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There are times when you self-assess how you have spent your time. Before you sleep, you might think about what you did that day. Have you wasted another day? Birthdays might prompt you to assess the past year. The deaths of friends and loved ones might have you consider your entire life.
Our two model poems for this call for submissions were "Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota" by James Wright, and "May Day" by Phillis Levin. Both poems consider the idea of a "wasted life."
Wright's poem lures the reader into a serene, almost hypnotic pastoral scene. There are butterflies, cowbells, and late-afternoon light. Then it culminates in a jarring, introspective conclusion: “I have wasted my life.” That jump-cut shift forces reflection and probably some debate among readers. Is it a regretful lament? Perhaps it is a subtle existential epiphany.
"May Day" is lyrical and metaphysical, and also filled with lush, sensory imagery. But Levin doesn't trip us up at the end. She tells us up front: “I’ve decided to waste my life.” Beneath its surface beauty is something profound and maybe daring. I've been told by others that this is "an assertion of intention wrapped in restraint" and that the motif suggests both surrender and renewal. She does close with a turn, like Wright, but a more hopeful one: "You must change your life."
I was discussing this prompt over coffee with my poet friend Susan Rothbard, and she remembered that in the poem “Archaic Torso of Apollo” by Rainer Maria Rilke, the poet describes a ruined statue that still radiates vitality. His final imperative to the reader is “You must change your life.” Like Wright’s and Levin’s poems, Rilke stages a sudden volta (turn) at the end, where description gives way to existential command.
For our October issue, we were looking for poems that explore the concept of time wasted. It could be a wasted hour, day, season, or life. Perhaps the idea causes someone to change their life in a good way. Perhaps it depresses them. Maybe the wasted time is not even their own.
James Wright (1927–1980), born in Martins Ferry, Ohio, was a Pulitzer Prize-winning American poet known for his lyrical meditations on sorrow, redemption, and the working-class Midwest. His shift from formal verse to free verse in The Branch Will Not Break marked a turning point in modern poetry. Wright’s work blends emotional depth with vivid natural and industrial imagery.
Phillis Levin, born in 1954 in Paterson, New Jersey, is an acclaimed poet, essayist, and editor. She’s the author of the poetry collections, including Mr. Memory & Other Poems. Levin edited The Penguin Book of the Sonnet and has received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and NEA. Her newest poetry collection, An Anthology of Rain, was published in 2025. She is writing and living in New York City.
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875–1926) was a visionary Austrian poet whose work fused lyrical intensity with existential depth. Born in Prague, he wrote in German and French, crafting masterpieces like Duino Elegies and Sonnets to Orpheus. Rilke explored beauty, solitude, and transformation, often through mystical imagery. His Letters to a Young Poet remains a touchstone for artistic and spiritual reflection.
AFTER JAMES WRIGHT
I know I have wasted my life
In the saw-filing drone of being
Ever pragmatic, always productive.
A long deep breath follows the realisation.
The din fades, a long silence follows the grind.
Time stills, makes way for the important.
The pond mirrors the dazzling moon, the slow fire of the stars.
The purple breeze ferries the lightness of rain drops.
The smoky clouds perch on the jagged treeline.
The circadian rhythm ticks in the flicker of the firefly.
Silverlight outlines the fronds of winter.
The thrum of a single moment beats like the pulse of the heart.
The Copper Pod and the India Walnut trees
Scatter their leaves. Their yellows and reds are shadows
Strewn at the feet of breathing roots
Like memories of a hundred yesterdays.
I touch the advice of the wrinkled sage rocks,
Lie down on the smooth jade and emerald downs in the garden
Of passing seconds. The night culminates
In a song of crickets and cicadas.
Preeth Ganapathy
LOVELESS
I have shut the door
instead of opening it
for the person behind me
I have hid the gelato in the freezer
to savor its caramel swirls alone
instead of sharing it with others
I am by myself
hogging a couch
at the community center
I have wasted my life
on not having a kiss, a hug
a shoulder to rest my head on
Jackie Chou
HAIKU FOR A WASTED HOUR
Snow seizes the street.
I free my driveway apron
till the plow comes by.
Susan Spaeth Cherry
FIVE MORE LINES
Today I wrote a haiku, tanka, sijo and cinquain.
Four short poems that no one wants to read,
and certainly no one is interested in publishing.
