Long Clapper Poems
Long Clapper Poems. Below are the most popular long Clapper by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clapper poems by poem length and keyword.
Sweaty Palms – Chronic Woe Renders...
Po' Whet Tick Dampened Curse = A
Worse Fate Than Death!
No idea when the incessant onset
of sweaty palms first burst forth,
nor why physiological symptom,
sans secretion spoils socialization
upon thy totally tubular handsome
grooves that criss cross the flat
skin surface of my hands. These
lines called 'palmar flexion creases'
develop before birth. This modern
day bipedal hominid i.e. human
primate attests (like the average
person) two main lines across the
palm but some have a single 'Simian
crease'. Profuse outpouring of
perspiration (as if Biblical Flood
gates opened) oft times directly
related to adrenaline coursing
through every pore sans the under:
side of my hands) reflexively
followed by swiping clamminess
(in vein) on clothing or woolen
pocket size cloth brought along
with me everywhere I go, (cuz
a lamb might not part ways
with mother Mary (of story
book fame), and this chap would
shear lee feel sheepish toting
extremely cumbersome to tote
in the event this intimation
predicated on decades worth
of experience, when in the throes
potential ordinary action re: guard
ding strongly shaking, grasping,
or holding hands took place
occurred sopping wet
clangorous human clapper,
(which frenzied trickling akin
to a vicious feedback loop),
my psyche feels under staccato
rat-a-tat siege from an enemy),
the natural inclination to with:
draw myself from “bad” company
of others helps stave of self-
consciousness. This avoidance
of socialization subsequently
impedes any promotion of hanker
ring viz genuine friendship,
employment and desiring care
free bona fide affectionate bond
ding with family of origin and/or
two precious progeny. Under:
standable, the human reaction
to shrink away and recoil quickly
when pressed to touch what feels
like a wet noodle. Ah…courtesy
How long can I wait in the blaze of the sun,
Before shadows drag me down from the height?
The stars are a choir, but they do not speak,
And the sea keeps knocking with a blind white fist.
I am held by the flame, yet I ache for the dark,
Where my bones know the cool and the silence is loud.
I have wrestled with angels whose tongues were of fire,
I have drunk from the well where the dusk must still rise.
Do not ask me the hour, for time has no hand,
It unravels like smoke through the teeth of the night.
My voice is a bell, but the clapper is gone,
Still it tolls in the marrow of my mind and my bones.
How long shall I wait with my back to the sun?
Till the earth calls me down with its patient green mouth,
And the worms write my name in their winding script—
Then perhaps I’ll return from the light to the dark,
Or perhaps I will burn into nothing at all.
ALLADDIN’S LAMP
Walking a day by Almeria’s desert
Where are shot Western films
And other variegated games
Suddenly I put mine’s right foot
In the Alladdins’ mouth lamp
And, in a flash, I heard a voice saying:
-Shocking mistake¡ During I was sleeping
On a bed with two mattresses
One step on my “so long¡”, to me
That was dreaming with a black cat
Falling in love with a greyish she cat
Near the door of a convent
Where a friar piss on the twos
And the rabid black cat
Leaping from his beloved greyish she cat
Scratched the friar’ tail
The friar, who, now, cry and cry:
-Mamma mia from the Sky
That the cat scratched my clapper¡
I saying to Alladin
Asking to him thousand forgivenesses:
Do You know to play guitar?
He answering me singing:
-Ouch, squid, squid
Your mother bad and you *****
You put oneself apron up
Your love looking at the North, at midday
And Your father is called as “SliceMelons”
Woolly dog, dog without teeth
Don’t ask to me Your three whises
Because I’m giving these to You just now:
To Your father, the peach
To Your mother, the pear
And to You, the pepper
And know that now and ever
The hare runs by the sea
The sardines by the hill
The fishes by the stubbles
And the shares are made with peel of bacon.
-As You, I said to him
At the top of one’s voice
Taking out the foot from the lamp
And with a kick, puting it
Below his chin.
I have been
A grain of sand
A wisp of froth
Above a wave and then gone.
I have been
A shark’s tooth,
A piece of azure glass,
The clapper of a bell,
The bill of a falcon,
A feather floating.
I have been
The sound of children,
A nail in the barn,
The snore of a pig.
I have been sky,
Day, even night
And the receding arc of the world.
I have been
The hazy light
From a street lamp
In a misty eve.
I have been
A mouse, a blade,
A comb.
I have been
The base of a jug
And the pin in a cushion.
I have been
A sail
And the wind,
The bow, the hull
And even the wake behind
Spreading out.
I have been
A star long ago
Burnt out
Whose light yet arrives
To us now
To lead us
To Be still
Talk,
Be still again
And remember love.
