Long Clank Poems
Long Clank Poems. Below are the most popular long Clank by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clank poems by poem length and keyword.
Ocean surge, reflecting moon
Mermaids, sirens swim and swoon
Haunting song, night and day
Tethered boat just sailed away
Seadog specter with loud cuss
Shot himself with blunderbuss.
Erstwhile pirate ship revealed
Crew long dead their fate was sealed
Zombies scale tattered rigging
Captain Kyd counts his shilling
Sound of cutlass, who walked plank?
Bag of bones with chains that clank.
Lighthouse spread its haunted light
Spirits jump in mad delight
Ghostly antics in the deep
From Davey’s Locker spirits seep
Ocean boils with mystery
You and I will never see
Pixabay Image
by
Hullabaloo22
TO PRESERVE YOUR HEALTH
YOU MUST RESERVE YOUR DATE AND TIME
TO ENTER THE EMPIRE OF DEATH
“Arrête, c'est ici l'empire de la mort!"
Sign in Paris Catacombs
SKELETON OF PARIS
i dared each dank step
into the catacombs of Paris
thank the Lord
each step was not
creaking bone
i’d descend, of course
my choice, my feet
move into the nether
the deep dark secret tomb
a heavy door
surreality adorned
below the stinking streets
the foul history
of death
dredged up
from six feet deep
dusted and cleansed
the mandibles,
joints, heartless
bones
the boneyard quarry
accentuated death
having a new spin
on “putting our heads together,”
a collaboration of dust
the bleak hallway, I dare
not touch, i cross myself
ashes to ashes, dust to dust
attempting to stay in the center
of the narrow way
O the clink and clank
the synergy
that will fuse these bodies together
at the end of time
who will be the first to awaken?
will he or she faint away
as they discover
their dissected bones?
The artful remains of Robespierre, Lavoisier,
Danton - the dearly beheaded come to life,
guests of downtown…way downtown Paris.
Upwards of seven million squeezed together.
The leap of disease…the health crisis relieved.
1/13/2022
It came with a flash upon my back
Caught off guard, suspenders hanging
Madly rushing to find a place so safe
From around the bend with a honk
“Hey watch your steps” was a shout
Horn blowing while in passing
One disgruntled taxi driver glaring
Newspaper umbrella in ruins
Noisy rumbling above from a subway
Heading down the track, clank, clank, clank
Brown dog barking, woof, woof, looking back
Shelter at last, finally found a spot
The rain came down with a heavy shout
Caught shirtless and without shoes
Now sipping coffee listening the blues
Feeling brand new tasting some stew
Navigating the sidewalk
up 9th Avenue from 34th Street.
Busses, cars and trucks clank and clatter
on their noisy way north
over the manhole covers,
ignoring lane markers.
Horns volley insults.
Bus fumes shove me aside.
Doorways have a voice of their own,
Some have not opened in decades.
Business hopes gone down.
Rays from the sun reach the shop window.
Fading the intent,
Fading the will,
Fading the future.
Trash groans by the curb.
Crushed and torn coffee cups,
Empty and sighing
Some sinister liquid drooling
from the plastic trash bag
The smell lurches out,
Shocking my composure.
The butcher shop displays
animals hanging upside down.
Dead, skinned and up for sale.
Eyes of the owner as he packs up a pound,
Unyielding, surviving, longstanding,
sad, strength.
Around the corner,
the studio rises,
inside, off the sidewalk.
A bright classroom
where breezes of learning swirl,
moral strength ascends
Passion and aspirations compel
intricate, thoughtful scenes.
“The play is the thing…”
Hope permeates interactions
and street trash is
left far behind.
Away in time and space from that sidewalk
Thriving artists, mature now, reflect the full,
confounded lives
of the bus driver;
of the failed businessman;
of the unyielding butcher.
From the learning room,
where a discipline was studied,
to the cosmos of the proscenium,
mortal stories are brightly revealed.
Connections and delight,
Triumph over trouble,
Catastrophe and diversion
These motley, glorious
tales are celebrated,
unveiled with magnificent scripts,
lights, costumes, music, sets
and they lift the audience
far above the mean streets.
Here we are at the county fair,
log-rolling show right over there,
and in the back, a trained brown bear,
there’s racing children everywhere.
