Long Clunking Poems
Long Clunking Poems. Below are the most popular long Clunking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clunking poems by poem length and keyword.
'Twas the night before Christmas
when I and my groom
finally found a motel
but with just one room.
My groom was in the bathroom -
leaving me alone-
so that he could douse himself
with some cheap cologne.
I - in my red negligee -
thought of bump and grind,
visions of his sugar plums
dancing in my mind.
Then a noise I heard outside
gave me such a fright!
who was out there in the snow
on our special night?
Opening our small room’s door,
I felt like a goof.
It was just an icicle
falling off the roof.
Then I felt a sudden breeze.
One unlucky bride!
As the door behind me shut,
I was locked outside.
When upon my motel door
I began to pound,
it was clear that my dear groom
did not hear a sound.
Right before my startled eyes,
what should then appear?
Someone dressed as Santa Claus,
filling me with fear!
His eyes, though not so cheery,
lit up, seeing me
as he crossed the street and came
stumbling drunkenly.
I stood helpless, trembling in
scanty siren red
when an icicle fell down
clunking my poor head.
I revived in the ER,
thong still on my rump!
Underneath my bandage was
an enormous lump.
Thankfully my groom was there,
smelling of Old Spice.
But we’d have no chance to give
gifts naughty and nice.
At our room I later saw
Santa Claus was there -
that same guy who’d seen me in
sexy underwear.
Having seen my accident
he’d informed my groom
right before he then collapsed
stone drunk in our room.
Santa on our honeymoon
with cheeks rosy red,
(but not one “Merry Christmas”),
stole our wedding bed.
12/8/12
Now used for Joseph May's
The Night Before Christmas Poetry Contest
Don't try to make a home in my heart; the cracks in its walls may expand at any moment. Don't make this into what it never was, I'm done begging to your selfish cause.
I sit at the place we built together for years, and I am alone at the table. There's the buzz of the crowd, sounds of dishes and cutlery clunking, my mind- it only knows of your absence. I hear my own breathe in you silence, so loud. So vile. You give love and you take away, as you please. Your foolishness keeps me in pain, suffering.
Crinkets of laughter and tears and joy, back in day. Your words like the slash of a sword take it all away.
Don't make the home, don’t call me again. I won't answer, knowing of the mistake you've made. Previously home now just a house with four walls, it's surprising what karma does when you hurt the ones you love. Life showed me days with tears and somber nights, but what it did to you must've been worse. For I went through while you hid in disguise. I wished you no pain and yet you tied a string of your lies around my throat. At the kitchen table I sit, wondering, where'd my baby go?
I'll draw comfort in knowing the best of you, while I leave the worst in my words. And my worlds- that I make- stories that I share. The side of my own, the points that I didn't get to make. Didn't I flaunt my love, before you bit the dust? Didn't I tirelessly pull you to the surface, before you chose to drown in what kills you?
Questions I may never asks, answers I know I won't ever get. Trusting the way the universe works, and letting go of what never stays. Good luck and, au revoir.
The night was dark, in the park when I heard a bark
then a ringing bell, blood curdling yell straight from Hell
A loud clunking sound from the ground had me spellbound
by the ploys of the noise, but still maintained my poise.
I shed a tear from fear, but there was no one near.
No hand to hold, when I felt so cold, then behold!
Revealed, what had thus been concealed, an old airfield
Two ghostly planes and blood stains, wings secured by chains
The thump sound was a pump used to clean out the sump
The barking ceased. Time to feast, or a brew, at least!
August 20, 2020
Keen Observation I Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Funom Makama
Moving On
Youth, sits in the evening's orange light,
back against bark of a black cherry;
one of a fence of trees
that runs the railway line.
He senses the Texan desert heat,
loosening, lessening, uncoiling
while sharpened light spits
and sparks off his buckled belt.
He pulls close to the sound of a freight train,
working its way out into the desert,
Clunking, clanking in its heavy metal voice
while curious creations of tumbleweed
stumble and stroll alongside.
His imagination sways to the train's motion,
motivating his own thoughts of moving,
moving on to a better build of life.
Youth, stands on the precipice of adulthood,
dreaming of the glitter of a big city
where potential opportunities flicker
on street corners like neon lights.
The train now slips inside night's dusk,
sliding towards the ragged edges of the desert
where it performs one of nature's magic tricks ..
a swivel of metallic hips… and gone.
