Long Clattering Poems
Long Clattering Poems. Below are the most popular long Clattering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clattering poems by poem length and keyword.
The window is long and narrow,
the casement-sill a brooding lid way over my head.
The glass is dirty, thick and knotted.
It is not a window made to see through.
Upstairs, high above the basement
an old woman lives in an apartment with a high ceiling.
Her windows are tall and wide, you can see out of them,
a sea-green park billows below.
I went there once with a note in my hands.
The sky comes to visit those windows.
People live in rooms too high for my imagining,
but I know they dwell in the light.
Ear to door, I hear them laughing together,
clattering down the staircase.
I listen closely to the first rap of their shoes
on the pavement above my head.
Their strides quickly become ghosts in a settling dark.
Half a century later, I wake up on a cote-bed
covered in night-sweats.
The basement has not changed---it cannot change.
The dark window is dreaming above me.
Once a child lived in the dark
I hear it talking in its sleep.
The window is still too high to see through.
While closing my eyes, I return once again
to an image that nestles at the foot of the mountains
Snow crowns San Jacinto as it shadows the valley
I am there as a child in the house with white shutters
Red brick and mortar, and siding like butter
A southern front porch, is facing the hills
There are tall amber trees, and a stream, I recall,
somewhere that wanders, like a dream to remember
Bits and pieces are kept in a keepsake I've held
They filter on down to shelter me now,....
To wrap me in comfort, when I dwell in the dark
grieving for loved ones, who were there at the start.
When the chill of the winter, or those sleepless nights, tossing,
fills me with losses, that shadow the moon...
I'll see grassy knolls, and bright alfalfa acres,
A house and a barn framed with painted white fences
The house unpretentious, where yards need attention
Mist skimming the water, ducks swim in the pond
A small corral… my Dad, dressed in Levi's…
and a pitchfork, in hand, holds sweet golden hay
A barn, and twin stalls, a red chicken house,
a clothes line, where white sheets are bleached by the sun
The house is alive, morning bacon is frying,
Mom is listening while cooking, to a radio show
Clattering of dishes, and the chattering soap stars
fills the kitchen with sunshine, like a breath of fresh air
Warm are the colors, resembling butter
Wallpaper borders in bright, happy yellow.
There are echoes I hear, of a house in the night,
Comforting sounds of a room in the dark
My cat nestled close, at the foot of my bed
where I'm wrapped in the memory of that place where I lived
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
9/16/15
Backyard dandelions
have parachuted upwards,
on heavenly breezes.
The mower gave them a kick-start,
then they ascended; some to tickle
ears and noses.
Ride along garden cowboy,
your straw fieldhands hat,
is full of sunny sweat.
Old black dog
long past its time,
jiggles its hairy hind -
a hot tamale wagging the sky.
Small town
brown rabbits scoot the air.
Honeybunch arrives with cold beer.
Soon the gas guzzler
will dawdle, decide to die happy,
its clattering engine
between khaki shorts
sputters
upon a stubby green.
Orbiting Sol
dandelion children
return
loaded with raindrops
to wet the whiskers
of a fat tabby cat.
Now where did lumpkins go?
Under the hedgerow
feline gums yawn wide.
My passion is the happy fervor
That covers and moves the lever
I heard an exciting, silent flaming
To warn me about this mine anxiety
And its eyes have all the flaming
On that day my soul grew arousal
and the brainwaves never zesting
and its eyes have all the flaming
The spree seemed happy exclaiming
Not but my thought yet stilled remaining
in there stepped a flammable insight
Only this and heated horrors
I crave the scorched, splintery stimulus
Poundings of my thoughts series
I threw my illumination upon the floor
Satan stool in front of the prison door
I crave the illuminated, illuminating intimacy
While I pondered, excitatory and more
what could there be more purely offshore?
Demon angel
Take thy illuminator from out my heart
those the turmoil, 'Minded the Ecuador!'
Mentor, mentor!
And the troubles never layering
and so the good angel you came gently clattering
Get thee behind me Satan bravo, bravo
11/21/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2021©
As a child he discovered
how to assimilate, merge and verge.
His five senses did not become six,
but a number closer to one.
That day, water drooled over mossy stones.
He smelled the splash of foaming atoms,
the explosive opening of water-buds.
He thought to himself -
“I can paint my mind
over the sky as if it were a cave wall,”
A swan rose up, wings clattering,
water ligaments pulling a wingspan
through a Catherine Wheel of sound.
His senses flew together
forming clumps of reality
which seem to him to be new planets,
worlds thrown from the minds of
water voles and frogs.
He thought to himself-
“If I place myself into these little planets,
I can leave my footprints
on running water, or on the air
as if I were a bird made
from the light of a foreign sun."
The rush of swish against the shoreline
The wind blowing swift by is a sign
A storm a brewing, clattering, and shattering
The thunder clapping a great sky battering
The waves swoosh higher up
As you can get this sound like in a cup
But more so just cover your hand
Now the feeling of grit giving sound to sand
Whoosh! the wind takes your hair
It is fear-est when water spit as it declare
War on your skin, with vibration that pings
And the silence of slow blowing wind sings
There are pieces of a quilt, that I still call my home
They are kept alive in memory, and are there to keep me warm
When the chill of frigid winter, or the still of an afternoon
It wraps me up in comfort's arms with love that fills the gloom
I close my eyes, and can see it there, and I am home again
The house, each room, my family, the place it all began
There are grassy acres, with long white fences and a house with no pretentions
Standing in the morning sun, a pinto horse is watching me and clamoring for attention
A small corral… my Dad in Levi's…and a pitchfork heaped with hay
A barn, some stalls, a chicken house, a clothes line, filled with white sheets, waving
Sweet fragrant fields, alfalfa rows, five peach trees in pink bloom
Across the road a melon field, intertwining through the loom
Inside the house, some bacon fries, we hear morning radio drama
Clattering of dishes, and the chattering soap-stars, and at the sink, would be my Mama
The kitchen decked in a sunshine yellow, as warm as melted butter
A breakfast nook, the table set, and a pile of school day clutter
A living room, a window wide, where a mountain towers over
That was way back when, where I began.....and now it's something other....
