Long Clacks Poems
Long Clacks Poems. Below are the most popular long Clacks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clacks poems by poem length and keyword.
HER WONDERFUL MOTHER NATURE
Once upon her entering and exiting
Her comings and goings
Groceries, gym or mall
Mother Nature made the mirrors love her
All-knowing reflection,
No adjustments needed...
Please...not one correction
Causing confusion, she's unflawed
Everywhere, in every room, claiming, stealing all attention
Gorgeous green eyed-snake women start hissing,
Salivating, half-dog half-men, jaws stuck, stalled
Remember her...Oh, don't they all?
She and I, sometimes engage in
A carefully unscripted conversation
And so from mine own imagination...I will share
She leaves the world, with rare...souvenirs
Letting us know she was near
A trace of her intimidating yet inviting, invisible scent
Where her valuable diamond time was spent
But none free to spare
A lost, left behind, strand of hair
A walking razor
Her shadow click-clacks in,
Legs, classily crossed ladylike, saddled that lucky chair
Sipped only a pair of cocktails,
Her figure a musical note, a cursive signature,
Her FORM flows, dips smooth and full
Stunning, so easily capturing us all
Her smile, does accurately spell
The wonderful definition of the word Beautiful...
Look her up in the dictionary my friend
For she is a non-fictional woman
Strong-her world has gravitational pull you apart
Aquarius without a speck of ugliness
In February she effortlessly
Valentines a fool's heart
Can never look messily
That is quite improbably, an impossibility
Surreally painted together perfectly
Like a Dali nude canvass on art,
Breathing...responding...moving
Wonderful Mother Nature, knew exactly what she was doing
Marvelously done, on her part.
In the cages at the zoo they crowded around each other
A million milling from father to brother
All speaking in a babel a million languages
From clicks and keyboard clacks to switches and bandages
A group is seen on a higher levee
They understand all, the interpreters you see
While some lower below compiles the dictionary
That translates to what is used by the assembly
A little farther around a table three Gs sit
they’re a python a Ci and Jav a’ Script
Sadly they discuss an end to their spec-ial woes
And thus the weird discussion goes
We hear the Ci talking first wheezing (he’s old)
What do you think makes girls so cold
To us our relationships’ are no success
And that’s the principal source of distress
Well as for me a girl who can’t commit
(Python interjects) I can’t have here cos she’s a git
And by the way Ci you need to have some class
There are some social functions you should pass
(An argument ensues)
Well I’m not the one who treats them like objects
That’s why they hate you, the Ci interjects.
And Jav a’ Script forget all the hype
You really need to settle on a type
Jav retorts, You’re the ones behaving slack
When they leave you simply call them back
Console them too if they cry
Be prepared to catch them if they try
Ah yes the man who always rejects
The promises he promised, (Python interjects)
(A lull in the storm, they begin to examine others)
Assembly’s got to make himself understood
Most of what he says goes under the hood
Swift’s got to slow down and not dart around
and Vue needs to react to their sound
There’s a theory I’d like to test
Says Python (although it’s half in jest)
If we work together as a unit
Then maybe we’ll be able to git one init?
And have mocha babies like Sinon no thanks
I’d rather throw myself on the express
Outside the cage the label reads
An endangered species with special feeds
Only pizza and soda strictly junk
For the whacky programmers inside this hunk
Sorry to say but you may regret it
Cause only programmers will read this and get it
Normal people come in packs of six
Some are born in cardboard boxes
In suburbs, in summer, in campers
In the middle of the middle class
In clicks and clacks on railroad tracks
Rich people shower frequently in power
In God we trust the upper crust to laugh
Normal people want mobility Up
To supper in good company
To be pretty as a picture on the beach
To frolic in the waves of milk and honey
With apologies to Jesus people sing
Some dance in fire merrily
Normal people come in from the cold
Candy sweet and happy to be seen
Some come from baby factories
From across the street in greeting seasons
Middle class people love the poor
They love themselves much more
That is why babies are born
Subways are for the pedestrian class
Travelling from left to right transformative
In nature train people are always in motion
Moving on is always right
The mundane remain the same
With Happy Hour and a six pack waiting
Somewhere down the line the land cracks open
It is another earthquake opened with a smile
This eulogy is glued-together CliffsNotes.
