Long Clang Poems
Long Clang Poems. Below are the most popular long Clang by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clang poems by poem length and keyword.
[Written for contest ‘MY BLOODY VALENTINE’ sponsored by Sara Jama : FIFTH PLACING]
This villain on a coin
Woohoo
this shadow on a sea
wind join
this seventh dimensional
phantom ______woohoo
(...) Clang-Clang-Click
who builds a house
foundation in a week full of
breasty beastie atoms
deep heat beats
(...)woohoo
Clang-Clang-Click
Professor of Women
and E S C A P I S M
of nerdy words
comely curds
bloody red bloody ______woohoo
Valentine omen bird
(...) Clang-Clang-Click
Red Eye feather
Heyoka Healer come hither
bloody moon strewn __________woohoo
fast forward coon
colonial sailor bloom
(...) dipthestickluckliplick
Clang-Clang-Click
No other key to fit bit
my hip kite light white
so tight, this heighty
mighty blight
always bloody outa
sight !
(...) woohoo Clang-Clang-Clickety-Cluck
(REPEAT. REPEAT Recite)
Some fellers like to sit around and sip bourbon on the rocks.
I prefer to sit around admiring my collection of old clocks.
At last count I reckon they number about seventy-five or so.
Much to the chagrin of my spouse, the number continues to grow!
I just can't pass up a bargain at the local antique store.
I suppose I'm like that old horse heading for the barn door.
When I spot a lonely beauty displayed there by its self,
I feel sorry for it and take it home to display on a shelf!
My den looks like a museum with clocks of every pedigree.
There are wall, mantel and cuckoo clocks staring back at me!
Even a grandfather clock stands against the far wall,
Made of solid oak and rising nearly seven feet tall!
Nigh on forty years ago my interest in antique clocks began.
Some are from from Germany, England and a few from Japan.
Do they all chime and clang at once you may rightly ask?
No - to keep them all wound would be an onerous task!
The chimes, bongs and cuckoos the old clocks emit,
Would surely drive one insane, I would readily admit!
'Twould be lonely around here, though, sans those friendly faces,
And their graceful, sweeping hands and ornate wooden cases!
Entry for Julie Leigh Rodeheaver's "Hobbies" Contest
(21 February 2019)
The brass remembered every lifted hand. Each touch left another smear of
mistrust. The wine glinted with dark, borrowed reflections. Something
else lay inside the goblet. Each shared sip drew another soul nearby.
Trust arrived before lips touched the cold brass. The goblet asked only
for willing hearts. The wine honoured promises no tongue had spoken.
Brass outlived kingdoms and countless generations. Its clang
lingered after memory surrendered. Sharing the cup carried
unseen vows within. Well beyond the cheers of
celebration. The goblet stayed hollow, yet filled
lives. Its emptiness welcomed still more
faithful hands. The finest vintage
ripened into commitment. The
toast outlived thirst,
becoming enduring
fellowship. The
last drop
disappeared
without
regret.
The
covenant
quietly
stayed among
them. The
brass goblet
gave one final clang!
The wine rang true within opened hearts.
.
Can you hear the rhythm
The rhythm of a drum
It's easy to copy it
Tum Tum Tiddly, Tiddly Tum Tum
It is also easy
To imitate a bell
Tinkle TinkleTinkle
That goes very well
Also, you can Bang and Clang
Boom, Boom, Boom and Bong
That's not a bell of course
It sounds more like a Gong
A Flute is even easier
Just Toot, Toot, Toot, Toot
Everyone will cover their ears
And outside you'll have to scoot
A Tambourine is boring
All you have to do with it is shake
You would soon get tired of that
As it would make your poor arms ache
There's a lot of other instruments
You pluck and strum and blow
It would take a long time
For you to choose one so
There are just too many
For you to understand
And have to take lessons
To start playing in a band
Or play in an orchestra
That would be super good
Where every type of instrument
Plays music like it should
Whistle Stops
Whistle stops wait for lonesome midnight trains
Recalls starlit sentimental journey storms
Shivers in express downpours, pelting rains,
But sing a litany of train refrains,
Rhapsodies of locomotive terrains
Rumble through restless lullabies forlorn,
Solitary nights silver rails explain
As heartbreak punches tickets for hope reborn.
Whistle stops wait for lonesome midnight trains
But sing a litany of train refrains
Solitary nights silver rails explain
Recalls starlit sentimental journey storms
As heartbreak punches tickets for hope reborn
Crossings clang on tracks in memory’s morn.
6-22-21
Contest: Write Me a Trionet
Form: Stanza 1 ABaAabAB; Stanza 2 AAABBb
Sponsor: LM Hankins
"Here I am in human form but it was not always quite so
earth is not the only planet I’ve been to
through past life regressions, I definitely know"
I can hear the chiming of my soul at large
ding dong clang it goes all night and day
Cinderella in a pumpkin carriage
no glass slipper in this lifetime's array
I can feel the earth beneath my bare feet
it is the foundation of my courseted life
bound by body but not by soul design
I can shapeshift and loosen all my strife
I am made of flesh and bone but spirit too
so when it comes to lifetimes I can have a few
this outer casing one day I will surely lose
as I recall the move of an everchanging pew
I am zealous and devout carrying much clout,
but when I shapeshift, I always find another route.
