Long Clocks Poems
Long Clocks Poems. Below are the most popular long Clocks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clocks poems by poem length and keyword.
The Clock watcher
I am the clock watcher
I watch it all day
From the cock crows in the morning
Till we stop making hay
I am the clock watcher
And you might ask why
Is my life so dreary
As the clock ticks on by
I am the clock watcher
And you might wonder
Am I waiting on death
Or am I waiting on thunder
I am the clock watcher
And some think me weird
But it’s okay to be different
And better than feared
I am the clock watcher
And some think me wrong
As they go through their day
With a smile and a song
I am the clock watcher
Please don’t pity me
For I fix the clocks
For the church and clergy
Form:
I blink at light that isn’t there,
And speak to shadows on the stair.
My meals are clocks, my sleep is wrong—
I hum one phrase all evening long.
The mirror twitches when I grin,
A second self beneath my skin.
I file my dreams in numbered rows,
And tell the ants what no one knows.
I weep when spoons are out of place,
And fear the kindness in a face.
My hands repeat what they forget,
They write confessions I’ve not met.
Voices dance in copper wire,
They chant in sync, they don’t retire.
I laugh too loud at silence deep,
I wake while others softly sleep—
And swear the clouds know where I’ve been.
Time stops for no one Poetry Contest
Sara Jama
From the first heartbeat to the very last
From the first cry to the last gasp
Life and time rise and then fall
The hands on the external clock never pausing
As the legs of the day keep moving
From dashing sunrises to dashing sunsets
To the everlasting stars and moons in the sky
To the gravitation pull of the tides
Life keeps marching on
Orchestrated like and infinite
To the rhythm of the seasons
To the spins of the earth
Time never sits
Time never sits for anyone
Even when we're gone
As the sands of time
Funnel through our hourglass
Methodically, esoteric, and destined
Each pebble is a milestone in our lives
Each pebble adds purpose to our internal clocks
These heaps of pebbles lead us up the hill and down
From the first baby steps, childhood to adulthood
And to the lifetime of discoveries
From baby blues to aging greys
These stepping stones mark time
And our existence though short-lived
Where our internal clocks naturally yield in the end
As light begets darkness
And only then does the time sit inside our window
Outside nature continues its course
Without a doubt, mankind demonstrates proficiency in many ways. In our own way, we manage and master 'daylight saving time'. Every six months we change the numbers on our clocks, but
cannot change or set the sun. We set the numbers forward in the spring, but cannot change the moon. We adjust the time and 'fall back' in Autumn but cannot alter the stars.
With no assistance from us nor aid from the internet; with no alterations nor assembly required; with no adjustments nor repairs needed, God Almighty createded the sun, moon, stars, and the entire universe.
11022018cjPoSoup
She leads her army up and down,
two sides of Main Street, and is found
companioned by three basset hounds.
They follow, closely, at her heels
like foundlings gathered round
I've often wondered where she goes,
with shopping cart, and dogs in tow.
Tweed on her back, scarves on her hair,
regardless of the temperature
She never speaks, but no one cares.
with eyes like windows, dark and clear.
A friendly clerk will wave hello,
while patrons share a coin or two.
We help her fill her cart with food,
her needs are scant, her wants are few.
When spring arrives, she'll sit and rest
upon the bench, within the shade
to watch daily passing parade
She'll stay awhile, become our friend,
then disappear, as summer ends
Dark hooded eyes have not revealed,
just why she migrates, what compiles
her secret story, or where she goes.
She's a soldier of frenetic times
where clocks tick fast, and seasons change.
She holds the leash like it's her string
to keep the world within her hands
A solemn ritual, we have seen
again, again, where has she been?
And through the seasons, we have grown,
more curious, yet pleased to bend
a little more to understand
She stays until the autumn comes
But winter knows her silent song
_____________________________________________
4/29/16
Contest: Second Place Contest
Sponsor Laura Loo
(Based on a real person that we often see on the streets of our small town)
__________________________________________________
"Doors and windows are portals of mystery. What secrets do they hold?"
quote by poet
There are moments when I'm alone
that I hear a loud ringing tone in my ear
just before a new portal appears in my vision.
These things that are being revealed to me, I fear
if I should openly speak of them, would cause derision.
I dare not admit to having seen faces
staring back at me through a portal door.
There were crescent moons in strange places
and dark caverns that led to... I know not where.
But I heard whispered conversations I could not ignore.
Some opened that I wanted to close,
in anguish that if I had ventured nearer,
something eerie would pull me in, so I froze.
