Long Clockwork Poems
Long Clockwork Poems. Below are the most popular long Clockwork by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clockwork poems by poem length and keyword.
The morning spills its liquid light,
A clockwork bird takes silent flight.
I fold the sheets, I brew the tea,
And tether my wild soul to me.
The porcelain cup, the silver spoon,
A quiet dance that frees the moon.
These little loops of thread and twine
Are what preserve this mind of mine.
When chaos howls, and skies turn red,
And gravity forgets my head,
I turn the knob, I sweep the floor,
And find the strength to breathe once more.
The mundane acts, a sacred chain,
That catch me as I fall through rain.
In spinning plates and polished glass,
I watch the darkest shadows pass.
A simple rhythm, ticking slow,
The only anchor that I know.
It saved me from the endless deep,
The gentle hours I wake and sleep.
Others will always take a little notice,
When you go missing, they look for you like potus.
just sitting outside
chewing on this gum till i cramp up
the stress of going through it with you is making me drown in my own flatulence
i can barely walk, and i feel myself sinking without the help of feeling
then the tears come
i collapse gracelessly, and then the fears come
every catalog in the library of me contains information that is unmarked
here i am with a million footprints all over until an adequate description of tattoo tattletale
love was supposed flow flawlessly in flamboyant flight
love was supposed to be the epitome of fascinating free fall
however love has left me....just sitting outside
out goes the man, and in comes the boy who cries when he does not get his way
i sit indian style on the damp grass like i am playing duck duck goose
i do not know if i will ever stand up again
you see, i was standing at my most erect when you were here as wood to the fireplace of my life
however here i am like repetitive clockwork....just sitting outside
pretending your butt is strategically warming a particular area acting as a sleep aid
the pain of going through it makes me want to put my hand on your heart and stomp you to the ground
however i walk away from this unnecessary scenario in my head
instead i pick myself up off of this damp grass and drag my pathetic self....back to you....
when i get back home i find you sulking with another dose of smeared makeup teardrop coffee....just sitting around
Never have I love, the love like you
Painfully assaulted in a rhythm
Like clockwork
Comes in 3’s and 4’s
It came, slicing what love we had
To dismembered hearts we fall
If I had a shield to go back in time
I would go to protect you from the abuse
I wish there was a pill to dissolve away all the pain you endured
I’m so sorry there is no way to go back to have you grow up in a secure environment
To see that side of you, so loving and warm to succumb to the other side so quickly as it’s all you know
It’s my loss
It’s your loss
I’m secure you are not
Your disconnect
Your walls to hide behind
Your detachment that is flicked on like a light switch
The negative look on being with someone under one roof
I am sorry for you
Saturday musings~~
The
dance of seeming
opponents
which separation
makes apparent~
may suggest the
end of the gold
sought in separation~
Blood
flows apparently
and does not~
without not
the flow is lost~
Nothing
cannot be named
but the naming
of something
may seem
good enough~
Everything
is incalculable
even something~
consequently
not knowing is
free to know
and not know~
Doing
is the suggestion
for progress~
working on a path
to the better~
it appears that way~
Faulty
are all words
in expressing
the inexpressible~
the prison bars
of confinement
and freedom~
Clockwork
seems the story
which time
captures~
interpreted as
suffering and
freedom
without escape~
religion
often compared
unfavorably with
nature~
and of course
the same
in reversal~
until both are
found as
appearances
simply arising~
electricity
has never been
identified but
as unknown~
neither has
anything else~
nightfall
suggestions
of rest and
romance~
an emptiness
brimming with
stories~
AI
is sweeping
storyland~
telling tales
seemingly
without effort
and time~
nothing may
seem new~
permanence
may seem as
an anchor to
incessant movement
and insistence~
these words reflecting
turmoil and hope
standing for all stories
seeming to mask
unconditional freedom~
experts
seem as plentiful
pointing to paths
for fulfillment~
and sometimes to
paths never ending~
undermined it seems
by an emptiness
of all words~
faith and works~
death in
separation~
and life as
both and neither~
birdsong
a pleasantry
of a moment~
a deception of
its eternity
or not~
The heart’s rebellion knows not retreat;
It craves the face
That it sears in its grave,
And waits, and waits...
