Long Sprockets Poems
Long Sprockets Poems. Below are the most popular long Sprockets by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sprockets poems by poem length and keyword.
I feel the clock
as it begins to unwind
Tick tock, tick tock
another second behind
Springs and sprockets
intricately interconnected
Tick talk, tick t a l k
My slow down unexpected
Pendulum swinging
from side to side
Ticktock,ticktock
Not swinging nearly as wide
The Cuckoo is coming
It will stick out it’s head
Tick tock, tick talk
I can’t remember what I said
Ding dong, ding dong
The chimes are ringing
Tick tock, tock tock
What will time be bringing?
The hands keep moving
around the round face
Tick tock, tick tock
Connecting me to this place!
I search for the key
can this clock be rewound?
Tick tick, talk stick
It’s nowhere to be found......
As a citizen poet without pretension,
I offer a true tale of my invention.
A solid everyman in my community,
with a reputation of immunity,
I was happy and content.
I shared my thoughtful insights,
and wrote about the northern lights.
My words made grown men cry.
I think about it and breathe a sigh -
I was something else!
But, one morning, I woke up
and drank acidic coffee from my cup,
which my wife served black as pitch.
Inside I felt a strange, hot itch.
Could it be indigestion?
No ordinary heart inside my chest,
was it the Devil who had me possessed?
Burning inside, I fretfully undressed,
as, to despair, I acquiesced,
and went back to bed.
But, the feeling persistently welled,
until, at last, I was oddly compelled,
and in terror, I was gripped,
so my own skin, I violently ripped,
exposing my insides.
There, I saw sprockets and springs,
gears, knobs and other things,
and screamed an existential cry,
knowing I could neither live, nor die,
for all I was, was just AI.
The Clockmaker
The old clockmaker sat at his bench
In the shop where he'd lived all his years
With a monocle lens on his eye
And his desk filled with sprockets and gears.
Everything had its place in a drawer.
Every drawer labeled proper and neat.
Only sound to be heard was the clocks
As they ticked out a monotone beat.
Of the hundreds of clocks there for sale
Each with spaces on walls or on shelves
Not a one of them told the wrong time
And they all said one minute till twelve
The dark moment he'd feared had arrived
And the clockmaker's face gave a wince
As each clock confirmed midnight had come
And that now Daylight Savings begins
8.17.18
Contest: A Rattling Rhyme
I wondered what I’d do If I had chosen a career
Would it have been based on challenge or overcoming fear
I could have been an electrician
Working with plugs and wires and sprockets
Or maybe even a politician
Putting my hands in other peoples pockets
I might have been a mariner
When my ship was moored I’d rig it
Or possibly an undertaker
But I just didn’t dig it
How about being a dramatic actor
Playing a part that would make you cry
Study law and be a lawyer
Put my hand on a Bible and lie
I could have been a doctor
And helped ease somebody’s pain
I could have been a congressman
And sold my country down the drain
Be a horticulturist with flowers
From a daisy to a rose
Or a plastic surgeon with pictures
So my patients could pick their nose
I might have chosen to be a weather man
Being wrong most of the time
Or the CEO of a major company
Believing being a thief wasn’t really a crime
If I had to choose a career
I wouldn’t know where to start
So I’ll just be a poet
And stay true to my heart.
Once upon a time ago,
An act of marriage was made so.
Film and sound both intertwined
And made a movie when combined.
At first, colour was not in sight...
Merely greys of black-and-white.
Ceremonies made in silence
Without gratuitous sex or violence.
As time went on, movies evolved
With many contributors involved.
The inclusion of colour and soundtracks
Enhanced what some pictures would lack.
Cameras of stock and sprockets
Would eventually fit into pockets.
Anyone can perform marriage
These days with the correct carriage.
These words are a mere summation
Of imagination and inspiration
That cinema has given me...
Thank you for all I hear and see.
Don’t just raise your glass, stand up to cheers
Until each and every one gets audibly clinked
Repeating Ike-ism’s stretching memories years
Keeps the good ones up front and spirits linked
Not so subtly cheat (just a little) in a crokinole game
Enough to get caught to see who’s watching most
Laugh when he’s busted, “Who me?” He’d exclaim
Get the cookie anyway and make a little toast
But don’t just raise your glass, stand up to cheers
Around the table meeting each glass individually
Sing old songs loud enough so everyone hears
Then head to the garage to smoke an O.P.
Overpaying the grandkids to repaint the fence
Who wasted the paint on each other running amok
A sense of good humour even at an expense
So off for more, piled into the big orange truck
Fixing cars for the cost of parts and a chat
For family and friends over sprockets and gears
Here’s to the happy man with Ike on his hat
So don’t just raise your glass, stand up to cheers!
A bicycle is freedom
It's not just wheels and gears
It's more than bottom brackets
It's more than front and rear
It's freewheeling down steep hills
No pedals, feet up high
It's becoming young all over again
With hedges zooming by
It's finding winding tracks and lanes
It's getting muddy, wet
It's getting caught out in the rain
A love you dont forget
misjudging potholes in the road
And landing on the side
It's grazing knees and bruises
An exhilarating ride
It's falling in the Bracken
It's walking flat tyres home
It's fresh air and a peace
It's together or alone
Im back to being 12 yrs old
Exploring places yet unseen
It's going out for hours
To where I have not been
So look beyond the handlebars
The sprockets and the chains
This is perfect freedom
Will make you smile again
So free the bike now from the shed
Clean rust from off the frame
Set it free from cobwebs
You'll never be the same
He records the works of his life, the ephemera
he once scrawled onto the tissue thin,
thinking them indelible blueprints.
Most were fables told to a dying legend,
Pastimes, that were chariot wheels
for his little red wagon.
He is an inventor of sorts, an engineer
of impossibilities.
He accumulates metallurgical oddments
for mechanical artifacts
that have no purpose or point;
contrivances with strange gears.
attachments that bolt on to
only missing parts.
They are pieces of an assemblage
made to represent an unknowable idea.
He structures these devises
on the leeched rims of endless visions.
His minds darkened workshops
flicker with the light of kerosene lamps.
He needs shadows and the gleam of
yet undreamed dreams,
he needs gaslight eyes
while shaping the formless.
Nuts, bolts, levers, and steam driven
small brass sprockets
for the calibration of improbable elements
are his articles of faith.
A life he once constructed
falls apart little by little.
He now searches for stronger,
less breakable mechanisms
to put together, no matter that they
serve no purpose, other than
to girder and frame
featherweight straws in the wind.