Summing up his eighty-two years.
Only the happy tones are used.
Nothing about the blackout drinking rampages.
The black and blue spouse and children.
That affair with the babysitter.
The push down the pregnant stairs.
The many sudden clacks and clangs
Those strange pangs in the darkness.
On this day, it's only the happy stuff being spewed.
The big pink clumps of cotton candy and clown flowers
The wonderful puffs of funeral parlor smoke.
The fabric of a superhero unveiled.
Many of us sitting here know the truth.
He was no superhero; he was a super monster-
A complete waste of cells and formaldehyde.
We wait patiently for this verbal charade to burn itself out.
A former place this, a patch where roots rattle,
where stubble has a ferrous frizzle.
A long-truncated railroad stop
humming still with a faded reality.
As dry voices on the wind, they return
- the homesteaders and journeymen,
the harnessed horses.
Pants' cuffs carry kernels
long planted elsewhere.
Caps, coats, and carts
Sweat, rustle and creak,
an invisible locomotion of leaving and arrival.
employed upon an iron labor.
The tall dry weeds are talkative.
Brown boots seem to shuffle
as they wait here or idle.
A hollow clock clacks,
its innards now
are a nest for ticking birds.
Dandelions anticipate twirling flight
under a corn fed sun.
A mid-day heat thrums fragmented rails.
The station seems almost ready
to receive
as if its bygone world
had not forever disembarked.
Heavenly bodies, heavenly beings;
living entities unfettered by gravity.
Spinning marbles in a universal box.
God’s favorite game,
knuckle busters are smacking planets,
right and left and the debris reforms…
new…marbles…pee-wee dust.
Cat-eyes glow as they sail apart; agate smacks!
The “Big Bang” was…
God taking his first shot.
Heavenly bodies, heavenly beings;
God makes no distinction between his children,
as we humans prefer to believe.
It’s been said that, “reality is an illusion”;
perhaps we are only marbles in the game;
like our sibling planets.
Lost in a spinning swirl of colors;
we roll blindly through life.
Puries and steelies;
clacking out cosmic crescendos.
God knuckles down and shoots;
bluesy-Earth smacks a trilite,
Mars and chips a new crater.
Another steely sends alley Jupiter,
smacking into its own moon and a whirling
Io slams grasshopper Neptune from behind.
In parallel universes, we meet ourselves;
repeating mistakes, we never win;
a hazard of being…lesser gods.
God’s game is multi-universal
and human perception,
terribly finite.
The great hand, histing;
fires…Earth gets another tour of the Milky Way.
As heavenly body-clacks resound;
all heavenly beings sustain injuries,
that will change them.
No one stays the same.
Perigee to apogee;
Earth centers herself for the next attack.
Orion and his daughters laugh and applaud,
as the last shots, miss them.
While the gibbous cheeks of dragon Sun;
Spit fire-flares in self defense.
Singed Saturn loses another precious ring.
It doesn’t matter in this game of marbles;
God plays and wins, every time;
then collects us all,
for another game.
My world spins round
too fast most times
from Greek deep roots
on Black Sea ports
crossing Jordan's River
on Catherine's Great
trains meet sailboats
greeting sea planes
flying off to sports unknown
throughout Lake Odessa Highway.
Where Ottomans
blend Spanish matadors,
heroes for Earth's day
and night bleeds forth
a calvary of SunGod force
to please titillating whims
of Lake Odessa's middling class czarinas.
I can't go home again
to straight places never born.
My mind can wavey roam
and try to swim
and fly to where and what
and whom and why
we might have been
if we had built
a fine fair fortress
for peace that loves to rock
and sing sad songs
of what brilliant sights have been
in resilient Lake Odessa.
Instead of gangs
and clicky clacks
we learn monopolistic quacks
to flap and honk
like disturbed Canadian geese
Transubstand she ate
where great America
begins to end
through Lake Odessa's mean clean streets
Not too busy
self-righteous
sleep deprived
and deprogrammed lose to lose
to win our way
back home again
where Lake Odessa healthy meets
and wealthy greets
Love's polyamorous EarthMother role
as played by odysseys of We
writing comic operas
only eros kids can consensually see
was what Me loved
most secretly
in long lost Lake Odessa.
