Clunk Poems | Examples

A Walk with Father

He leads me through East London,
docks, pubs, among the stray dogs, the
River Thames lapping at low clouds.

We find the second-hand player in a street
where the shops are dusty holes under the arches
of viaducts and railway bridges,

Me carrying the portable Dancette record player
in its hard Bakelite box,
lifting it by its leatherette handle, and I,
small for my age
but wanting so much to lug it all the way home.
The plastic cuts my fingers,
sharp corners bark my shins.

Father talks of his life here, the blackouts
and bombs, rationing,
and the bloody Saturday night street fights.

He whistles tunes
from a songbook of dead crooners.

That evening sitting together, with Sinatra -
watching the dark blue Capitol label
spiral and blur,
hearing the unseen belt under the bobbing needle
as it chewed vinyl -
reliving the clunk-clunk of our boots
as we pushed back fog-muted miles.

Years later, finding that player again
in mother's attic, lifting the machine
feeling how light, it is,
willing to take another walk with him
yet not knowing how to catch up.

FIRE

River makes its final clunk
Between
Hills
Rolling boulders like turtle shells
Empty of their mouths and hearts

River bent
Flailing legs and neck
No longer reflects
The sun and moon
From water’s absence down its back.

Turns her terrible brittle head
From me
Teeth gnashing on the spools of willow

To her memory
When mud was forest
Footsteps
Croaking with frogs and dazzled with dragonflies
Ringed in a halo of cold fog.

We are dying
Together
Not angels nor even demons

But conquering visitors from a desert
Who brought nothing but the leech of desert
With us
Covering the entire Earth with insatiable thirst
And hunger

Kings and Queens for a day
Destroyers
Of those ceremony drums
Of gods and plants animals and language

When we lived as One
Gift
Strummed through the harp of gratitude.

Now, I seek a forgiving signal
From perhaps a divine wave
Coming from the dying Mother

This way
You poor skinless fool

The fire shall burn behind you
The entire Earth and its people
Which is all the things that flutter

Crawl walk and sing

"An empty bowl
With a spoon beside you."

what is it now

My puppy ran past me with purpose
I was thinking squirrel or rabbit
Relieved he returned empty mouthed

Not like the time he dropped a dead squirrel
At my feet in the living room
Frozen, it landed with a clunk next to my bare foot

The Manual Clunk

My typewriter
was not a good typewriter,
its keys were weighty,
you had to use brain muscle to work it,
nobody wanted it.

My son unpacked a home computer.
I stood by and watched
as all the electronics were laid out on the floor
and surgically knitted together.

I knew then
that I would be consistently out of touch,
and possibly would remain
stuck in an obsolete year
trying to catch up
from the rear of the field.

I wrote my first poem
on that clickity-clack manual machine,
then a dozen more,
all of them were heavy handed,
yet that hefty labor
made me think
I was crafting something worthwhile.

Later, I was enslaved to a computer keyboard,
chained as I was to its subsonic urgings
I could tell
the world was speeding away
faster than I could write.

When my kind of poet dies,
he is immediately ed,
for all his contemporary poems
turn into digital wormholes
that suck him into an unknown grave.

The young look to dead poets for wisdom -
truth is,
that those ham-fisted plodders
have long ago
turned into chunky typewriters
that nobody wants.

Is that an Alpaca

We were careful as we entered the dark barn.
There are always hoes, rakes, and scythes lying around.
You do not want to step on something that means stitches.
I had done that before.

What is grandpa keeping in here? I wondered.
My cousin said “there is something alive. Maybe a goat?”
Our goal was the hay mow. We love playing up there.
We reached it before day break

We heard a clunk, and there was a ladder next to the mow.
My cousin looked as startled as I felt.
Someone was in here with us. Someone who could move a ladder.
A few minutes later an alpaca in sunglasses appeared.

Apparently, he was standing on the ladder.
“Is that an alpaca?” My cousin whispered.
“Sure is,” the alpaca whispered back.

Little Bears Expectations

Little bear expected to clunk his little soft head
But his mother was swift, she did not want him dead
She caught him with strong arms that were rather red.

Bells

The bell rang once, a faint tingle; 
clear, sharp in the cold, numbing air
yet strangely muffled in the mist.
All heard it, the distant, single;
ting, behind the droning prayer.
Though not a soul among their midst
affirmed each other that they heard.
The rope slid by black-gloved fingers
while the casket heavily sunk,
The vicar’s final mournful word
hangs above them all and lingers;
another ding, a thudding clunk.
Eyes quickly turn towards each other
others stare towards the ringing sound.
Disturbed unkindness ravens crow
above a grave; Elsie’s brother
interred beneath this Holy ground;
some twenty-seven years ago!

If Only Time Didnot Hurt

I’ve been told
“things work out for the best”
in that way each of us
Divinely blessed 

God in control they say – 
if only Time didn’t hurt…

I believe in life hereafter
I believe no wrong God
can’t have undone; someday
somehow our dear Lord to make 
all losses won --

God in control they say --
if only Time didn’t hurt…

God in control they say
though ticking I find unbearable
swinging pendulum a clank and 
clunk~ when a heart sunk
too deep one’s despair...yet I
am told, God is always
fair – always there – somewhere 
taking loving care

God in control they say -- 
if only Time didn’t hurt...

