Best Clacking Poems
Upon Awakening
I see you morning,
curling down into
my front yard
like a big golden cat
come to play.
your paws ruffle the trees
but they are only bones
clacking noisily like
.geese squabbling
making your ears twitch.
you snuffle the dried beds
wanting to rub against the lilacs
but they are sleeping within
the grey hard branches
and will not answer you.
ah but there is a rose,
sheltered from rude November
by the cottage in a quiet spot,
one last hurrah as red as berries
you curl around it and purr.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The keys are still—no clacking, no dinging~
now only dust lies in the grooves
where fingers once belonged.
Once it knew the weight of wars,
of Hemingway’s cigars and wine,
of love letters dipped in kerosene shine.
Now spiders draft their webs between
the metal bones of the obsolete machine.
A museum piece.
A fossil.
A ghost.
Waiting for words that matter the most.
But the writer’s hands?
Oh, they’re somewhere else~
tapping glass,
begging the sky
to inspire a story
worth its own ink.
There is an antique writing desk
in my little study
handed-me-down
from generations of would-be
writers in my family
And there are ancient creatures
from days gone by
living in this old desk still
evil, larcenous little creatures
envious of literary skill
This explains much
Lately, I have caught them unawares
aghast, thought I imagined them
but they are really there
surly, sinister, repugnant creatures
in my writing desk
There's a putrid little jerk,
called Pernishicus who lurks
behind the piles on my desk
glorying in the mess
a malevolent, grimy-mauve gremlin
Who preys on newly created works
stealthily spraying them
with foul feculence
as soon as I commence
my writing-
...Sometimes missing slightly
and tagging my hand
making it hard to stand
myself (much less my writing)
for days on end
Then there's a creepy
mesmerizing fiend
they call Spelbadger
a translucent thing, quite obscene
who shifts in the shadows and purrs
With dark eyes deep- constantly changing
like stones from mood-rings
set in his skull
he psychically bullies,
intimidates and muddles
until my poor brain
is worn and dull
And perhaps worst of all
is that one, Grumblesleaze
with pale, glowering eyes diseased
a gray-green, mangy looking thing
whose famous quirk
is that he has the gall
to grouse about my work...
As he viciously shreds it
then glunshing and munching
greedily devours it all
leaving no note
or trace of remembrance
of my past brilliance
behind
Oh, out of spite
he might leave a few
of my ill-penned
unfortunate lines
I planned to cut anyway
or pull my worst attempts
from the waste-can
and lay them out
to remind me of my failures
Yes, this explains much
For there was only one before
our one lone ancestor
who was able to write
at this desk prolifically
tapping out volumes rather heroically
'Though tiresome and tedious
dry history and drivel
which, no doubt, shrank and shriveled
and lulled these creatures off
to sleep for years
Until we woke them up
broke their hibernation
with more interesting stories
and imagination, colorfully crafted
ingenious, piece after piece
Clicking and clacking away
on typewriters, keyboards
generation after generation
of irritatingly gifted writers
disturbing their peace
it had to cease...
TIME KEEPER
Early morning
Late p.m.
These could be thankful periods of silence
The world drowsy
Or still asleep
And my teeming head hopefully
emptied out
What marvelous devolvings might be refreshed
When one is in a nothing state
The clatter of dreams and strivings finally settled
on the kitchen floor
I would borrow absence from my cat
He sits on the window sill head on paws
serene aggravating!
Yes so apparently empty he I am sure
isn’t aware of the ticking
The tick tick ticking of my large kitchen
clock
To my sensitive awareness like hail stones
on a flat tin roof
Yes! really a clack clack horrible clacking
And my cat?
Hah!
What is time to him?
Zip!
Nada!
This wretched inflicting of time on the eternal
Dave Austin
We played sports
on asphalt fields
drains and sewer lids
for bases
Billy’s house the right field line
Tommy’s porch
a short left field.
We diagramed
football plays
bottle caps, fractured marbles,
Mikey’s favorite button.
The ball was scuffed
bladder worn
sticking out where it was torn.
The jump rope slapped
sidewalk cracks
sneakers tapped the beat
“Double Dutch” amazingly
twin passing ropes
a double feat.
