Long Clunk Poems
Long Clunk Poems. Below are the most popular long Clunk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clunk poems by poem length and keyword.
junk is a hunk
weighs me down, while I clunk
all over the house
trying to manage the thing
while lost in a dithering funk.
alas, worthless junk
piled up and further up!
where to begin! what a laborious lump!
am I, wasting time
sorting through this
huge, hopeless hump?
I falter, I bump
into a fellow, flighty frump
aimlessly sorting
through her own jangly junk!
together, we commiserate
and conclude that our junk
is just adding up
to a barreling barrage of bunk!
Now that is an option I want to see on a car.
Make it available, and your sales will go far.
If some creep goes and steals my parking space,
pushing the parking jerk button will be a trump card ace.
Out comes a big mechanical arm at a quick pace.
The claw will take his vehicle, and fling it into space.
His car will become a four-wheeled piece of junk
wherever it lands with a very loud thunk.
He will go home in garbage that goes “clunk-clunk”.
Go ahead and make the contraption standard equipment.
It will make any annoyed driver full of content.
Inspired by a recent Suzuki Motors television commercial
He leads me through East London,
docks, pubs, among the stray dogs, the
River Thames lapping at low clouds.
We find the second-hand player in a street
where the shops are dusty holes under the arches
of viaducts and railway bridges,
Me carrying the portable Dancette record player
in its hard Bakelite box,
lifting it by its leatherette handle, and I,
small for my age
but wanting so much to lug it all the way home.
The plastic cuts my fingers,
sharp corners bark my shins.
Father talks of his life here, the blackouts
and bombs, rationing,
and the bloody Saturday night street fights.
He whistles tunes
from a songbook of dead crooners.
That evening sitting together, with Sinatra -
watching the dark blue Capitol label
spiral and blur,
hearing the unseen belt under the bobbing needle
as it chewed vinyl -
reliving the clunk-clunk of our boots
as we pushed back fog-muted miles.
Years later, finding that player again
in mother's attic, lifting the machine
feeling how light, it is,
willing to take another walk with him
yet not knowing how to catch up.
The shade of a swizzle stick
Clank to a glass
Stirring of wet stuff
Cooling of gas
Pleasure from drinking
Washing it 'round
Gushing then gobbling
Drooling it down
Clunk; there's an ice cube
Frosted in vision
Sunken till risen
Expanding with fission
Spinning the cherry
In circles that narrow
Mulching the flavours
Till bones fill with marrow
Blending the colours
In one seemly manner
Tasting the sword
Through lips you have gored
Stabbing the olive
With one splintered pick
Tasting the olive
In one bite that's quick
Laying the napkin
Aside of the glass
The glass starts to dribble
The waitress walks past
It started with a drink I drank till drunk
when I started to wonder if I'd blink till blunk.
As I opened my eyes in a stink I stunk
and I started to think and thank till thunk.
Life beginning to sink, it sank till sunk.
I was feeling the fink; a fank with funk.
With my money going clink and clank till clunk,
I was poor to a plink of a plank gone plunk.
When I thought of a link I had linked till lunk,
come as fast as a mink of a mink gone munk.
And I started to write in an ink gone unk,
just to write down a story in the pink gone punk.
Then I started to slink and slank till slunk,
all from writing a story of kink and kunk.
Just afraid of an ending that I'd flink and flunk
as if out on the rink to rank my runk.
All to make me a trink of a trank to trunk.
I was rich in a prink of a prank gone prunk.
What did you say Punk? I was horrified; my heart fell with a clunk.
It was the ultimate hoodiest craziest out-of-control king. Mafioso Cat.
He is usually the last one people see before they land in a black trunk.
I began apologizing almost immediately, because I know he is quite Phat.
He told his minions to bring me over, and two of them got on each side.
I knew I could not outrun them, and frankly, there was nowhere to hide.
I went with my head down, thinking I was going to be thrown in a ditch.
Mafioso Cat said “Why did you think we were talking to you, you little Twitch?”
I threw myself at him, begged for mercy, pledging him my allegiance for life.
He's probably never before seen this loyalty from an unknown house wife.
Mafioso Cat threw back his head and laughed until he was hiccupping now.
I was just kidding, Lady, he said with a dapper gentleman’s kittenish bow.
So when he got arrested and thrown in the slammer I brought him some fish.
He asked me to bring kibble, and I baked a shank into a casserole dish.
Now we share the same cell, my godfather, Mafioso Cat and me.
Happy to work in the kitchen when we are not in Cell number Three.
I
The metallic clunk
of intervals between voices -
cognizant cogs drive fluctuations
like ducks crossing a road.
I tilt away from
the coils of your being,
your sounding.
I see you speaking,
twirling
like a spinning six pence
in the rush of
on-coming traffic.
II
Together, we want
the same chromed leverage.
Knuckles cracked
where handles mash.
Long unused gears crunch
inside flesh filled leather, we
creak and stretch
over old maps.
Pushed against one another,
leaning in, until hinges unclasp,
we ride the hairpins,
spring-loaded instants
cream the road.
A clockwork hallelujah
that all ends in silence.
WHAT ABOUT WOLFS
shel silverstein: a bit childish, his giving tree my kids remember, though its parts were dismembered as it gave to the bitter end of life.
ogden nash: well, he gives us moo and milk, until the utter end, short and brief. reminds us of the soup’s - wolf.
wendy cope: born in kent in the london broil (ahem…borough) of bexley. things are going clunk and your face has too much gunk, a hoarder with thirty years of junk and especially she doth remind us don’t answer email when you're drunk.
william james collins: a hoot, billy! only child, born in manhattan, dear old dad worked on wall street. a poet laureate’s big recital on two poems about what dogs think (probably) - what about wolfs?
gershon wolf: he’s flower power-ful in his jest. for example - hippies pulled the triggers and out came flowers. though other comedic poets might create a chuckle, gershon always makes us smile.
7/21/2022
I’ve been told
“things work out for the best”
in that way each of us
Divinely blessed
God in control they say –
if only Time didn’t hurt…
I believe in life hereafter
I believe no wrong God
can’t have undone; someday
somehow our dear Lord to make
all losses won --
God in control they say --
if only Time didn’t hurt…
God in control they say
though ticking I find unbearable
swinging pendulum a clank and
clunk~ when a heart sunk
too deep one’s despair...yet I
am told, God is always
fair – always there – somewhere
taking loving care
God in control they say --
if only Time didn’t hurt...
No theologian am I
just a common soul, treading, adrift;
questioning if sane to trust in fate --
dialogues with God sounding always
one sided debate --
I believe in love
while more questioning
my faith
God in control they say
your silence pushing me
further astray --
if only Time didn’t hurt...
If only Time didn’t hurt…
If only Time didn’t hurt….
The bell rang once, a faint tingle;
clear, sharp in the cold, numbing air
yet strangely muffled in the mist.
All heard it, the distant, single;
ting, behind the droning prayer.
Though not a soul among their midst
affirmed each other that they heard.
The rope slid by black-gloved fingers
while the casket heavily sunk,
The vicar’s final mournful word
hangs above them all and lingers;
another ding, a thudding clunk.
Eyes quickly turn towards each other
others stare towards the ringing sound.
Disturbed unkindness ravens crow
above a grave; Elsie’s brother
interred beneath this Holy ground;
some twenty-seven years ago!