My skeleton was in the shop.
Fell apart like a chewed up lollipop.
All I have are globs of brains in a bowl.
And eyeballs tearing up as the dry air takes a toll.
Without a skeleton I’m not much at all.
My tendons fell out in the bathroom stall.
I need a shoulder blade for my bag to hang onto.
But muscles without bones have nothing to do.
When I went to pick up my skeleton that day.
I figured they would want their pay.
But I left my bag with my wallet behind.
And the shop owner was not very kind…
He said to pick a bone I didn’t care for.
To pay for the skeleton repairing chore.
So I walked out with most of my bones clacking.
Still I felt some lacking.
I couldn’t speak when I answered the phone.
I guess I shouldn’t have traded my hyoid bone…
hair porcupine quills glow
white hot needles sow
I watch roaches breed with
gecko crap pasted on walls
black confetti malls do not stock
rock steady my vacant dock
graves float gaping gasps
sister screamed a wall they
will erect !
lips rubescent glance
packing, clacking, hacking
cups singing neurotic with
chaucer saucers doomed
gossip eating fish with chips
I observe shadowed eyes
kohl pen did not snore
shattering nerves like flies
east winds carry me
blustering mission
profile glistening white
aura black magnetic
authentic not synthetic
marshmallow lips raspberry
rouged, black cat may not
grasp an inch of caboose
I will return afresh
karma is a vixen witch
clicking switch
when signals hitch ~
©GhairoDanielsPoetry
HONOURABLE WINNER
IMAGE POEM, Allpoetry.com
June’26
Assessor: “The chaos of darkness brings a cracked smile, the quizzical design of words has the reader wanting to pull up a chair, and stay awhile - whimsical and quirky…”
Cecila, a calico stitch witch did a dance by the glow of the moon
ruffles flying out in the weird shape of a boastful baby baboon
Her boots are a clicking, a smacking, a clacking as she does the dance
Bringing Halloween ambiance to us, as she does in France
So. you have met Cecila, a pumpkin head guy says to me
When she finishes, tell her, she is invited to tea
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
"By law shall the land be built"
A wish geology and Picts ignored
Where salt froth
And fog
Become
An insinuation—mostly rocks.
Inverted white dull houses
And people:
Eyes fixed inward
And out
To sea
Like sorrowful gulls
Timing tides.
Afraid of mainland strangers
And color
They mangle hellos
And stress goodbyes.
They say
They’re Viking folk.
Make clacking noises
Like crabs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
clacking keys echo
through eras, ink stains shifting~
a misplaced comma
my best day has not come yet
She’s on the railroad track
I hear her clicking and clacking
I feel she has my back
She will impress me with her wisdom
She will grace me with a terrific twenty-four hours
Opting to bring me sunshine
or lovely rain for flowers
My best day is awaiting
a signal from the commander in chief
When she finally gets here
It might be a great relief
Maybe she came yesterday
Or even Wednesday last
I probably will not know
Until after she has passed.
In Spain they call it Flamenco
In Portugal it's Fado
It's simple life yet so complex
Heavy but light
Dark but so bright
One can step into a basement or a theatre so large
One can feel overjoyed or supremely depressed
These extremes of emotions are life itself
But perhaps there is that balance when you sit and watch and listen
The click clacking of shoes
The desperate strums of strings
The rhythmic slapping on the cajon
The moans of lost romance
Sip your coffee or Porto vino, or Sangria if you wish
Lose yourself in Iberian folk music
And decide how you want to spend your horas in the dancing abyss
Working quietly in my shop makes me smile
Hearing the soft snipping and quick clacking sounds
I notice my wood is escaping its pile
What if I find there is no more to be found?
Creating such things like small houses and food
To slake the thirst of those miniature souls
Making each piece an original and good
To supply to my customers is my goal
When speaking my mind and I'm not being heard
Is something that niggles the back of my brain
Repeating once fine, then two times but the third
saying it again is really a pain
Why don't you listen to hear the words I say
Instead of thinking about your next event
A demon I must independently slay
For being acknowledged is just what is meant
Why do you
Put me through this
This death of yours?
Why can’t I dance
And play
And eat
My God
Or sleep
And forget.
The sky is the same
The blue
The air full
The clacking of a train
The seagulls in a dumpster
The noises of cheerful people
Pretending they are alive
Alive
While I sit next
To the container of your ashes
Driving to our spot
To throw you away
in the grey waves.
We've used our gifts to watercolor disease
potter haloes of love into horns of hate
knitting the fallout of nuclear dreams.
Evolution is unwinding at the speed of light.
DNA is strung about on the vine of the ID.
America the beauty, sounds like the death rattle of Rome...
Veins of freedom clogged by the cholesterol of ego.
Our elders sounding ever more unhinged...
In front of the world, they squabbled about nothing.
While her adversaries make recipes for bald eagle meat.
We've chained our children to iPhones and robots.
They have lost any semblance of an attention span.
Struggling with constructive criticism and compliments.
Everybody's pointing dirty fingers, only to be chopped off.
Black hearts and bloody fingers are everywhere.
From the White House to the churches of our God.
The four horsemen are approaching,
Albeit in the thin shadow of sundial time.
Feel their hoofbeats, clacking against cobblestone minds.
Town Full Of Sound
I use to live in
A town full of sound
With Roller Coasters
And Merry Go Round
Horns would blast
To sound an alarm
I use to live in
A town full of sound
I use to live in
A town full of sound
Pinballs were zinging
And barkers would hound
Foghorns were blaring
A mournful fog song
I use to live in
A town full of sound
I use to live in
A town full of sounds
Salt water taffy
Came clacking on down
The bandstand was swinging
Those Glen Miller songs
I use to live in
A town full of sound
I use to live in
A town full of sound
Where all sorts of music
Played all over town
Screech of the crowd
As the Comet roared down
I use to live in
A town full of sound
Bill MacEachern May 2, 2024
Old joke: How do porkypines mate? Very carefully.
The porcupine's a modest
And mostly solitary beast,
Akin to capybara and to beaver,
Though in size he is the least.
He rarely gets invited
To a bar-b-que or feast,
But long as he's not on the menu,
He doesn't mind it in the least.
He'll never write his memoirs,
Although of stories there's no lack,
But penmanship's beyond him,
He just doesn't have the knack.
And though he ports around a vast array
Of sharpened quills upon his back,
There's not one that's fit for writing
In all the clicking, clacking pack.
When "she" sends forth her pheromones,
And "he" rises to the bait,
Safe sex is uppermost in mind
As he advances to the plate.
His approach must be well-timed, precise,
Lest she shish-kabob her mate.
If it's not done right the first time…
There won't be a second date.
Tense and clacking.
Beautiful scenery.
Ominous yet bright sky.
I don’t brace myself this time.
That just makes my breath hurt more.
I can just…
Pretend to fly.
I can be dizzy and joyful.
Spinning and whirling is just a part of nature.
It will be over someday.
I’ll be dizzy and bubbly,
And chatting and clicking my teeth.
Roller coasters are weird.
And so am I.
An old peacock has lost his voice, among the hens
he wanders, his soundless beak a' clacking.
Once he rode the roof of life, once he strutted
across its gaming board, a tyrant lover,
a beady-eyed frightener to all comers.
The hens gather to ridicule the old cock-king,
and mock his silent passing. A younger cock must
by common law
topple his fan-feathered throne
upon the floor.
The voiceless bird must learn to be a poets page,
and there write the sorry history
of those that wander (most reluctantly),
into that choleric school
of chronic ripe old age.
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