Though time may leap, yet still it keeps
The rebel’s notion deeply engraved
In its core, in the iron crest.
It claws through dark, through dust, through end—
A vow that rots, yet never ends,
Entombed… yet breathing within.
It carves its way all alone,
Through the chambers—glass and grit—
Where iron gears grind out the breath.
In the heart’s lonely grave
Awaits a heart, bound still,
Not to love, not to grief,
Yet to some unnamed will.
It beats not for sun or moon,
Nor counts the hours of the day;
But like a clock in a hollow room,
It ticks the wasted years away.
It functions by a frozen law,
A clockwork pulse in a chest of stone;
Too deep for any spring to thaw,
It works its logic all alone.
Trains run alight terminate on time like clockwork
never ending endless procession of precision conductors
the conducted walk down the line warped tracks of
cynically divided isles dead ends of ‘labour making free’
Evil strips uniformed confluence stripes and leather
Coated terrified collection production of space soap
horror lampshades shearing shorn haired tattoos the
undivided divide of power abomination horrid abnormal
‘normality’ represses guilt projected trans-re-and aggression
Evil does other in the guise of completed concentration
Concerted action blisters scorches screams cacophonies
children on father’s lap blue eyed dancing and laughing
kisses of love adoration cuddly dolls miniature life’s train
sets model schema roles toys games memories distraction
Evil giggles corporates shapes what past and future holds
Mothers craft homes happy families embrace posterity apple
pies devotion roast cinnamon cranberry turkeys tarts in ovens
pious allegiance compassion progress contrast splitting off piano
forte harmonious singing rejoicing at mantelpiece and altar
Evil mocks smouldering torches paradise’s apple deprivation
Juvenile followers of fashion compose indoctrinate compost
hail philosophy’s trampled ideology void of virtue meaning
distorted communion bread wine blind vision blind-sight vortex
trailing inscribing engraving present history timeless repetition
Evil tracks moribund humanity dignity degeneration and disgust
Unless we reflect examine investigate inside and around
us the smokescreens stacked ember ashes individual ‘Self’
universal pursuit of righteousness flames of denial denigrating
potential illuminate conscience honesty fallibilities blue prints
for darkness and unless we act and fight stand up and even then
Ubiquitous evil at this very moment will cast its seeds and shadows
will unbalanced fires raise their ugly head and minds and shoulders gas
and bullets terror grenades rockets mines warfare starving emaciation
lest we forget the prototypes the moulds automated conveyor belts evil
we can not abdicate responsibility for blatant murder of the human race
Auschwitz is everywhere and there is no hierarchy of evil
July 1st Independence Day (Canada)
Since the elderly king greatly loved music, his court esteemed it, too;
As sun and moon smile on myriad colors, during the butterfly revue.
The king was well loved and jolly, with the queen, always by his side.
He ruled with caring. Like rainbow hued peaks, where indifference died.
His glorious reign had been lengthy, and the vast kingdom prospered;
Like the kingdom of regal, red lilies, blooming regularly as clockwork.
Fabled, flighty, fall days brought friends, on the spur of rare moment,
Often from faraway kingdoms, like night, after colorful postponement.
Fragrant night fell so familiarly, in the ashen shadows of flaming day;
As family arrived feelingly from France, like the heartfelt communique.
The king lived in the house of harmony, like ruby stars dancing in sync;
And green birds sang in its courtyard, under pink, lace clouds, indistinct.
Reliable raspberry sun rose rapturously, along King's Road of old roses;
Replete with robust raven cawing, like when confiding cricket discloses.
The king's musicians gave daily recitals, like the nectarine sun, shining.
Noble courtiers attended every noon, by windows of minty ivy, twining.
The 'orchid valentine beauty' fell in love, in frilly, red petals, cashmere;
As 'crown of thorns peppermint candy,' bloomed throughout green years.
