Long Clacking Poems
Long Clacking Poems. Below are the most popular long Clacking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clacking poems by poem length and keyword.
When home computers made their way
Into our homes, things changed
And desks in dens or bedrooms
Were cleared off and rearranged.
The typewriter was certainly
The first thing taken out,
Tossed or shelved inside a closet
By all those but the devout.
Yet those true aficionados
Through these years have clacked away,
Knowing all those Smith-Coronas
Would be cool again some day.
A resurgence is occurring
With a slowly building hype
That it’s awesome, boss and groovy
On a typewriter to type.
There’s a reason we should cherish
Retro items from the past
For their coolness factor often has
Most modern things outclassed.
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...
How did the jungle get here?
Did it come on a train
like an old time circus
rolling in before dawn
while we splattered safety-nets
with doomsday drivel.
A rainforest has invaded;
has manifested out of alarm and
a far too high quotient
of native dumbness.
The clacking of parrots
mutes the lowing of milk cows,
only the cicada drone on
happy to click along.
This green thunder is oppressive.
The domestic canopies of backyards
are sprouting mythic Triffids.
Grass is getting spikey and carnivorous.
Tabby cats are abducted
by prowling panthers.
Giant sloths hang from the hedgerows.
Did we dream up this primal Eden?
Did we cancel
the regular unpredictable weather
of predictable Ohio?
Global Warming
could never have appeared to be real
if we had not made it so
by thinking it so,
and as so many here
think very little -
we had it coming.
I’ve visited some writers’ homes
And what I love the best
Is not the room where they relaxed
Or ate or slept or dressed…
But rather where they sat and wrote –
Their typewriter and desk
And what their window framed,
Often a view most picturesque.
Today it was Pearl Buck’s estate
And staring at the keys
Of the Royal perched upon her desk
(She’d brought from overseas)…
I realized it won’t be the same
For authors of today.
To gawk at someone’s iPad
Will the fans come out and pay?
Perhaps I do romanticize
But there’s a certain charm
To a writer’s clacking which, alas,
A P.C. does disarm.
You'd hear them every morning
Like a band of baritones
The echoes of the horseshoes
Clacking, on the cobblestones
Each huckster with a wagon
Pulled behind a blindered roan
Parading back and forth between
The rows of old brownstones
One would have fresh vegetables
And one would have fresh fruits
Another might have leather goods
Like saddles, shoes or boots
From furniture to pots and pans
Each peddler resolute
But if you looked then walked away
They'd follow in pursuit
Some just made deliveries
Likes eggs, or milk, or ice
Regardless of their service
Each one friendly, each one nice
Though some might have a gimmick
Like a special, to entice
If you had bought from them before
They might just drop their price.
By Daniel Turner
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…
On the beach I did perchance,
espy a boy and pup performing a dance;
twerking right and left you see,
it filled me with oh, such glee.
A spectacle of pure delight,
there within the sun so bright.
A crab approached click-clacking claws,
creating a tune that gave me pause.
There within the shallow waves
a scene remaining one of my faves.
Cute bobbing, bouncing little bums
Gyrations in rhythm, as he hummed.
Amazed at this visual symmetry,
I contemplated childhood’s simplicity.
The wonder of those childhood years,
turned laughter into joyous tears.
1-16-2022
A STRAND (1053) Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
Ring with no feather in my cap only envy
at handsome man drakes with bucks,
who could bank on "hot chicks" willingly
aligned in arrow emitting clucks
fluffing their respective tail feathers amidst
loud squawking out quacking
establishing pecking order like ducks,
or any other foxy fowl billetted
within walled din noisy hen house
preening, each be solder self flux
sing wings and waddling, flirting, casting...
webbed wide good lucks
at the growing flock
including male friends relatives,
minus yours truly, whose presence,
would merely generate a yawn,
though even a distinct black swan
received royal carpet treatment
particularly one named Shawn
encompassing another honorable guest
with illustrious surname Rawn
guests underwritten by Cupid,
whose presence surreptitiously withdrawn
(invitations distributed widely explained,
just beak cuz gerrymandering redrawn)
even provoking deer interest
of stray doe eyed fawn
hence lacking bravado and brawn
this bird den some seedy,
yet dove out crow kissing Avocet
trundled off to parts unknown you bet
far from boys stir russ, raw cuss, diss cuss
ting clacking clique, and thus this solitary fret
full ostracized, rejected, unwanted egret,
who heron there experienced many a let
down, not simply because of stork disparity
with the Aves and havenots,
but I never met
any other species so set
in their ways, hence off
on a wing and prayer
in search of other gulls,
whom this dodo bird they will coe vet!
Everywhere around me I only see
Men and women as thought up by Lowry
They come click-clacking by,leaning on sticks
I feel my senses are just playing tricks.
Hobble and wobble a penguin parade
Their legs grown feeble,their strength it does fade
Where once they were strong,all proud and upright
Now do they stoop and stumble in plain sight.
Old age comes not alone.As the Sphinx says
At evening the sticks become third stays
They creep and they crawl out in the sunlight
Death to soon bring them into deep dark night
No more their echoing steps will I hear
That I'll be close behind is what I fear
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.