Baseball cards trilled old bike spokes
roller skates click-clacking by
racing as street lights curfew
silenced the hum of play
returned the quiet of the night
to those who’d worked all day.
John G. Lawless
©2/10/2019
Faces of death stare against my raptured skin.
Silently, they watch me in frigid judgment.
I used to run from them in unholy matrimony,
Peeling the sins from my teardrops
Wishing they would
Just go away.
The brown-skinned disease normalized her penetrating,
Gaslit disgust against the smiles,
Against the faith
“YOU HAD IT COMING!”, she resounded in front of my Son…rise.
“All your fault”, the faces of death impolitely declared.
I begged for her abuse to end.
I pleaded for those faces to cease their stares against my coalescing wounds.
I prayed that the stars would let our friendship count to infinity.
But the brown-skinned disease could only count to 5150.
Terms & conditions no longer applied.
How would I ever escape?
How would I ever taste tears of joy again?
How would I supplant the bruises now invested in each heartbeat?
When would I stop apologizing for the harm she caused...?
I stared back at the faces of death.
“Not today!” “Not tomorrow!”
In this decrepit whirlwind of deceit
They smiled back at me, turning the other cheek.
“Stronger than yesterday”, they whispered.
I awoke from my descent into paralysis,
Listening to the gentle clacking of laptops,
The wistful choruses enunciated from the turntable…
…”No easy way out. I won’t back down. I’ll stand my ground.”
For my walls built
By the faces of death
Are meant to climb,
Not to confine
©Tacito
I'm that type of guy..
The sort that you said you would never let yourself get mixed up with again.The kind of guy that knocks back 5 shots of whiskey before sucking his teeth at the moon, hidden behind neon lights and shoddy bar mirrors; Holding in the burn, promising not to let my lighter char your cheek while I light up your cherry. I smile at your timid lean and wink, just so you know that the cute disposition of satin cloaked prey in a cage of wild animals doesn't make me wince. I'm used to this, numb to this. You though, you don't seem to feel the pull of this place you're in. You're still treading the vomit of your last mistakes, hungover in recollections of battered heart symphonies. Fresh wounds in the murk, chum to the sharks, beautiful. I don't ask to buy you a drink, or for your name, but you offer it willingly as if it were a confession in a place of purity. I order more whiskey, push a little heat over to you and wait for the night to take its toll. One of us, I'm never sure which; is going to die a little bit more tonight. We drink to the sound of billiards clacking and a jukebox with over eager speakers and talk in circles until we're dizzy with lust. I have forgotten your name, but you never cared. I'm that type of guy. The pain you were looking for, to make you forget the woes you carried in with you. I wish I could say you did the same for me, but I came here for the whiskey. You shouldn't have fed the animals.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
Clouds were rolling
along against a stark sky, the day
the day the old Iron Horse
came through the mile-long tunnel.
It chugged on down
into town and I caught a ride.
As I began my dinner-ride,
the engine began to roll.
Slowly, click-clacking down
a track, that hungry, hopeful day.
Just before that tunnel,
In a field I spied black horse.
The rolling old Iron Horse,
was not an easy ride.
Inside that mile-long tunnel;
my stomach began to roll.
Churning all through the day;
I needed to lie down.
Unable to lie down,
I thought of the black horse.
Standing alone in a field, that daym
it would have been a smoother ride.
My stomach turning, old train rolling,
finally exiting mile-long tunnel.
In the distance, mile-long tunnel,
seemed to shrink on down.
As the train went rolling;
I kept thinking of that horse.
That calmed my stomach through the ride
I had, upon that day.
On that gloomy, cloudy day,
in the distance the black tunnel,
the horrid, nauseous ride,
began to cool itself down.
That jerky old iron horse
can just keep up its rolling.
The next day I took a better ride.
When dinner train came through that tunnelm
I waved from my own horse.
That train, it went on down
the noisy tracks and just kept on a rolling.
Oh, hear the rattle of the rolling train;
yhe clap…clap…clacking rhythm,
beating like a conga drum;
every trip it sings along,
with the tracks repeating song;
such simple, inexpensive music.
Listen to that music,
of the heart-beat, of the train.
Sing along, with its melodious song.