'Miss Jekyll' blooms, sought places to Hyde, since all were colored blue;
While red 'spider lily blooms' spun silk, to be adorned in something new.
One day Old King Cole called for his pipe and bowl, and his fiddlers, too;
And they played as they never had before, like pink finch's sunrise debut!
All windows were open, green leaves quivering. Songs paused in the tree.
'Twas if nature were in hushed rapture, in bygone days, far from the city!
'Old King Cole was a merry old soul.
And a merry old soul was he,
He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl
And he called for his fiddlers three.
Every fiddler he had a fiddle,
And a very fine fiddle had he,
Oh there's none so rare, as can compare
With King Cole and his fiddlers three.'
Poetry is the one place
where people can speak
their original human mind.
- Allen Ginsberg.
..........................
You can get lost sometimes
in the mind's obsessions,
its need for order, to gather in
what spills out
from the ruptured sides of certainty,
the comfortable surrounds
of routine -
and so you write poetry.
Then there are those moments
when all descends into panic,
when you lose control
and the world spirals inward,
winding itself up into an ever
tightening catastrophe -
and so you write poetry.
And when something
in this world or beyond
wants to speak and finds
in you an ear in which
to whisper and you
are gifted a tiny spark
of the sublime -
you write poetry.
And even when the cogs
and levers of your life click
into place and run like clockwork,
and yet leave a fear
that the ticking sound
you hear is the countdown
to a final detonation -
you write poetry.
One girl I know, has grace beyond compare,
With radiant beauty, and sunshine in her smile.
Her full heart to feel, her fair eyes to stare.
In her life’s clockwork, she turns love’s dial.
I have known her soul, since before the veil,
Where we played and danced under moonlight.
Together we fought for the right to dwell,
Safely forever, in doing what’s right.
Now we are heirs, in covenant to stay,
Right up beside her, firmly hand in hand.
For with token kiss and true love we pray,
To by and by dwell, in holy courts of the grand.
Christ our King reigns forever in governing peace.
We are always His servants, I and my Queen.
Clock work spiders are climbing up my wall ‘sticking in their nasty pins so none of them will fall,
As one of them lifts her leg and begins to spin her steel ,
another scurries closer and strums it with its heel .
wide eyed and terror struck i remembered going to bed ,
then the clever thought occurs to me
‘just test it and bang your head .
Nope I’m none the wiser ‘now definitely wide awake the mechanical spiders play too me as none of this is fake .
Dozens of them are present now ‘all shine with a metallic grace
‘ but why my room I ask myself
‘why now and why in this place ?
Segmented shining carapace’s ‘move slowly in the gloom ‘
their steel strung out of different lengths
‘lends melodics to the tune .
Tiny keys are turning that adds motion to their gears
‘the thought of what the hell’s going on ‘l
‘nearly bringing me too tears .
Should I Trust theses clockwork spiders ‘
when will their playing End ?
‘who sent them too late night serenade me
‘was it enemy or a trusted friend?
This picking arachnid blue grass
‘ was really something to see
‘terror was starting to subside ,
I was tapping gleefully.
Please don’t climb down from the wall’s
‘keep playing this wicked tune
‘if could just reach my trusted harmonica
‘I’ll join you really soon.
So there I was sat up in bed
‘the spiders kept their beat ‘
it was now time for my solo ‘ I’d better make this sweet.
scratching approval from these arachnid bots
‘was what my piece had gained
’this was becoming awesome ,this could lead to fame.
Then one by one they began to fall,
‘softly on on my bed
‘ the lack inertia for their key winding
’had ended the music dead .
No ‘I called out in grief there’s a lot more we can play ,
‘please reinstate your innerspring’s and carry on that old country way .
But the lifeless eight legged metals ‘lay still and didn’t move ‘
the time had come ‘we’d had our fun ‘
that was the conclusion of our groove .
Where had these spiders come from and how did they know too play
‘I’ll never forget their music ‘
I’ll never forget this day .