She’s back exactly where she stood.
The clock gives a shudder, a heavy heave,
And tugs again at her velvet sleeve.
Tick tock tick tock
The tea is cold. The room is still.
The moon sits perched on the windowsill.
But in her palm, a damp white rose,
From a garden where the backward grows.
The gears are teeth that grind the day,
But the “Keeper” smiles in a different way.
For the clock may count the falling sand,
But she’s kept the unexpected in her hand.
Copyright ©️ Deborah Seale 2026
“In my previous work, “The Pendulum Swings,” I explored the weight of time as a steady, grinding pulse. But what happens when the gears slip? This piece, The Tea-Leaf Looking Glass, is an exploration of the ‘unexpected.’ It’s about that thin line between routine and wonder—where a simple cup of tea becomes a portal, and the ticking clock finally loses its grip on reality.”
At Home With Maw Maw Deb 