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.
It was a Wednesday;
a day woven
into prison blankets and dish towels.
A day to assess hours unnoticed.
A time of trivial hungers.
The hard heft of earlier times: -
not fitting into anything,
teenage fluff and huff. Heartbreak,
rearing and loss. The fallow traipse of age.
The clinical clunk of clay feet.
Making room in a grave-yard moon,
for faces mislaid.
Those hard rows were all well hoed.
Washing a closed face in a misty mirror.
Listening to the coffee percolator.
trying to shave before its last burble,
ears catching the dark drops of a winter rain,
he creeps again too close
to a hole in his mind.
He should not be doing this still,
but the hole keeps tugging him.
He must keep throwing raw meat
into that roaring silence.
The hole is deep, and the end of it, is no end.
He wishes he could at least,
install an elevator.
for his ghosts to ride up and down on.
It would give him time
to drink more coffee, and write
some polite, well-adjusted poetry.
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.
1 Tequila Shot Down
I'm writing my first line.
2 Tequila Shots Down
I'm continuing to rhyme.
3 Tequila Shots Down
I could do this all day.
4 Tequila Shots Down
Um, uh,...What was I gonna say?
5 Tequila Shots Down
I can do this time after time.
6 Tequila Shots Down
My can always rhyme altogether all the time every time I rhyme.
7 Tequila Shots Down
Mall this stuff just I wrote by is far my best.
8 Tequila Shots Down
My have to give probably this arrest.....sorry, I meant a rest not arrest.
9 Tequila Shots Down
Rhyme still rhyming my butt all the over place.
10 Tequila Shots Down
I to have right stop now. I'm feeling really fit shaced.
11 Tequila Shots Down
Aww wwwhat the hheck. Good for,.. one luck,.. and,...
[CLUNK!},...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
*****************************************************************************
Apology from the author:
The above titled caption should read
The Tequila Shot Rhyme Drinking Game
NOT
The Shequila Tot Dhyme Rrinking Game
My Apologies,
but in my defense, I did enter the title subject matter immediatly after performing my little
tequila experiment.
Again, my apologies.
If I've started a new fraternity craze,
Again, my apologies.
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
Buttocks push; breasts boast
through non-existent crowds.
A choreographed squall
above the whir and clunk
of loaded appliances.
Hispanic girls acting out
in a Laundromat.
Hips gesture, hands stab
and tussle with unwashed issues.
I’m distracted by the overheated hum,
can’t read the print
of my paperback. Words run
naked over yellow pages
The girls are angry
but not with each other.
Skimpy shorts and gang-inks.
The porous waft of feral hormones
seethes over some slight,
branded onto a Facebook page.
They flop onto the slatted bench
produce a smart phone,
scroll through pictures,
moue and glower softening
as baby shots are thumbed.
Melting smiles, then
they hold up the cell for me to see.
we coo and smile together.
The they return to their world
and I to mine.
When they get up
the backs of their thighs
are marked by the wooden seat.
Washing spins on.
My typewriter
was not a good typewriter,
its keys were weighty,
you had to use brain muscle to work it,
nobody wanted it.
My son unpacked a home computer.
I stood by and watched
as all the electronics were laid out on the floor
and surgically knitted together.
I knew then
that I would be consistently out of touch,
and possibly would remain
stuck in an obsolete year
trying to catch up
from the rear of the field.
I wrote my first poem
on that clickity-clack manual machine,
then a dozen more,
all of them were heavy handed,
yet that hefty labor
made me think
I was crafting something worthwhile.
Later, I was enslaved to a computer keyboard,
chained as I was to its subsonic urgings
I could tell
the world was speeding away
faster than I could write.
When my kind of poet dies,
he is immediately ed,
for all his contemporary poems
turn into digital wormholes
that suck him into an unknown grave.
The young look to dead poets for wisdom -
truth is,
that those ham-fisted plodders
have long ago
turned into chunky typewriters
that nobody wants.
Whirr! Clank! Buzz! Clunk!
The gears of my brain seize up,
No longer meshing.
No inspirations, no images appear.
No lofty thoughts, ideas
Tumbling over each other waiting
To be brought to life.
No stream of poetic impulses flourishes,
No silver verbs or round nouns
Slipping into space and place.
Just rusty fits and starts
That produce only empty noise.
Where in my mind is the slipped cog,
That word, the missing tooth,
The slippery oil of sibilant syllables
To lubricate the machinery?
Perhaps here, by diligence
I can search and find the missing part.
I’ll sit and write and write and write
Whatever comes to mind.
Words, words, words, words
That might break free the rusty wheels
And release syllabic oil to restore
That free-wheeling flow
Of passion, wonderment, and awe.
That play of script
That once poured forth so strong
From easy mesh of imagination
With its sister, reality.
So gears, set to your work.
Turn together in perfect sync
To change my dusty prose to poetry.
one set of bald tires,
slick as a turtle's head;
the engine won't start,
'cause the battery's dead
sank my last dollar,
on this piece of ol' junk;
all it does is rattle,
"clunkety-clunk!"
a funky shrewd dealer,
wearin' high water pants;
sold me a lemon,
then did a happy lil' dance
mix-matched panels,
from front to side;
where are the seat belts?
it's almost suicide!
too bad i ain't in hades,
'cause i'm havin' a chill;
this clunker dies out,
when i drive up a hill
the seats are worn and tattered,
i'm feelin' paranoid;
every time i hit a bump,
i'm pushin' hemorrhoids!
when i try to do sixty,
i can only reach ten;
i think i need a priest,
this car's a wicked sin!
when it comes to braking,
i'm guaranteed to lose;
it's another day at Pay Less,
to replace my worn out shoes
this car's got more dents,
than an 18th century bed;
when i cruise the neighborhood,
i hide my shallow head!
i pulled up to a corner,
next to a homeless dude;
holding a sign that read,
I'LL GLADLY WORK FOR FOOD
he reached into his pockets,
pulled out a load of change;
"take your car to the vet!" he pled,
"i think it's got the mange!"
such a funky lemon,
for now it'll have to do;
beware of the shady dealer,
he'll sink his fangs in you!
It sat still watching.
Then a dash, as it saw me
– that damned rabbit.
How, where, had it breached my defences
to eat my veg
to reduce my broccoli to stalks
my leeks to the ground.
I was approaching the village.
It sat still watching.
Then a dash this way then that.
Clunk.
The rear mirror showed it
dead.
I felt bad
to have taken life
– that life of my foe
a foe with fur soft to touch
whose relations had been our pets
to care for
and yes feed.
I am not a lord over creatures
but one myself
with foes and favourites
having a prehistory
of being predator and prey
with no soft fur.
I desire peace and prosperity
but am bound by an instinct
to control
to survive
beyond what is good.
When the resurrection comes
how will I be
with the Easter bunny?
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.