Short Clacking Poems
Short Clacking Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Clacking by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Clacking by length and keyword.
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clacking keys echo
through eras, ink stains shifting~
a misplaced comma
The world around us is cracking.
I hear the bones of men clacking,
Anxious to start the march onward.
There'll be no olive branch nor word.
Morning, a grey smudge.
Blurred senses stirring slowly.
Holding your brown case,
You creep down the creaking stairs,
Lift the clacking latch, then leave.
I am of a bronze age.
My family all had mo-hawks.
We spoke by clacking our knees together,
singing hymns over glass canyons.
With lavender wine at our lips,
You taught me language,
And I became a star, floating
Through all possibilities.
train whistle
cawing hen
rumbling wind
tingly chimes
rooster crows
clacking loose tin sign
whining screen door
gentle sounds
soothing my heart
relishing my country roots
bird trills seconds my feelings
gentle encore, buzz of bumblebee
Like a knitted farm blanket,
September's sun covers us.
Rolled up yarnballs are
haybales stacked and stored.
Click-clacking needles echo
horses' hooves, hurried hush.
Summer unravels like a glitch
in the pattern, only to become
a loop in the autumn purl.
In
just-spring
this year,
the world was not
mud-luscious nor
puddle-wonderful,
but dry,
the stark trees
bare and clacking in the wind
above the brown lawns
and fissured earth,
the land trod
by old men in cracked leather boots,
coughing hoarse whispers under leaden skies,
One man.
Treading the streets of his city,
large black overcoat blending into the night,
pipe bowl softly glowing red against the dark,
cane sharply clacking aginst the cobbles.
Suddenly an owl sweeps by,
white wings flashing softly,
quietly hooting.
One man,
one street,
one bird,
one night.
A silver green beetle in the palm of your hand
click clacking click clacking
it's credulous wings
to the metal bent rhythm of flying
A string of invisible gravity spinning
impossibly lifts him right into the blue
We stand there and marvel alone in his echoes
and tap out a rhythm of feet on the move...
fourteen hundred children woke up and died
the squatting crows watched and waited
soon the many feet stopped stamping
stopped running
a cold clacking caw went up
black wings flew then hopped
amongst the burnt and disfigured
the guns stopped spitting
women came and went
their screams scattered the crows
Moving on doesn’t make the past disappear,
One trigger goes off and the skeletons reappear.
Shaking and clacking its bones distracting my daily life.
Breathing on my neck grabbing my attention,
Sucked in an undertow with no way to escape its hold.
An ocean of memories and emotions arise to a resurrection.
The horses are a galloping today
Their hooves clacking against the cobblestones.
They clomp right by in a most lovely way.
Woman in carriage giving tiny moans.
Cancer prevails in her smallish bones.
Eighteen sixty-two. Disease has no name.
Big C makes it impossible to hide.
This poor woman will never be the same.
~ Ia~
A bouquet of flowers. Clacking computer keys.
The appetite for knowledge. A moment in time
where time stops. That old jersey and a thousand
memories. A golden watch and the blue within.
Something of a story tied to little pieces from the
past. The moving forward. The stars, moon,
and earth just waiting to be conquered.
Cecila, a calico stitch witch did a dance by the glow of the moon
ruffles flying out in the weird shape of a boastful baby baboon
Her boots are a clicking, a smacking, a clacking as she does the dance
Bringing Halloween ambiance to us, as she does in France
So. you have met Cecila, a pumpkin head guy says to me
When she finishes, tell her, she is invited to tea
Frances exits the bistro.
Her napkin falling
onto the tablecloth,
it flutters down in slow motion;
a snow-goose onto a red desert.
‘Not a good way to break-up Frances,
not cool’.
On the pavement, high-heels clacking.
Frances running,
the backs of her heels bleed,
tendons bolting her onward.
On hind legs
a restaurant chair tries to follow.
A thunderclap
as the napkin lands.
Tense and clacking.
