Best Stopwatch Poems
-This buds for you!-
-It takes one to know one!-
-I know you are, but what am I?-
A second hand, on my stopwatch, going nowhere!
You are a joker, a smoker, a midnight stroker
<-------How, about that, Steve Miller song
I'm not here to talk about the way you comment a poem
That's not how I roll, now listen, and listen well,
I don't care, about them words you speak
A whining sheep, every time you don't score
Crying behind close doors,
Boo-Who, I did not place high in so-and-so's contest
Gosh&dammit, not everyone's on a quest
Blogging, about the day, your poem got demoted to nonsense
Trying to comment relentlessly,
You can't top, a mountain that has no setup
I'd rather leave a copy paste comment,
"than being fake as fake can be"
At least, my copy paste was a song,
in which welcome the new poets on
Treating, everyone with love and security
Your invites, are cold and force, to you it's not about community
No motion, to your notion, simple, and disgusting
I don't know why you think, we are competing,
Long ago, I left you bleeding, no reason to be defeating
Your paranoia, has you thinking, it's all about the points,
It's getting old and boring,
You cry babies are nothing more than jokes and hypocrites
Hey you, this ain't dominoes, we done pass every Jo-Jo
When, I have time I sit here for fun, my trigger finger on the gun
Reading, commenting, until my day is done
You think, because someone, left a copy paste
That your poem was not read,
Perhaps, it was not understood, or enjoyed
Or, a welcome to the neighborhood
A nice smile, from me to you
Nice poem, You Rock!
So What! ---- WOW!
This Bud's for you
I think it's time for you to GET A LIFE!
Be glad someone took their time, in checking you out twice
Not, everyone on this site, is full of bull-****
The smallest words, are more likely to be legit
I don't need and expensive comment,
I don't want to impress, when it comes to the best comment
Please do not make love to my poem!
A nice pat on my back will do,
Now that my friend, puts a smile on my face
To know you care, to know you were there:)
Peace Out,
~SKAT~
The air was thin and icy.
It was dark and cold outside.
A blanket of snow covered the ground.
The footprints in the snow led the way.
We loaded the bus one-by-one as if we were animals entering Noah’s Ark.
Statuesque beings sat motionless in their seats.
Twenty pairs of eyes half-open stared blankly ahead fixated on nothingness.
Our journey to the unknown was about to begin.
The bus tired spun in circles like a child’s merry-go-round.
Round and round they went like the thoughts in my head.
I felt like a kid at the circus.
Excitement and freedom swept over me like a cool, summer breeze.
The road was long and unfamiliar.
Time passed by so slowly as if the earth’s stopwatch had been turned off.
The once frozen bus was not swimming in a sea of hot air.
Our final destination was a small, almost-deserted town in Upstate NY.
It looked as though a plague had swept through like a giant broom and devastated it completely.
One after the other buses pulled up.
A sea of yellow painted the once dreary canvas.
Girls of all shapes and sizes descended onto the now colorful landscape.
All dressed in tan britches, black boots, and smiles.
The clan of riders filed into the ring like a colony of ants all with the same mission.
This was my first mission.
I was a soldier going into battle for the first time.
The ant colony gathered in a circular formation.
The sign-in table was engulfed and swallowed whole.
Numbers were being handed out, one-by-one.
36, 17, 41, 54, 62, 12, 19, 38…
The judge’s voice boomed over the speaker like the voice of G-d.
Every crevice of the ring was filled with the loud, unclear syllables.
Girls of horseback walked proudly and calmly into the ring.
Horses arched their necks and pranced around as if they owned the world.
Tails raised slightly, eyes beaming forward, chests massive.
Hours passed by like days.
My nerves built up like a roaring fireball in my stomach.
One swift leg-up from my coach and I am propelled onto the horse.
I land smoothly into seat of the saddle.
I am welcomed with open arms.
Together, as one creation, we walked into the ring to compete the mission at hand.
Pecking quick, a parting kiss
Pumping legs, a train to miss
Lovers waving, strangers pass
Tears and hugs a whistle blast
Scanning papers on news stands
Pats on backs while shaking hands
Averted eyes and hurried walk
Can’t stop, won’t wait, no time to talk
Pushchairs, wheelchairs, screaming kids
Cardboard coffee cups with lids
Departure times on TV screens
Red light, amber, go is green
Somewhere, nowhere, never speak
Laughing, crying, faces bleak
Turned up collars, downcast heads
Business suits and tardy threads
Briefcase, suitcase, traveling bag
Folded papers ,glossy Mags
Hustle, bustle, teeming by
Oblivious to earth and sky
Don’t stop don’t look and don’t ask why
Ticket punched and journey paid
Click the stopwatch
Now you’re dead
Impressionist Poem
time clock
stopwatch
still, life moves
Time is precious time is priceless
Every second ticks a minute
Every minute ticks an hour
Every stroke towards the midnight hour.