Endless carts where the food is fried,
bizarre creations you can try,
funnel cakes always catch my eye,
and ribbon chips are so sublime.
Strange rides that rattle, clank, and shake,
kids seeing how much they can take,
good lord, I hope they have good brakes,
the sights makes adult stomachs quake.
Tents with shinny trinkets galore,
the stuff you rarely see in stores,
cheap weapons, tie-dyed beads and more,
glow-sticks and fake tattoos deplored.
A plethora of carny games,
the ring-toss and BB guns reign,
are they rigged? It wracks the brain,
and still we play them, all the same.
In the back is the livestock show,
how massive can a Holstein grow?
Draft horses pulling, on the go,
from countless farms I didn’t know.
On the stage is a country band,
cheered on by some fair-weather fans,
back in the nineties they were grand,
now they play fairs across the land.
At the grandstand: the tractor pull,
just in case things were getting dull,
how this started? Some people mull,
others just cheer as tractors bull.
Some might look on, haughtily glare,
say they’d never be caught dead there,
for their nonsense I have no care
here at this epic country fair.
hear others out there, just beyond my wall-wrapped sharing space
they break on through, sneaking inside my head
far above, front-nosed pilots point high-flying seated people tubes
passengers squeezed in tight, some feeling dread
as jet engines cloud-buffet, amplifying reverberations
chimney-chambers funnelling their muffled sound
momentary fear spills downward into the peaceful living-room
then gone, soon forgotten, on journeys bound
clank and clang, lift-arm lorries crawling slowly by the gateway
sin bins scooped, coloured cravings half-consumed
cascades of clinking glass crescendo, bottle-bank vomiting noise
rapid cadence, ambient drone resumed
programmed heat, timed with boiler clicks, powering-up, igniting
cold metal creaks around expanding joints
curtains swish, blinds roll open, bleary blinking, homely morning eyes
aural sequencing as the day appoints
distant yowl of hooter horn, duly departing commuter train
car doors slam, abrupt jarring intrusion
gauntlet-running mothers compete with pavement-blocking pupils
fumes linger, safety scarring delusion
radio din, depressing electro-magnetic compression
shovelled earth beside the thin blaring-out
men again dig doggedly, patching patches for the umpteenth time
careless strike, gushing hiss of waterspout
road tyres clip, manholes rattle, drum the brief mid-morning lullaby
rise and fall, the doppler siren speeding
two-wheeled tiny engine buzz, irritating as it nears the ears
loudspeaker hails, vies for votes its pleading
post person presents the parcels, delivering rat-a-tat-tat
cats scurry as scratching dogs lunge and bark
then sudden bang, spread-eagled pigeon, wingspan on window-pane
stunned, fluttering, hoping to reach the park
Like the RI agent in Waterloo
Or ATSF in Timbuktoo
What you do with that power is up to you
If it’s sweet for most and sour for few
Most likely the work you've got to do
Needs to be governed by the point of view
That the greatest good leaves the fewest few
In the cold and dark without a clue
Of how to join hands with the precious few
With their hands on the levers just because they knew
Someone who'd pay the fiddler with a great big "Thanks"
For a tune they could carry all the way to the bank
For a tune they could marry to the clink and the clank
Of the the coin as it bounces down the Well of the Soul
Through the hole in your pocket as we cede control
Of the train as it heads down the parallel tracks
That converge to the point where you'll never get back
What might have seemed a trifle when you let it go
As it barrels past the mem'ry of "Never Thought So"
It's a downbound train on a one-way track
And if you're climbin' aboard you will never come back
But you will recall the faces of the ones who said, "Wait!"
In all the many places right before "It's Too Late"
Which you think one stop ahead of "Where You Are"
As you see it disappearing from that very last car
Of the train that brought you here to "Now You're Where You Are"
As you pass the last stop that was "Just Too Far"
I am two dollars a coin away from help
But the clank of life
left me unadorned
I abhor the spirit that the doesn’t scream
Because I scream
To the telephone screen
I’m revolted by the volts of pain
Spread from phone
To phone box pane
The sticky flow of the scent of blood
Interests my intent
Its memory hugs:
The phone,
The screen,
The glass,
Your next to me in speech
But your speech is not sweet
For two dollars a coin
We meet twice a week
The floor is bad and stable
But never when I need
This grasp of horror holds me
And never lets me leave
I am not a spirit
I am not the floor
I am only a drop of blood
I cascade like shadow beneath the weary feet
Of a telephone tree
Like terrible intelligent beings
I whittle away
Like God and his lineage
I disappear
Till the telephone rings
And I bleed with despair
Or a change of life chimes
For two dollars a coin
And I ask to be freed
From the telephone screen
But the phone doesn’t ring
And it makes me feel weak.