Come, join in the rhythm;
don’t you love, to sing along;
with the clack..clack…chugging, of that rolling drum.
Run and grab your bongo drums;
we’ll play a little music.
A grand neighborhood, sing-along,
to the rhythm of the train.
Oh, what a wondrous rhythm,
is the old, Iron Horse’s song.
In the heart’s, always a song;
the body’s beating drum.
It keeps on pounding out its rhythm;
the heart beats of its Chrystal music;
beats with tempo of the train’
just clap…clap…clacking, on along.
All the people sing along,
with the old Iron Horse’s thrilling songs.
If with instruments, you’re untrained;
perhaps you do not own a drum.
Still, you can join the music;
just clap your hands in rhythm.
Revel in that rhythm,
sing and play along.
Just be part of the music
and belt out your own song,
to your own heart’s rhythm
and that musical old train.
Lighten up that rhythm and revel in the music.
Have a glorious, sing-along, to the many beating drums.
There’s nothing quite as joyous, as the songs sung with the trains.
9-9-19
Your Choice Max 333 Words Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
With flashing eyes she did enthral
as to the beat of drums she danced
a wild flamingo with clacking castanets
her wide hooped skirt was all a-swirl
Golden earrings sparkling and flashing
heels looking impossibly high as she twirls
her eyes flashing enticing messages
as the men flock to her a mocking laugh
Siren of the senses as well she knows
she taunts and teases as she grabs hold
only to push her admirer head over heels
leaving him stunned and dazed in the dirt
In a puff of smoke she vanishes from view
long rolls of drums call to her to come back
the men look in vain for her return
a soft voice enticingly calls from the shadows
Singing of long journeys to far away exotic places
of caravan wheels swishing and of horses gavotting
of smokey camp fires bristling with full cauldrons
no clue to what lies within just enticing smells
She tells of lovers she has known in distant past
entreating the men, who try their luck to no avail
she sits brushing her long raven black hair of curls
and the sparks fly giving her an ethereal appearance
The fires die low and still she has not yet chosen
it seems she is waiting for someone not now here
flashes of lightening fork across the sullen skies
and the skies open in deluges of rain and thunder
As her admirers scatter seeking shelter she laughs
spinning round and round hair flying out scattering
droplets that glisten and sparkle in pale light
at last she crumbles done to the sodden ground
A mighty flash of lightening rends the sky in half
highlighting a jet black horse rearing up high
she runs forward laughing he is here, he has come
her gypsy king, he swings her up before him and turns
As the summer storm fades the last fork shows
the two lovers high-lit on the rolling hill
then gone, gone to their secret place of tryst
she leaves lingering memories in men's minds of what might have been
Wherever peaches grow I go and pick 'em.
When they get ripe I try and swipe 'em.
The farmer runs out with a shotgun and wonders where's the varmint gone?
I'm hiding by the railroad tracks stacking the peaches I've found.
Then a freight train about a mile long rolls by hauling a bucket of rain.
I hop aboard while beautiful clouds gather to the north.
I put my peaches in the bucket and lug it to a hidden part of the train.
The rain begins, the night looms in, it's summer and it's thoughts and warm.
To the clacking rumble and the patter I close my eyes and dream.
An earthquake swallows up the people who wear horrible masks of fright as
their daily tasks are trampled.
In a favorite movie theater an illumined lady puts her hand in mine, warm
mouths, breath, skin, hair wing-soft, whole bodies, wind, bare.
I open my eyes at sunrise there's a steady glow of light around.
If you can believe in God, you can believe the mountains go from purple to
green.
While the last partier meanders home to bed the first farmer is up to milk his
bread.
Fruit of the world ripens audibly and cities make a silent, distant sound.
Lonely guy stretches, rubs his eyes, pees out a passing train, has a
breakfast of peaches and rainwater.
Under afternoon's setting sun,
Its last rays chase across the,
Mississippi delta.
Slow as she goes, steadily cutting,
Currents rough undertone.
Click, clacking water rushing,
Up wooden panels divide sections,
Harnessing the wooden wheel's raw,
Power it pushes along,
A heavily laden haul.
Splashing spray hits unguarded,
Passengers, whom stand alone,
The side rails.