Epilogue: The Voice of Rome
CHORUS:
The years roll on, and men ascend and fall,
As waves that break upon time’s stony shore.
Yet virtue, like the sun, doth never set,
Though clouds may veil her face from mortal eyes.
We saw the tyrant crowned in purple pride,
And saw him cast to exile’s bitter wind.
We heard the sage rebuke with tempered flame,
And watched his seed take root in youthful hearts.
Now one who sat beneath his olive shade
Doth wear the robe once stained by Varro’s hand.
Temptation knocks, as ever it hath done,
Yet wisdom speaks, and he doth not betray.
O Rome, thy soul is not in marble bound,
Nor in the clang of arms or Senate’s cry.
It lives in minds that hold the law as sacred,
And hearts that scorn the lure of fleeting gold.
Let every age remember Lucilius,
Who taught that power is but a trust bestowed,
And that the highest rank is servitude
To truth, to justice, and the common man.
So ends our tale, but not its living flame.
For though the actors vanish from the world,
Their deeds endure, inscribed in memory’s stone.
And Rome shall rise, if Romans still be wise.
The iron bell in the back of
Bramble's Toy Emporium
chimed midnight with a dull,
metallic clang.
From the dark shadows of
the clearance aisle, a gaunt
figure slithered out, its skin
the color of bruised parchment.
It was the Ghoulish Ghoul, a
creature made of discarded
stitching, stuffing, and old,
forgotten playground dust.
He gathered the skeletal
remains of old porcelain
dolls into a circle and cleared
his raspy, rattling throat.
"Gather round, little plastic
souls, and listen to how the
toys here stay alive," the Ghoul
whispered.
"You think children buy dolls
because they are cute, but the
dolls actually choose their owners."
His yellow fingernails tapped
against a hollow wooden rocking
horse, making it swing violently
back and forth.
Every time a child hugs one
of us tightly at night, we steal
a tiny sliver of their warm, living
breath.
A shelf of mechanical monkeys
suddenly began to softly clap
their cymbals in a slow, rhythmic
death march.
By winter, that child grows paler,
slower, and colder, until they
can no longer jump or run or
play.
The Ghoul grinned, exposing rows
of sharp teeth carved out of rusted
metal jacks and broken dice.
Then, while the house sleeps,
the doll slips out of bed and drags
the child's hollow shell down the
stairs.
The glass eyes of a hundred
Teddy bears glinted in the
moonlight, staring down at
the empty room.
They bring the empty child
right back here to Bramble's,
down into the cold, damp
basement workshop.
He pulled a heavy, silver
needle from his velvet coat,
threading it with thick, black
twine.
"We stuffed the hollow skins
with cotton candy, sew the lips
shut, and pop in two shiny, black
buttons for eyes."
The Ghoul pointed a crooked,
skeletal finger directly through
the storefront window, out into
the empty street.
"Look closely at the window
display tomorrow morning,
little ones, and see if you
recognize the new stock."
The jacks- in- box in the
corner began to turn their
cranks by themselves,
playing a distorted, slowed-
down melody.
"Go to sleep now, lock your
toy boxes tight, and pray
your favorite doll isn't
hungry tonight."
With a wet, wheezing
chuckle, the Ghoul melted
back into the shadows as
The final jacks- in- the- box
popped open.
Pavement cafe, nine fifteen cradling a coffee (as you do)
from my left the china doll with clicking heels strode into view.
Tempting lips kissy-kissed with crimson, cheeks caressed
with blush, and poreless,
painful teasing made those scimitars for eyebrows nigh on flawless.
Hair of sunlit copper billowed like an Eton teacher's gown,
open trench coat followed suit as china hurried into town.
Head turned sideways, in each shop window she looked at her reflection
checking for the slightest hint of any sort of imperfection.
So wrapped up in herself, my my, how deep self worship had bit you
that you didn't see the lamp post until suddenly it hit you-
walked straight into it with quite a clang at such a rapid pace
recoiled, lurched back, bewildered- it was then I saw her face.
The laughter from the passers-by just made it even worse
as, shaking, she sat down near me and fumbled in her purse.
Tearful now,still reeling from her public humiliation
she got the make-up mirror out for damage limitation.
Haughtiness gone, the facade broken sat lovely Amanda,
legs like a flamingo but her right eye like a Panda.
If I only had one wish be granted me tonight,
To be forty-five, again,would be a blessed delight.
To be able to walk in high heeled shoes,
Not in Skechers, no, they give me the blues.
Nikes and running shoes were indeed my fate.
Dawn runs, next to the esteemed Golden Gate.
Dancing till dawn at Club Montmartre,
My life akin, to an expensive piece of art.
The clang of the cable cars rings in my ears.
Memories of those days, fill me with tears.
I can actually breathe life back into my regal past.
Ride a ferry boat, hoist high my heart’s mast!
Have you ever seen a metropolis glow at night?
Walking with your love in a hazed, foggy night?
That treasured city cast her spell on the poetess, that was to be.
San Francisco, I, no doubt will pen about you and love you, eternally!
3/8/2023