For two dollars a coin
We meet twice a week
Only two dollars a coin
To make me feel free
Dropped anchor off the Fever Coast
‘board a rake-masted schooner
Spooked by Ahab’s ghost.
Lamps glowered through the yawning blanks
Casting bone-twisted shadows
Over teakwood planks.
Salt biscuits and Jamaican rum;
Heard the deep-throated rattle
Of the talking drum.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words...
Leaned hard against the mains’l boom.
Strained my eyes in the blackness
Of the brackish gloom.
Port lookout gave the counter sign;
Put our boats in the water,
Oar blades dripping brine.
Paid tribute to the pagan chief
In exchange for a passage
Past uncharted reefs.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words...
Slave dealers ruled the hidden cove
Near a shrine to the god
Of the cassava grove.
Made landing on the leeward shore.
Stacked our crates on the beach;
They totaled near a score.
Trade muskets worth some eighteen head
Pleased our hosts and they showed us
To the holding shed.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words...
Grey shackles made a hollow clank.
Moved them out single file,
Guards on either flank.
Fog greeted our return aboard.
Stashed our cargo below
Where once the guns were stored.
Turned to and dodged a man-o-war.
Rode that swift tidal current
Like a smuggler’s whore.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words...
Fair sailing till we hit the Cape,
But we made Madagascar
Still in decent shape.
Brisk business on the auction block
Where a Dutch merchant
Purchased our entire stock.
He sold ‘em to the Portuguese.
We set course for Calcutta
With the morning breeze.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words...
Crew mustered in the open air.
Coins were stacked on a blanket
And I took my share.
Two hundred stone of human freight
Brought me four Spanish dollars
And a piece of eight.
Christ Jesus, we be ruthless men.
Tell the god of the cassava
We’ll be back again.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words:
Guilt and compassion? Sh*t for the birds!
Softly uttered, beneath cold biting mist,
footfalls muffled through stifling drifts, empty sidwalks embrace noone,
Frost heavily pluming, clinging on each sigh
In night's brazen stillness, beneath eerie lamp glow waning,
When dawn's long in coming, and all sleep like the dead,
Ah, then lets take a walk shall we , you and i?
Strolling as one, hand in hand, through icy winds
Past the churchyard gates, snow laden and chained,
Beyond empty glances of headstone cherubs,
Far off in darkness, solemn bells toll with straining conviction,
as winds moan wistfully, the tolling pierces the heart,
And I wonder in passing, how many more walks have we,
Beneath the silent moon overhead, white as bones in a shroud,
Shall the secnt of cinnamon haunt me into my dreams, yes i am certain,
For your eyes resemble heavens gates, amd my soul longs for redemption,
An angel draped in my tattered, time-worn jacket, littered with marks of life's ventures,
And yet you bear no wings to fly, but still you comfort me as morning draws nigh,
Crosstown bungalow, windows shuttered, still as my breath
As you I guide you once more up treacherous steps,
Our hands we let fall, a yearning stare betrays me,
"Tomorrow night again? Or when shall it be??",
Only a nod and a smile left imprinted to my heart,
"Hang on to the jacket. I'll pick it up in the morning."
Your smile never falters, unweathered by the wind,
And I turn to leave this night and you,
Leave this world behind for the rising sun,
An arm reached out, gripped with sorrow and infinity,
Pulled back into your everlasting embrace,
A kiss so deep, I feel I'm drowning,
God, let me drown...let me...drown....
You're gone.
Empty streets the morning finds,
save for me and my memories, trapped between time,
Stray dog struts past, hunting eagerly some alleyway breakfast,
But my business waits at the churchyard, still silent, still chained,
I climb over and drop, the gates clank in protest,
Between the rows of headstones, I walk in solemn sprit,
Thirteen rows now, then fifiteen, I know the way well,
And upon the eighteenth row, I find without mistake,
And draped across the frozen ground.....
My tattered, time-worn jacket.
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