Born of our mother but still on the clock
Like the pushing of a button on life's stopwatch.
Starting along being nurtured in life as the hands of the clock ticks by in sight
Growing by the hour and learning every day
Watching the hands of time passing day by day
Moving on in life and time passes on each year the clock ticks on celebrating a new year
Now as we get older and the clock goes tick tock you'll soon come to realise that the stopwatch will stop.
Once manifested on the
heel of Adagio in G major,
balancés and assemblés from
the back hand. Baryshnikov told
me to flatten my stomach, so I
repressed the urge to
breathe; suffocation is
incandescence by the barre.
Then I looked in the mirror and the
mirror glared back in contempt- the meat, the
pillow I nursed in my belly, the spine,
always sagging like the pools of honey in my knees. I
shoveled over some Hydroxycut and pride, and bribed
it to be my lover.
Quitting was hard, unless I never
did it. Unless I cigarette-butted
my way out of Saturday rehearsals. Timed death.
As if I could peel a stopwatch from
nodules of encephalon, shake it in front
of Svetlana- ‘I have a rendez-vous with
the Pope, my future is to become a
world-class wine connoisseur, wine
demands an open mouth, not skinny torsos and
high relevé’
Little girls always dream in the soles of pink pointe shoes,
but magic approximates deception and the infamous
split blooded toe.
My mother has the home tapes. Me shanae-ing on
kitchen floor so close to the bowl of kiwis I could sense
the lanate growth. Then I got dizzy. Then I fell and
sprained the right ankle. It’s been
twenty-two Broadway shows, twenty-three if you
count the one where Price made us tap dance
on Eighth Avenue to prove to Lenny that we were
diverse and versatile (I don’t know how to tap).
Now, my feet are lumps of unheated coal and a post-it
note folds on the desk of your office, green like the tea I
brew on Saturday afternoons. That,
I guess, must be resignation.
tercets in ABA rhyme
Clouds are blocking out the sun.
I reach for hat and raincoat,
gotta take my morning run.
Rain breezes by, it's just a mist;
but whirling in an angry squall,
wind pokes and jabs me with his fists.
Bidding to outrun dark clouds,
the sun seems to have taken sides
as we break through their shrouds.
Turning 'round, I am drenching wet
but I cannot fault the rain.
On this record run; it's pure sweat.
No excuse can cripple my stride
not the rain clouds, stopwatch, or wind.
Light breaks through; will power is my guide.
written November 15, 2016
Below are 14 footles, separate and distinct, with their own titles in bold font. A footle fest!
Sympathetic
Ben-Hur
Been her
Paving the Way
Guitar
Get tar
Muliebral Outlook
Female
Email
Origin
Sin's source
Seine's source
Borgana Interior
Driver
Dry fur
RN A Cappella
Nursing
Nurse sing
Comic Vowel
Funny
Fun "E"
Blarney Stone
Irish
I wish
Out of Time
Stopwatch
Stopped watch
Head to Toe
Dress you
Dress shoe
Canyon Carnival
Engorge
In gorge
Castle Restoration
Remote
Re-moat
Insomnia
Coffee
Cough fee
Beautiful
Sorry
Sari
2/8/2020
Poetry form: Footle -Just a reminder, a footle is a 2 line, 2 syllable trochaiac monometer poem with an integral title suitable for light, witty, pertinent, topical verse. To make it more fun, I also try to have the second line have a similar sound as the first line.
So there! Now you know.
The moment you arrived I knew the hour that brought you here. You my newborn
child, was going to be loved til' the ends of earth. I was twenty-one years old and
the sun was very new. It barely creased our hearts so aware of each other
were we that it danced around us post-haste without a single thought to time.
Inside my little capsule of love
you were a well wrapped dove
cooing for attention, thereof;
They insisted on wheeling me out, rules they said. I was so high on life
I could probably have flown out of there with two left wings.
They pushed me out into the sun, where you and I both shared our
first breath, beneath an altruistic sky that shared only love.
A baby boy was born to me
he was all my eyes could see
I'd love him until eternity;
Time is a stopwatch that can handle, never a day goes by that I don't hold
his heart in mine. Today as I recall our 1st day I smile. I was blessed
with an angel that day, one that I could proudly call my son.