Beautiful scenery.
Ominous yet bright sky.
I don’t brace myself this time.
That just makes my breath hurt more.
I can just…
Pretend to fly.
I can be dizzy and joyful.
Spinning and whirling is just a part of nature.
It will be over someday.
I’ll be dizzy and bubbly,
And chatting and clicking my teeth.
Roller coasters are weird.
And so am I.
Why do you
Put me through this
This death of yours?
Why can’t I dance
And play
And eat
My God
Or sleep
And forget.
The sky is the same
The blue
The air full
The clacking of a train
The seagulls in a dumpster
The noises of cheerful people
Pretending they are alive
Alive
While I sit next
To the container of your ashes
Driving to our spot
To throw you away
in the grey waves.
A red raw gape, a crater of hunger,
the clacking tongue
a buckram spear shaken at all comers.
The gulls mouth is the gull,
its avian body
only a winged engine for that open maw,
a perfect bow for that arrowing beak
with its raucous bugle.
A gullet for a perfected greed;
a throat that yawns wide enough
for any a scavengers scream,
a call allied to the pitiless winds,
and thrashing seas.
"By law shall the land be built"
A wish geology and Picts ignored
Where salt froth
And fog
Become
An insinuation—mostly rocks.
Inverted white dull houses
And people:
Eyes fixed inward
And out
To sea
Like sorrowful gulls
Timing tides.
Afraid of mainland strangers
And color
They mangle hellos
And stress goodbyes.
They say
They’re Viking folk.
Make clacking noises
Like crabs.
Wailing winds, crying in the empty night;
tripping leaves rattle across, walls and roads;
click-clacking out a lullaby.
Soon, squirrels will be rocked into a
hibernating dreamtime;
their nests swaying in high treetops.
As fall unmasks winter,
Mother Earth beds down her creatures;
tucking them in for
the approaching nights.
Wrapped in her white blanket,
she takes her, long-deserved rest.
Wailing winds, crying in the empty night;
tripping leaves rattle across, walls and roads;
click-clacking out a lullaby.
Soon, squirrels will be rocked into a
hibernating dreamtime;
their nests swaying in high treetops.
As fall unmasks winter,
Mother Earth beds down her creatures;
tucking them in for
the approaching nights.
Wrapped in her white blanket,
she takes her, long-deserved rest.
She exits the Chinese Restaurant,
scattering all in her hurry,
her napkin falling,
it flutters down in slow motion;
a snow-goose hovering over a red cloth.
'Not a good way to break-up Frances,
not cool'.
On the pavement, high-heels clacking,
Frances running, her calves straining,
tendons bolting her onward.
On its fore-legs, her toppling chair
seems to want to follow –
a thunderclap
as the napkin lands.
The Manzanita clacks in
gelid breezes
like the clap of clacking bones.
Reddish painted branches
reach their grey, bent shadows
on stone from
hulking, brewing
drifting welkins.
Peeling, crackled, weathered
bark
grasp, grind and intertwine
gnarled fingers as they rasp and clonk.
Silhouetted by the yawning flame
dipping low,
dances the macabre branches,
on a stage glacial white with
winter snow.
Long nights
transcribe me into a clacking music.
Harpsichord bones and broken keys,
nailed to an out of time tune.
A somnambulant self-winding
pipe-organ, whistles
as it pushes moments around
as if time could be saved
for later use.
A mind-locked keyboard
is stuck in the middle
of a revolving thought.
I lay down in the back row
of a horn belching bedlam;
wave weary hands at the ceiling
conducting curse words
in the dark.
My spotted hands remind me of a zebra’s fingers
Makes sense to no one except myself.
Instead of a piano, we play a keyboard.
Clicking and clacking.
One letter at a time comes clicking out.
N click, I click, G click, H click, T click.
Do I consciously think of the letters or do I think words?
My fingers take a word and click it out, without thinking.
It is automatic, like breathing.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Thank you spotted hands!