Site seeing travels wonder at
Nature’s wild landscapes,
Vs. mankind’s plantations.
A tenuous balance between beauties,
And progress.
A grand old lady from days gone by,
The white queen glides seamlessly,
As if on air.
Musicians play waltzes, sweet tones,
As music’s smooth rhythms vibrate,
Her bow unto stern.
Delighting gentlemen, and
Maiden alike.
Men dressed in period costumes,
Embrace there dance partners,
At the waste height politeness.
Lovely, ladies blushing beneath,
Swirling shifts delicate steps.
Drifting crafts with sails at half mast,
To honor histories glorious past.
Freezing still watching, as girths,
Wake rocks them on their merry way,
Experience olden day’s legacies.
Reliving an easier time, recline my,
Friend at idles leisure.
Beside the rocky shoreline,
Admire life's golden age,
Have a taste of Southern comfort.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
"The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog"
"The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog"
Nine small words have leaped right through the decades.
Jumping through my brain
Thumping through my memory
like a drum that still complains.
Dedicating dancing sounds
on keyboards of old Remingtons
and Underwoods, that understood
young fingers tapping, zigging- zagging
rhythms beating , small bells ringing
to and fro, a carriage swinging
to orchestrated yesterdays
While papers flew, and fingers numbed
with sly old fox tricks, lazy dogs, mixed
with mindless sounds of drumming bits of
gibberish verses, hands rehearsing
the fox, a hound, a cadance clicking
tick-tick-tocking back to classrooms
clocking words now locked in time
Sitting straight, with neck erect
a sticky "J" key...a whiz kid sat
next chair over, such a brat,
she'd try to race me, set the pace
that I could never match, no trace of
satisfaction on her face, and
I would lose my concentration
my head would wander into clouds
where foxes should be chased by hounds
instead I type the same old rounds
of foxes jumping over dogs,
that clogged my mind with silly sounds
which hummed inside my inner child
Old clacking sounds, are still around
they pound today, inside my head
and still I ponder all the while
how that old fox could leap a dog
unless that dog was dead!
..............................................................
Inspired by Craig's Contest: Typewriter
4/20/13
Black –
darkness pitches, naked witches, almond moon of hallowed season
crossing stitches, dogs and bitches dance entranced for wicked reason
powdered sulphur matting hair, licking dirt and twitching praises
sanctify the night in pain, evil stirs and sickness raises
magic black and legion spawned, circling stars of salt and mud
cries that die against the night, sacrifice of blade and blood
candles cursed to stain the light, pluck the feathers from a dove
base desires of craven need, souls forsaking all above
black, malignant eyes intent, leaking malice, wearing skin
wearing bags of festered hate, fevered hags with open sin
coming, clacking fingernails, children bent in pleading prayer
nightmares twisting locks of hair, children cornered by the air
White –
nurtured itches, silver witches, Mother Moon who guides the season
mending stitches, bringing riches, singing rites, enlightened reason
tiger eye and poppy seed, woodland altars flush with praises
dancing airy flights of joy, tendered smoke of incense raises
magic white and ancient born gently stirs in mystic mud
giving gifts from life within, finger pricked and drop of blood
earth and wind and three by three, witches cooing to the dove
secrets cast and never told waken to Her will above
witches’ oil to scent the air, purifying nature's skin
breezes drawing circled puffs, papers burn to counter sin
lilac, sage and sandalwood honor Mother Moon in prayer
holding fast as children dream sylvan scents on glamoured air
Who Am I?
Sulking shoulders hold up an inscrutable face
haunted outsider with diffident fathers
preaching platitudes simply for their sweet sound
That lingers over the clacking forks at the dinner table.
The wardrobe changes nothing
As drab sneakers collect filth inside a Victorian house
and only rub clean aboard the slow spin of a Ferris wheel;
Scarlet jacket brushes past warped souls at 5000 RPM
over a cliff and under a thousand gently beckoning stars:
Moody eyes under an oil soaked Stetson
growl throaty defiance for past grievances,
Sneering the name that tried to smash his soul.
Speed and time always kill quickly and completely
Yet he roars on…
The insolent youth in quest of one honest elder.