Short Clanks Poems

The thought of loss is loud
It bangs, clanks, hisses and rattles
Inside of your head all day
Your brain starts to crash
And you start to cry
Your heart starts to crack 
And it's hard to restart....

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It must have dazzled Free Will
To be jousting with Fate.
Clanks there no discordant
But armour intimate.

Dark, or roseate-crested, one of
Either the former's knights.
Sent out its castle wall, beyond
For the latter's world-fights....

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Clanks,

blanks,

cranks,

clash!

Slams in tank,

detours irate!

Ingenious infiltrates,

sojourns knocking,

indignation on the plank,

plutocracy dank!

Dotards are prate,

iridescence is just as late-

prime meridian,

songs obsidian,

and the incandescence great!...

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Stepping outside
The cold bites my nose
Eats my toes
Ices my cheeks
Frosts my feet
Turns blue my knee's
It's -8 degrees!
The cold nibbles my ears
Freezes my fears
Clanks my teeth
Oh good grief!
Catches my eyes
Takes me by surprise
It's so cold
It gets to my soul
Racks my brain
Rids of the pain
All in stepping outside...

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Swirling, treacherous turmoil 
Expands and contracts below.
Metal clanks and cars screech.
Bare hillsides stretch the landscape.


Red strands twist and turn,
Weaving and stretching,
Border to border,
Suspending life 


Heels balance, 
Hard on concrete
Toes hang,
Reckless in the wind


3…
2…
1…


Golden-Red
Turquoise-Green
Black...

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Breakfast


Clinks... clanks... a crash... a clatter
Pots... pans... and plates... a platter
Smells... sounds... people... and voices
Stools... chairs... tables... and choices
Ching... ding... a door... and a breeze
"Mornin'!"..."Take your order, please?"


©Deborah burch
2005/12/06/2016 (repost)

For Brian Strand's #245  how it reads aloud CONTEST...

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Steam from fresh ground coffee
Mixes with smoke from cigarettes.
Syrup mixes with butter.
Eggs mix with toast.
Clinks of forks on plates
Mix with clanks of spatulas on the grill.
Last minute bar stragglers
Mix with early morning risers.
Morning crew coming in
Mixes with night crew getting off.
It's shift change at the diner.
Time for me to mix with my bed....

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The city moves and laughs and sings
Of lurid lights and fancy things 
Of static electricity 
And many opportunities 

The acid clouds are dismal gray 
Leave not a single trace of day 
Wind withers and regains its speed
A buried, lonely poplar seed 

But while the city screams and clanks 
And people march in suited ranks 
A little light the clouds do show
Wait now, the seed begins to grow...

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The censer clanks
the smoke rises.
An attempt is made
to hypnotize.
It wafts across
the naive
The priest like
a magician has
a trick he uses
to deceive.
The incense odor,
causes a spiritual
trip.
Chanting in Latin,
locks his grip.
Affecting only  
those who are on 
 a guilt trip.
A stronger odor 
fouls the air.
Stench from children gropers, 
that the vestment clad
denier shares....

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Our world is concrete
But it's unstable

Life is short
But the hour is long

The weeds are deadly
But seem like grass

They shuffle by and wonder
But they don't care

A sweet bird's song is
Interrupted by clanks

Machines wisp by
In a rush

The sound of a siren
Stabs through the air

Whatever happened to
Playing with our shadows?

What have i realized
In this quick fifteen?

We've all abandoned
Life's great value

And the world is vain....

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With a SPLASH of color 
a chance for cooler weather 
falls BUZZ is heard 
the CHATTER of talking leaves 
DROP to the ground 
a CRUNCH under foot 
broken into a MUMBLE
barely heard 
trees become naked 
and CLAP with a wind 
summer's heat HICCUPS into fall 
begging for a DROP of rain that never comes 
the CLATTER of mini blinds 
BANG against scuffed kissed windows 
as the floor fan CLANKS with broken blade
leaving fall to settle the score 
with summer's heat...

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Goodnight, my whistle whispers
 muffled by squeals and clanks, 
the freights' heavy weight cradles the breath I take. 
Exhales through chilled wind churn coldness steel, 
solidifies my being real, 
through every jolt shakes every bolt, a thrash, clash, pulsing bit,
 steal me up a comfort ladder, with dirt upon its' grip. 
As southern evening falls, does burning spark of metal wheels in the dark,
 miles before the port breaks clear
 before I hop off to see you near....

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