I glimpsed portals of darkness, some of clear light
and one from which came demonic laughter... a fright!
Portals quickly slam their doors shut
when I seem a bit too interested in what I beheld.
Clocks whose hands spoke instead of simply tocking.
I couldn't look away and watched as if I was compelled.
A Quantum opening to another realm held things shocking!
Not all of them gave me pensive feelings.
In one, I saw through a stained glass window;
rooms of furry white animals who nodded at me.
There were exotic plants growing from the ceilings,
and I heard waves crash on the shores of a restless sea.
Several opened for me to see pastel skies
filled with all sorts of birds, flying in great flocks.
Each time a new portal opened I hoped it wouldn't
make me feel as if I was peering inside Pandora's box.
I can't pretend they don't exist... and perhaps I shouldn't.
One day I may have courage to step inside
a portal that opens near me. One I wouldn't fear.
If I'm not able to return, some would suspect I died.
I wonder how long before I'd be missed if I just disappear.
I should give it more thought before I enter the Twilight Zone.
I took my periodic stroll through the local antique store today.
I stumbled over things and stepped 'round clutter to make my way!
I looked for clocks - found none, but saw many things I could do without,
And those are the things that I propose to tell you all about!
There was an old buggy wheel - I could see no use for that!
I saw horse collars, washboards and someone's stuffed Angora cat.
Hanging on the wall was an austere Victorian guy glaring back at me.
Prominently displayed was a chamber pot and scraggly Christmas tree!
What use have I for a manure fork or hubcaps for a '47 Dodge,
Or a shaggy buffalo robe or shriveled scalps from an Indian lodge!
Displayed were empty cigar boxes and empty Prince Albert cans,
A portrait of Napoleon and hood ornament for a '27 Mercedes Benz!
I saw a set of 1920 Brittanica Encyclopedias and a Corona typewriter,
Well-worn snowshoes, a tuning fork and strangely, a bishop's mitre!
Hanging on a clothes rack was an old soldier's moth-eaten uniform.
What on earth would I do with a hornet's nest once hosting an angry swarm!
Leaning against a wall was a hood and bumper for a '37 Ford Tudor.
On a shelf was a gas mask and tin helmet from the First World War!
Though I found many things I could do without, not so with my spouse!
She bought a cart full of gimcracks and trumpery to clutter up the house!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Where God Learned Hands
Because the heavens could not bend to every cry,
They shaped a pair of hands that never learned to fly.
So God grew nearer by departing, flesh and bone,
And called that nearness Mother, warm as home.
She waits where clocks grow tired of counting days,
Feeds time with breath, and names our fear by name.
Her love is not a sermon taught to stay,
But law made milk, and mercy taught to weigh.
When gods grow tall and distant in their light,
She kneels the dark and keeps the child in sight.
If prayer must walk, it learns her patient art,
To carry heaven quietly in the heart.
They gather where the signs hang crooked,
under gaslight glare and broken clocks,
where the barkeep’s eyes are twin shot glasses—
fogged, but watching.
Gin Lane rolls in on tired boots,
her laughter sharp as shattered glass.
Beer Street hums a fatter tune,
slumped in booths of sticky leather.
They meet at the hinge of last call,
where poetry is slurred and prophets mumble.
A jukebox wails old revolutions
to a crowd too drunk to notice.
The walls are graffiti'd with regrets,
phone numbers of ghosts,
and chalked-up debts no one will ever pay.
Outside, the world is coughing up history,
but in here, time stirs with a muddler.
The bar is a church with no god,
only spirits, and the faithful who sip them.
Some come to forget,
others to remember louder.
A woman in red sings with her back to the room.
A man orders another round
and trades his name for a tab.
Everyone claps when the glass breaks.
Midnight hits like a bottle to the head—
the bouncer shrugs,
Beer Street staggers,
Gin Lane pirouettes into the dark.
Santa Hits The Snooze Button
(For Christmas Cheer contest)
Santa woke up feeling fruity
The Mrs was spark out
He grinned cos in a minute
His Rudolph clock would shout
Whinny, whinny, moo, quack
Whinny, whinny, neigh
(How’s a poet sposed to know
What Reindeer clocks might say)
Even though his wife nowadays
Is lamb dressed up as mutton
He sees her how she used to be
So wallops that snooze button
So Santa’s got ten minutes
For undercover fun
Please excuse the metaphor...
He’s got a loaded gun
We’ve got a spare ten minutes
Come take your man to heaven
Well what we gonna do she said
With the other seven
3 December 2018