Can’t you hear the silent trickle rusting
on the bell of liberation
shouting into the wind of nascent freedom
Its trick or treat frosted
or icing on the caked in disguise
It sounds action once and for every all
yet the muted concerto
lost its bearings the clapped out
clapper corroded in timeless quest
of percussion dangling from the crown
Swinging like a forlorn anchor on
the chain of progress it casts
agony screams daylight low life robbery
a trigger creaking in terminal despair
begs mercy forgiveness redemption
Tim is a diver of deep seas and quest
for knowledge solemn
comprehension seeks a quiet tune
of justice equality and peace
and there it rested in the shipwrecked path
He searched among the debris swayed in
rock bottomed murky hull
and just when he glimpsed the compass
his weight belt buckle scraped
open on the voyager’s skeleton’s metal bar
A quick ascent his lungs near bursting
frantically breathing out
for sheer survival one glance on the
depth gauge the other on
the sheltered bell speedily retreating
From his tranquil speechless vision came
enlightened understanding
that tell tale signs appear in strange disguise
Sometimes buoyancy reveals
dark secrets once we listen harder than before
A bell is a bell whether we discern it or not
it uplifts when properly
looked after and even from a distance
and thus once timid Tim will
never forget the rushing bubbles in his ears
He’ll dive again and venture in fortune
has vowed to spread
the message and reverberations and
moves his wetted appetite
and lips for you and I to hear and cherish
16th September 2018
Under the veil of night, when the stars sing their silence, a wave of fire flows like living water,
enveloping the gathered crowd, called by priests to receive the Holy Light,
and the hymn of the Resurrection rises, flooding the streets and souls, an echo of eternity,
"Christ is risen from the dead, trampling death by death, and to those in the tombs bestowing life!"
with bells ringing, the wooden clapper resounding, each sound a thrill of heaven opening.
The children, witnesses of innocence, bearers of the unspoken truth,
with pure hearts, testifying without hesitation, "Truly He is Risen!"
without asking how or why, for they feel the light where we have lost it,
see how their eyes shine, they know that Christ is alive,
perhaps because they have not yet been touched by the doubt of the grown-up world,
where hypocrisy and fear intertwine in a dance of shadow and silence.
And yet, the entire breath of those gathered moves on the thin thread of hope,
for even if we doubt, seeking proofs, our souls still testify,
"Truly He is Risen!" the words are cornerstones of faith,
for the joy of the resurrection is felt by the children, simple and pure,
while we, the adults, seek to understand what cannot be explained,
for joy, peace, and mystery cannot be undone by words,
no matter how skilled in speech one may be, the Word builds future generations.
The children feel the truth that enlightens the darkness and cannot be encompassed by it,
and that is why they testify with open hearts, the truth that shattered the gates of hell,
coming to take the Light, to carry it further through the stir of eternity,
for "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God,"
and the Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
Christ is Risen!
The ice-cream parlor
is just across the road
from a small white clapper-board church.
I sit in a window seat,
watching the little town
and the sidewalk
as it moves people around,
thought-reading their directions,
as they go to, or come away
from predictable starts and arrivals.
Now the congregation is filing-out
of the narrow church door.
The pastor, has somehow
teleported himself,
to get up in front of them,
he shakes hands and pats backs,
knowing them all,
perhaps knowing too much
about some of them.
Kids are corralled quickly,
strapped into booster seats,
or marshaled across to this store
for ice-cream treats.
It's just a little township,
on a side-road to nowhere special.
The ice-cream is homemade and delicious.
I could trash-talk this hamlet,
these people, these families,
I am naturally cynical by nature,
but I am in love with them all,
and the ice-crem is always so good.
I thought it was punishment and a job so un-cool
To have to clean erasers in the back of the school
Until I found out that it was a job meant for two
And the other eraser clapper was gonna be you.
I watched you take an eraser in your left hand and your right
Then clap them together with all of your might
Through that cloud of chalk I saw you smiling so bright
And wanted to clean erasers for the rest of my life.
First we clapped by ourselves then we clapped with each other
Didn’t bother us that in a cloud of chalk we smothered
When the clapping was done and the erasers all clean
We stayed in the back of the school house and learned some other things.
This year the farmers are celebrating
the greatest full moon harvest
they ever had in the past hundred years
with a special field they sowed
to be reaped before the arrival of winter,
in the meantime, off in the distance
the church bell rings by way of a clapper
who strikes the bell with a farmer's hammer
signaling to the villagers it's time for work
they all line up in procession
with grit and determination
with weather beaten faces
turned into rawhide skin,
with shovels over their shoulders
they march to the beets and to the yams
to the fields loaded with rich phosphorus deposits
that washes down from the hills into streams
that irrigate the crops into super giant
beets and yams the size of watermelons
just bulging out of the rich soil,
the farmers came to dig and dig.
They worked fast and furiously
to beat the first frost digging reaping
and piling up the yams and the beets
into several mountain peaks of yellows and purple
"Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything That's how the light gets in"
Leonard Cohen
No sweet sound is ever heard
in the pealing of a broken bell
or when darkness weaves through
the mist to cast a mystical spell
Nothing in life is granted freely
All things have a tariff price
The devil demands too much
With evil wiles he will entice
Life is covered in stains and flaws
Tatters and crevices abound
Where there is a modicum of light,
darkness will always be found
Hold the clapper in your hand
Let it sound from lip to lip
Be heard before death arrives
sailing the night on a ghost ship