We need a better god for now
bringing peach tree jams
singing immortality
of love as healthy wise
Reframes lost unwealthy loves
to live in jesting jarring jokes
of honeyed sweet corn
thorn tested streets
tasting ancient salad Greeks
on shores of Lake Odessa.
We reunion back
to save each other
from what might have been
without sly rudders
Tipping posts from wu wei mothers
restoring crystal castle love
of unformed flows
that buzz with lifetime mystery
and retiring tours
that sag with straightline history
Spinning sprays
bewitching licking waves
lapping soft and sandy
on long gone sacred skies
of sanguine Lake Odessa.
Turtle by the Door
The bears and wolves are few,
one threadbare widow mourning,
two grays as consumptive as smoke.
The large dwindle,
their bodies grow more awkward,
more at odds.
The heavier beast's sway
like drunks in the scant woods.
Under a pelting dark they come.
Beneath a stabbing ice, one by one-
the animals.
I listen to their shuffling,
the scrape of delving claws.
They are scavenging,
pulled closer to me by visceral prods.
Hesitant paws withdraw as they near,
a restlessness keeps them gnawing
a middle ground.
I crane my neck from its ribcage,
they fall back and return,
wanting - always wanting.
The small creatures enter
where cracks fill with moonlight.
They scuttle and hesitate,
a little way,
a little.
I am Turtle,
a makeshift thing,
cloud-splashed and sullied.
I sing back the needy shadows,
cast my lamplight eyes
onto their weltered
hair-streaked hides.
~~~
Turtle Speaks
I did not bundle this day’s flesh,
nor did I carry it to a pathless end.
I merely watched it pass over black mountains,
slip away over thinning trails.
The sky-tent will catch fire again.
I am a roughhewn turtle.
I am starlight in a mud-pool.
A blind faced mole has carried
the moon up from the dirt once more,
though it is only a white bone,
only a hollow tooth.
Turtle am I, an unwrought creator,
one who watches,
who knows not to say
what cannot be said.
~~
Turtle Goes to the Light
Turtle's carcass is nibbled
into threads of brown river water.
His empty shell tumbles lazily
in slow currents.
Turtle stays where the starry mammoths
beat sunlight into skin and bone,
and he waits.
Mole, beaver, and badger
heap the dead upward
until light licks them away.
The world feeds upon itself,
Time weaves new moth wings
from long buried evenings.
Then turtle reappears.
He hatches from an egg pushed through
green sludge and marsh fire.
He returns as a burnt shadow.
Turtle's leathery tongue clacks
he calls to all the blood-filled:
“Come again,
come around and around” he calls.
When his song is done
he perches on a scorched log
in the middle of everywhere
as silent as a stone.
What is that central pole
does it hold up a voice like a brazen spine?
And the many rooms
all of them built to be seen
with no modesty nor privacy.
Rooms where the talking clacks
never pausing, never harkening.
There are mouths
in the air free-floating.
This artless architecture, does it say itself
as a poem does?
Or does it clatter and broadcast its presence
turning, revolving as a display will.
There are holes in this unstructured edifice,
holes where mice
go to eat their own bones.
Look! It is a brain, it is calcified
a rabid ego haunts it.
Can it be covered up, subdued, made to speak
only when spoken to?
Or is it a robotic manikin that will drive your being
while you sleepwalk
through its hollow domain?
In her eyes rises the flames of love,
The passion of care and cherish;
She sings with such a beautiful voice
That the clicks and clacks of her rhythms makes me dance to her tune;
The words she airs and the way she takes me by the hand,
Pricks a call for concern and makes me feel that endless love;
I made her my sugar mummy,
Teaching her the physics of love
And she made me her sugar daddy,
Teaching me the linguistic of love;
Each time I take her for a walk,
She holds me so tight and lean that beautiful head of hers by my shoulders,
Letting that hand of mine to crap her waist;
I spend my time preaching to her lovely ears the melodies of kindness
And she spends her time just doing it to me;
If there is anything I have ever needed,
It’s her and the kinds she possess.
The end