Feb 24, 2023
Sponsor Regina McIntosh
Contest Name It Means A Lot To Me
When time flies, feelings of euphoria,
spur jaw-dropping habitus within,
vision of nirvana on groundswell earth,
chirping bird amber tone on hedgerow,
cacophony that piercing aural backdrop,
riotry of wild bewitching warble,
golden fronted leaf, black nape oriole,
northern red bishop,
snapshot or sedation, honey dribbled spatula,
that ladles satin eardrums,
as momentary plot unveils its kernel,
fleeting countdown to ecstatic charm,
mesmerising tailspin gust bract swirl,
of diamond stud color burst variety,
time lag is an instinct riven leap,
lustrous spark escape hatch mere sprint,
who could be immune to such splendour,
embellishment or antic flourish,
folly swept aside in brisk stanza,
hyperbole on jewel rim chariot,
passenger in situ juggling spheres,
morning dew mist clad bank enchantment,
divinity in spiral foam waterfall trance,
speckled moon’s transient blind soar,
amid hall of mirror dream cloud etching,
bonfire of imagining without rein,
infant echo chamber left me thunderstruck,
lightning flash recall as I shudder,
with ardent inkling of toddler stopwatch era,
parental caper, boisterous shriek,
blue stain paddle boat capsized,
guffaws at the peak of silver rush,
backscatter on a prior and current bloom,
like a reckless swimmer’s wild swipe,
at a grazed iron metal lifebuoy,
whose toss and turn gyration high jinx,
another symbol for the heaven in one’s palm,
that vanishes as soon as it clocks in.
Another Sunday morning
Crouched in the beam of headlights
Steam coming off coffee and breath
Fumbling to pin race bib to pants
A romance
Of sorts; this dance I’m addicted to
Those magic numbers: 5k, 13.1, and
The boss lady: 26.2 (I’m coming after you)
But why? Friends ask
You’re crazy they say on posts
Of me on each early Sunday
I say nothing back, but heart the comment
I can’t explain what the rhythmic pound; the sound
of New Balanced footstrikes does
For the broken part of me
How the week’s aggression
That needs suppressing is sweated out
And gathered up in Nike’s moisture-wicking fabric
How weaving through the crowd of neophytes
Wearing today’s race shirt, alternately
Sprinting then walking
And the kids, eager, then over it
The moms reclaiming a body that sheltered
The now-strollered baby
The geriatrics, shoes well-used
Nimble limbs, not brittle but abused
From pounding pavement years before this
This environment, atmosphere
Big race crowds or small informal
Stopwatch race; doesn’t matter
Just involved; a part of this kinship
Unspoken club affiliation; in passing
Not a wave, but nod
A head bob of appreciation
For another’s association;
Obsession with times, miles,
Post-race selfie smiles
Because I know there will come a day
That my body will betray
My runner’s soul.
But for now I stand at the start
Ready for race gun and one more mile
2/14/19
Hobbies Contest
Sponsor: Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
I call him Clarence,
for no especial reason.
He announces in a soothing
if somewhat stilted
synthesised tone,
'The time is now ten a.m.'
He will oblige again at ten thirty
and then again at eleven.
Such is the mobile phone:
it gives you an alarm,
it is your stopwatch,
it takes your photographs,
updates your social media,
gets you to your online bank.
It is also useful as a phone.
But Clarence is special:
Clarence talks to me.
A voice in the otherwise
silent room
where only I sit
with troubled thoughts,
the analgesic spirit
a constant tang in my throat.
Clarence punctuates time with me.
Silence says I love you!,
Also, I hate you.
Silence says I care for you,
Also, who are you?
Silence says I am curious, tell me more..
Also, don't bother - you are a bore.
Silence says you are right goon..
Also, shut up you are absolutely wrong!
Silence is Concern, Confusion & Frustration!
For you they are thoughts,
For your beloved they are stopwatch.
So, pls save them and speak out !!
As Love will wait till end
Silently ofcourse..
Until the Darkness Returns
David J Walker
This is taking forever
Said the wall clock
as if annoyed by time
Stop watching the time clock
The stopwatch shouted ironically
Unable to control itself
Big Ben is the natural God of London
Announcing Himself on the hour
In a cartoon voice
Its Ragtime bragged the rags
covered in discarded motor oil
distinguished by a depth of bad breath
My digital watch cost a fortune
But could do nothing
About time
Wind me up before dawn
Turn me on
Until the darkness returns
Had an epiphany this morning and yet, the screeching and scratching of the voices is always at hand.
The only thing I can trust this day and age is the walls talking to me. Ceremoniously, I want my consciousness to die.
Alas, it lies wake and unfolds the lashes concocted. From the whips of a tormented psyche.
I was alive and well this morning. The clicking of a stopwatch is the split frames of time that rip apart my wretched soul.
Part ways with the thought of living the days without the switch. Up, down, left, right. Goodnight.