Out Fool the Hands of Time by Monique Rardin Richardson If I whisper, maybe it will not hear Its secondhand will quit ticking forward The ones I love won't fade and disappear I'll cherish your gift now, you have my word I want my memories shared, to exist in more than my lonely and aging mind All the talks not had and words of love missed For some, moments and stars—never align I refuse to be soul keeper; please stay Beat the dreaded hands of time together So we can share another walk one day Leave our thoughts light as a fallen feather Speak quietly, so the clock we can fool Time can be lovely, but when lost—so cruel
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Hello, my name is Monique Rardin Richardson. I was born in Oakland, Ca. raised in Alameda, and now reside in the Tri-valley with my husband and son. I’m a member of the California Writer’s Club, Pleasanton Art League, and Dublin Arts Collective.
My two passions since middle school have been both photography and poetry. Unfortunately, school, working in the medical field, and motherhood devoured my time, and I believed I was not creative. I found I only picked up a pencil throughout life when I needed to work through something.
As I grew older, I re-introduced myself to those loves and became what a good friend calls me, the Accidental Artist. Of course, I didn’t set out to carry my camera everywhere or write every day, but here I am.
My photographs have been in galleries across the United States, on album covers, and in multiple books. I’ve written a magical realism story called The Unlikely Dreamcatcher about a camera that can come into your dreams and a memoir When Then Became Now. A book I wrote about a lifelong friendship I had with a man who died from health issues created from homelessness and addiction. I wrote the story for his son, to help him see his father in a different light. To meet the man I knew before his pain swept him away.
The poem I’m sharing today came from a reality check after having to say goodbye for now to three people who had been in my life since I was a teenager. Ones who died in their fifties, way too young. I don’t typically write sonnets, although this topic called for its form.