I have wasted another portion of my life,
and I will do it again tomorrow.
Seema Singh
WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR DINNER?
We both know the revolving go-to menus.
We agree on proteins with generous bonhomie.
Yet every possibility unspoken, stifled by hesitation
and begrudging mumbles that fill the silence --
it's all an exercise in wasting time.
That looping question wedged again between us,
asked so often it sounds like a
rusty can being kicked down the road.
Its jangling recurrence once again forces your
eyes to squint, my hands into fists.
Instead of considering the many recipes waylaid
in kitchen drawers or Melissa Clark's brilliance,
we trap ourselves in mutual deference and
our joint failure to inspire or surprise,
and settle again for scrolling on Yelp.
Rob Friedman
THE FOOL
He sits on his sand chair just above the strandline,
his pole in a silver holder sunken into the beach.
He stares at the end of his line buried in the waves.
I once asked him if he ever catches anything, because
I have never seen him reel in anything or unhook a fish.
He said, "I'm a vegan. I don't want to catch a fish.
Just like I don't want to hunt or eat meat.
The end of my line has a weight and a bare hook.
Any fish that takes that has a death wish."
So why even bother to cast a line and wait, I ask.
"I would seem like a fool if I just sat here
staring at the waves. No book, no phone.
He's just wasting his life, people would think.
The pole, tackle box and chair are for everyone else.
They were for you, but you asked, and now you know."
Lianna Wright
NEEDFUL WASTE
When the ship comes to port
with sails torn and hull scarred
it is not considered a waste
to keep it in the harbor
what's rent won't mend itself, after all
the ship will return to the sea, in time
and when the knife loses its edge
still the whetstone scrapes
a broken blade may be restored
and the time is thought well spent
then why do I feel like my body
tired, mired in malady
deserves less?
I feel like I have lost my edge
my sails are still, horizon on hold
and to rest feels like a waste of time
yet without it
will I ever leave the harbor?
C.L. Halvorson
MOPHEAD
This is the third (fourth?) time in a week
That I’ve washed the floors
First, I contemplate doing them
Then I do them
I don’t want to sit at my desk
And I’m not mad enough yet
To use an actual toothbrush
First, I go over them with a dry cloth
Picking up bits of dust, dog hair and stray crumbs
Then and only then do I take out the mop
And fill up the water cartridge
(The secret is to not make the water too soapy)
Have I become my mom?
No- she’s a much better person
But I do enjoy a clean floor
Unhip in its light color
Untrendy in its narrow slats
The wood needs to be refinished
If not entirely replaced
But I’ve been saying that for years
I pick up the mop and begin
Each movement a silent mantra
I am an emptying vessel
My thoughts like dust motes
Pirouetting particles
Temporarily suspended
Up, down, back and forth
From one room to the next
Once it’s done, I stand back
And admire the floor's smooth surface
In the day’s discerning early afternoon sun
Its shadow-catching cool sheen of the evening
Still beautiful in spite of its blemishes
Enduring in spite of my frequent assaults
Terri J. Guttilla
AWAKENING
Staring into a dark Utah sky wasting time
Watching the Milky Way upload.
Cygnus appears, wings wide across silky white
Capturing me in her flock
Soaring into the wild heavens of infinite galaxies
Numbers the mind cannot comprehend
Worlds unknown, unimaginable to human consciousness
Timeless, formless, emotionless.
Earth spins, time travels
Life becomes extinct to rise
Among rubble left
Like thoughts resurrected from
Dark desert skies, wasted time.
Leslayann Schecterson
WASTING TIME IN SILENCE
Almost everything is a waste of time,
Other than working to keep the family alive.
If spare moments are spent on watching
Television, searching the internet or scrolling on the phone,
These precious seconds have been squandered.
Life truly is fleeting, and sadly, we have veered
Away from the ancient voices,
The whispers at the mouth of the cave.
“Silence will find you,” they remind us.
“Rise and lift your eyes to the pink glow
On the mountain, to the red circle emerging
From the sea. Breathe and surrender.
There is no need to seek. The sounds will arrive
Out of hiding—the first breath of the wind in the pines,
The tide’s soft murmur, the sparrow’s first chirp.
The aromas will follow: the scent of old roses
In the sun’s first warm rays. Then the bees begin
Their business, and your tongue remembers
Honey from the golden days of childhood.”