No theologian am I
just a common soul, treading, adrift; 
questioning if sane to trust in fate -- 
dialogues with God sounding always
one sided debate -- 

I believe in love
while more questioning 
my faith

God in control they say
your silence pushing me 
further astray -- 
if only Time didn’t hurt...

If only Time didn’t hurt…

If only Time didn’t hurt….

The Button Bag

Afternoons in winter;
When the hours seemed to drag, 
Were always made more bearable 
With grandma's button bag.

The sound is unmistakable, 
The rattle, ting and clunk, 
Of the decades of collected
Baubles, buckles, coins and junk.

Each button tells a story,
Where and when it was acquired, 
Those cut off coats and dresses, 
Mary years before admired.

The bag is full of memories
Stories from the past,
So we pass them to our children 
In the hope nostalgia lasts.

Here I Am

Here I am at 9am
My laptop bloody dead
Can’t charge it cause of them
Feeling like a clunk head

Here I am on my chair
Face glued to the iphone
With nothing new to share
What I’ve learned from home

Here I am hearing words
Lacking meaning in my head
Gibber’s the merely verb
My lecturer has fed

Hope I don’t fall asleep
Counting the number of sheep

Clicky Clacky Skeleton Tick Tocks

big eyed owl
all puffed up
tormented by wind
whistling tree branches
tick tock of clock tower
dog wolfs himself up

identical black cat howlers
tug of war
puffing
spurting
spitting
sneaky skeleton ticks and tocks

clicky clacky clicky clacky
whoo whoo whee whee
bouncing skeleton head
diabolical music
villain dance
four smart ass skeletons

ring around the rosie
five-year-old jig
cartoon music
pogo sticking
rolling jack hammering
playing dah bones

piano spine
clunk on dah head
weird laugh
violin cat
playing sassy silly skeletal scales
caw caw caw caw
damned rooster!

Fuel

I have been technically dead 
and technically alive.
Escape clause, minor glitch
in my truth-machine,
but a kind of life does occasionally permeate
my real life.

I like the click and clunk of a well-made 
flint ignition petroleum lighter.
‘Zippo’ light warms hands in a cold woods.
Sometimes I am the flint
sometimes the light - we all are I guess.

Before I was dead or alive
I recall signing a contract,
a ‘life’s purpose’ document
which I instantly forgot.
I still search Mind for reasons
still don’t know squat…..

but wait, I got here,
(arms akimbo, wagging my chin),
soon I’ll be leaving on a ghost train
and I’m gonna be upset,

because my much used ‘Zippo’ collection
is probably worthless.

Latino Spin

Buttocks push; breasts boast
through non-existent crowds.
A choreographed squall
above the whir and clunk
of loaded appliances.

Hispanic girls acting out
in a Laundromat.
Hips gesture, hands stab
and tussle with unwashed issues.

I’m distracted by the overheated hum,
can’t read the print
of my paperback. Words run
naked over yellow pages
The girls are angry
but not with each other.

Skimpy shorts and gang-inks.
The porous waft of feral hormones
seethes over some slight,
branded onto a Facebook page.

They flop onto the slatted bench
produce a smart phone,
scroll through pictures,
moue and glower softening
as baby shots are thumbed.

Melting smiles, then
they hold up the cell for me to see.
we coo and smile together.
The they return to their world
and I to mine.

When they get up
the backs of their thighs
are marked by the wooden seat.

Washing spins on.

What About Wolfs

WHAT ABOUT WOLFS

shel silverstein: a bit childish, his giving tree my kids remember, though its parts were dismembered as it gave to the bitter end of life.

ogden nash: well, he gives us moo and milk, until the utter end, short and brief. reminds us of the soup’s - wolf.

wendy cope: born in kent in the london broil (ahem…borough) of bexley. things are going clunk and your face has too much gunk, a hoarder with thirty years of junk and especially she doth remind us don’t answer email when you're drunk.

william james collins: a hoot, billy! only child, born in manhattan, dear old dad worked on wall street. a poet laureate’s big recital on two poems about what dogs think (probably) - what about wolfs?

gershon wolf: he’s flower power-ful in his jest. for example - hippies pulled the triggers and out came flowers. though other comedic poets might create a chuckle, gershon always makes us smile.

7/21/2022

Traffic Jam

Sitting here in rush hour I moan and sigh
Horn’s honk, engine’s rev, a Monday to miss
Birds whooshing overhead as time ticks by
When from below I hear a squealing hiss
The tire! Is murphy's law to blame for this?!

I hop out to check and PLOP! That damn bird!
I pop the hood to a clang, clunk and creak
Was that the beep from the engine I heard?
I grumble and groan, I just want to shriek!
As cars whiz by, what a start to the week....

I start to tinker around when VvvROOM, SPLASH!
Surrounded by traffic rumbling past
One zooms through a puddle, my suit is trash
Coolant sprays up in my face with a blast
First day at the new job might be my last…


July 6, 2022
Onomatopoeia Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet

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