He now sits alone, colour minimal,
sound emptying into silence.
recognition nudging his memory
of drawing an education from the desert
but he now needs new pathways to tread.
Behind him, the horizon
slips slowly, sedately below itself
and night crawls towards him.
Youth, uneasy with dusk's, dark stare,
quickly stretches himself back home
while distant hills stride alongside;
cicadas chuckling in his slipstream.
In the wakefulness of morning
he knows the horizon will be back;
a line of encouragement, pulling him to
roads not yet taken; dreams not yet imagined.
Ian Souter
I am pretending to be normal today. I have been doing it for two hours.
Sitting here, waiting for this side of me to be discovered by Joe, my first and last husband.
He walked through once and said a big enthusiastic ‘good morning Sweetheart.’
I must be normal because this did not irritate me as much as it does usually before coffee.
I tried to make myself appear normal, so I waved, but I did not speak.
If your black cloud is not engulfing you in the early part of the day, you are the weird one.
The second time he ventured into the living room where I was comatose in my recliner,
He asked “What are you watching?” In an accusatory, all-knowing-me kind of way.
“Ghost story stuff,” I said, casually, in a really normal-sounding way, but my voice cracked.
Others watch ghost stuff, and they are normal right?
My hair is standing straight up, and there are goosebumps all over my arms right now.
“Do you want some eggs?”
More normal conversation from my one-and-only.
This does sound normal, but I am full of cookies to the point of bursting, so I decline.
“I had cookies,” I say.
Normal, right?
“Do you want to do anything today?”
He has failed to notice how normal I am, so I decide to give up.
I flip off the TV, and listen to my frightened heart clunking in relief.
Normal, shormal. Never again!
He takes the largest ladle he can find
And stirs them around and around
clunking their heads together
Scrambling their brains,
Making them angry
And he laughs
He is the sorcerer of the moment
popular with his followers
who revere him
because of the fear
that if they do not
he will turn and they will become
the sorrowful, the left behind, the unchosen ones
He throws in dashes of anger and dollops of grief
He is the master of manipulation,
There is no escape
Others have tried to get close enough
to toss in enthusiasm, love and hope.
But alas, he is stronger because of the numbers
who chase him, trying to be the chosen one.
He spits into the fray, frightening them just a tiny bit more.
Life charges up and down hills so fast
One day you are biting your cousin
And they are laughing because you are two.
But not your cousin of course.
In a blink of a wild flower,
you are clunking around in Mommy’s heels.
Thinking you are “all that”
because tomorrow you start kindergarten.
Before you kick off the second horrible shoe
You are learning to ride a bike without extra wheels.
Around and around in circles I go,
and then poof!
It is summer camp, church camp.
Lots of girls are taking Bible recitation seriously.
My friend and I are talking about music and hot guys.
We have started to blossom, and we are amazed.
It is prom today, and I am irritated my date is drinking too much.
I decide to drive myself home and let him walk.
I get his car keys by lying,
But probably save the fool’s life when I do.
Marriage was short-lived, to someone else, not to that guy.
I am fifty now with a child who does not speak to me.
Glad I have my childhood friends.
They are lonely now, abandoned by their husbands.
We form a little group, and marvel that we were eleven yesterday.
Poof! Guess what?
We are now seventy.
Does anyone else know that we are twelve-year-olds on the inside?
Still blossoming and still amazing?
A week of summer heat
with no cooling breeze
or break made bedrooms
like brick kilns
still hot after a day's firing.
You couldn't sleep.
Air conditioning back then
was a couple of loud,
clunking fans that blew
a hum of hot air.
To get relief
we would all sleep outside
on the back lawn on hessian
camping beds that sagged
and creaked even under
a child's weight. The night air
carried a slight damp
and the hint of a breeze.
I can remember laying back
under a blaze of stars,
giddy and full of questions
at such wonder strung
in filaments overhead.
Uncertainty and doubt
had begun to pick
my childish world apart.
I would grip the sides
of the bed possessed by
a strange sense
that if I let go, I would fall
upwards into the sky.
I could never get to sleep
even when a cool came
upon the early morning air.
There were too many
sounds I could not explain
and shadows my mind
would shape into threats.
I would creep back inside,
back into a walled safety
and the heat.