Time disappears, and the sweetness comes—
The holy joy of wasting something
That was never real.
Rose Anna Higashi
CHANGING MY LIFE
I’m wasting my time
petting the older dog whose time
is wasting,
and petting the old cat
who’s ratcheting up his purr
that’s almost been lost in tedium
all these years;
and petting the new rescue puppy –
nine months old
and I’ve just become her fifth home
in a world where time is money.
She weaves arcs and circles
around me like a spell,
as if that will hold me in place,
loving her for keeps.
Yes, love is magic,
and it knows neither time
nor the market value of simply living
in purring, hand-stroking-furry
amazement.
Taylor Graham
POST-GRADUATE HIATUS
Once I tossed Post-graduate caps and gown
in a steam trunk for long term preservation,
I started wasting time and enjoying life.
Sidestepping the most efficient path to work
I’d doddle down sidestreets, join neighborhood
kids as they played kick-the-can in shoeless feet,
complement stranger’s dogs as they pissed
on alleyway walls, and shout oaths—or mumble
apologies to absent lovers—my words echoing
through dark, dank underpasses as I splashed
fêted puddles of rainwater on spiral orb cobwebs
obscuring the high art of intercity graffiti.
Tis wonderous to contemplate how long
might dirt specs in a teardrop exist before muddy
liquification metamorphosized true character.
Security—I have it; bewilderment—I don’t
yet depression holds court over productivity’s measure;
sure, my free time could have been spent differently
or more predictively on universal pursuits of codified success
still I won’t waste time researching red ticket items,
life enhancing health food, or erectile enhancement;
I kindly nod to yoga and daily calisthenics, yet it's far time
both just take a rest; lethargy takes practice, wasting time’s
an obsession—virtues that define my primum mobile.
Clueless critics define my nirvana as wasted opportunities
misinformed, unaware—the cult of idle thoughts
and insignificant immersion skips the light fantastic.
Sterling Warner
WASTED LIVES
How many candles must I light
to commemorate all those dead souls,
all those lives wasted in wars without end.
So many that candle making
is now a profitable industry,
the more deaths,
the more candles,
so candle making
survives even death.
But I have never lit such a candle.
My time wasted has been
in protests for peace,
in dreams of peace.
My voice has been wasted
in words of peace
in poems of peace.
So much time wasted.
And now I wonder
if there be anyone left
to waste a candle for me.
Lynn White
WORRYWART
That’s the nickname mother gave me growing up
Because, she said, I worried all the time
Unaware I’d been infected by her fears
Worry was, at times, a prophylactic
A prayer that God might grant us a reprieve
From ghosts I knew were there but couldn’t see
By the time I reached my twenties
This habit had become
A fundamental part of who I was
It took years for me to realize that
Worry’s just a waste of precious time
Fretting over things you can’t control
Worry has you dreading your tomorrows
Terrified of things that may not even happen
Yet, unprepared to meet the ones that do
There are far better ways to waste your time
— Find a brook that murmurs in your ear
Watch children play and mothers sit and visit
Read a book or do a crossword puzzle
Don’t bait the hook the next time you go fishing
Each day, embrace whatever comes your way
Frank Kelly
BETWEEN TWO AND THREE
Awake at 2:15.
Lights on.
Two dog biscuits; One for each.
Gas fireplace takes off the chill.
Settle in.
Grab the journal.
Phone for date and time?
Distracted by a story.
It's really good.
Want to share it.
But not now.
Back to journal.
Look across to see the picture drawn yesterday.
Fantasize again that I am working on growing
angel's wings.
All is possible between two and three.
No one looks.
No one tells.
No one scolds or reminds
that I can't become an angel in this form,
least of all with wings.
The harsh day time realities are all at bay.
Hunt a recipe for peach preserves.
They are falling in torrents off the tree outside.
Something must be done to use the peaches!
But not now.
Time to waste.
Not to sleep.
Not to work.
Not even to make delicious peach jam with brandy.
Time to waste on puttering with thoughts;
how it goes with me
And how
I might come to terms with all I have not yet become
And how
Not to waste the time I have left.
I rest my case.
Return to sleep.
No one is the wiser.
Except me.
The possibility of angel wings
is still a fancy I can remember.
Suzanne M. Haas-Cunningham