A wedding ring, and years went by, the home had changed, and so did I...
A different place, with acres too, and long white fences, and a house with no pretentions
Standing in the morning sun, are oak groves, fruit trees, clamoring for attention
There are gardens woven with flowers, and some growing things to eat
Clattering of dishes, and a CD playing,...Sweet!...
In the living room, from the window wide, many mountains live here too...
Living on the northern tip,....my California view
Some things have changed, some things have not
I've been quite lucky.....for what I've got
This home I knew, the quilt I’ve sewn, it keeps me warm, where I call home...
Lurking in the Darkness
Monsters lurk and wonder everywhere
Footsteps lightly bound
Sneaking here and there
Spirits waits to catch
All sleeping on the clouds
Overhead! Look Up, look down!
Everywhere and everywhere
Shadowy floods and cloudy-looking woods
Bent and battered
So haggard and so woe-begone
Cricket loud chirping shrills from stone to stone
Grasshoppers snapping and clattering
Owls lurking in the darkness
On the cold hill side
With anguish wet mist and fever dew
Hug moon waxing and waning again and again
Shimmering and hung across the sky
It blushes over the world
Come down and go hunting
Form the sprightly circling dance
Unveil your forms to mortal eye
I awoke from sweet slumber and found myself
Here on the cold airy mountainside
With all the sleepy dancers gone
By: Eve Roper 10/20/2015
Lightning split the dark in stepped leaders, blinding veins,
and the thunder didn't just boom - it hit,
a physical strike against the chest,
louder than anything the sky had ever produced before.
The clouds blew open,
dumping a wall of rain so dense and relentless
that looking out the window,
five feet away was just a blur of white noise.
Hard, heavy hail began to hammer the roof,
and the gales shifted,
gathering into a massive microburst
that slammed straight down from the clouds like a falling weight.
The house shuddered to its foundation.
Picture frames shook loose from the drywall, clattering down,
while in the kitchen, the counters vibrated violently.
Drinking glasses hummed and slid across the smooth granite,
chattering against one another
until one lost its footing,
plunging to the floor and exploding
into a thousand glittering shards across the tile.
And then, without warning, the storm held its breath.
A stillness settled over the room—
a quiet so sudden and heavy it felt like the eye of a hurricane,
tricking the heart into thinking the worst had passed.
But it was only a breath before the tail of the tempest struck,
returning with the raw, unbridled rage of an EF4 tornado,
tearing at the eaves and screaming through the dark.
For hours, I stayed crouched in that darkness, trembling,
fearing the walls might give, fearing for my life.
I prayed—not with rehearsed words,
but with a raw, desperate sincerity,
asking for the sky to spare us,
for the storm to pass without leaving ruin
or taking what mattered most.
Slowly, the violent pulse of the wind began to soften.
The madness that had overtaken the sky drifted away as fast as it had arrived,
leaving behind a vast, unmoving stillness.
The house stopped shaking, my chest unknotted,
and in that total, sacred silence,
I closed eyes and offered up a quiet prayer of thanks.
Gradually the crystalizing dawn -- more hardened
Than folded steel --- more sharper than
The blade that cuts!
Wisps of thin vapour, once loitering insidiously
At the steps of each staunch door,
Swirling away -- seemingly almost alive!
Coiling and uncoiling. Has all the litheness of a
Dancing girls weightless silken ribbon.
Until, retreating back, high, into some lofty,
Inaccessible mountain...
Dissipates as if just abandoned dragons breath.
The trees and streams are no longer so solemn.
Circling over the temple, above the brittle lands
Frosted chill, red-beaked choughs noisily engaged
In agitated clattering...
But now the temple bells are commanding those
Monks to prayer.
The blind and withered monk, who sits alone
In his unassuming corner, reminds us:-
"An emperor who abuses his power unsettles the
Equilibrium of the whole nation, the workings of
Nature,
And the livelihood of all people;
His responsibility is to maintain harmony in
Himself and the empire...
By acting in accordance with Confucian principles".
It is for them to contemplate what we cannot
Comprehend:-
We are peasants and it is not expected of us
To understand such wise things; nor should we.
We understand the fish and their ways, and the
Ways of the Blue River...
Just as monks understand our gracious lord Buddha.
Rouses the sun. Slowly lifts an enormous sky.
Glistening hoarfrost spun from bramble to
Bush -- strung from bough to branch like
Giant spider web;
Stiffened grasses that so pleasingly crunch
Underfoot;
And from these grasses, droplets of moisture
Ready to be released like slow weeping tears;
They will join with and sweeten the vibrant
Spring waters -- clearer than quartz --
That stream in tripping rivulets over yellow rocks
To splash from shallow cup to pouring pool...
Once you have tasted these waters you would
Have little more need of wine.
Wine is for idle men, or for our warring masters
To drink when celebrating great victory;
What use have we of intoxicating wine?
It is better kept as an offering...
Lest the river Gods grow angry and
Spoil our catch.