Short Clattering Poems
Short Clattering Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Clattering by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Clattering by length and keyword.
History’s horse-hooves are clattering by,
Cobblestones ring with sound,
Dinning our frightened ears
Over the future’s ground,
Signaling coming years.
But hooves trample you and me.
Damned history.
empty beer cans
clattering drunkenly
down a sober, empty alley...
well within the full circle
of a sedate neon halo
'neath a full, groggy moon.
Screaming whistle
. Start!
Puck drops.
Clattering sticks,
splintering on ice
Crowd roars
Skates scrape,
Sweat stinks
Ice sprays,
Blood splatters,
Player down!
Ear splitting whistle
. Stop!
a different kind of vignette
Form:
Standing on the bus
holding onto the top rails above the chosen seated
I heard myself suggest a dare
Let you hand slip
Clattering head as it falls
but apologise blaming your sleeping hand
Fifth time this week
Totally addicted
let the laughs roll
The empty train stations,
The flood lights far away,
disco lights flickering,
the whisky glasses clattering,
among the laughters,
my hidden sorrow,
in many stories
came to mind,
floods in tears,
were lost in the wind.
The words of a fool
or the words of a drunk.
2 on PowerBall.
1 on Lotto.
Can I get my check?
*clattering of a drawer set down*
I would like to pay my utility here.
Signs up yet?
*beep* "beep* *boop boop*
and all the little things
they say to me go on
and on
and on. Till I am done, and
what is left me dried
out.
layers of a personality
apple cheeked marionettes
acting evil and good
soothing smooth smiles
and blood curdling stares
sometimes the arms drop off
with clattering noise
clothing will tear
or succumb to linen rot
but heroes and villains shine only at night
so ordinary in the light
No title
The sun rises and sets
The soul and body play game
I perceive, though.
For no meaning I skip a pebble across the river.
Without any goal
I cast a line fishing in the pond.
With no reason
I kick off empty cans clattering.
Please, don't inquire where I am
In a dense fog.
Stones bashing against my glass barrier
Clattering all night through
I just want to sleep as much as I weep
What am I s'pposed to do?
Stones bashing against my glass barrier
You say that you're glad as can be
I just wish some day, they'll be better for you
I just wish your blind eyes could se
No title
Robert Chung
The sun to rise and set,
The soul and body to play game
I perceive, though.
For no meaning
I skip a pebble across the river.
Without any goal
I cast a line fishing in the stream.
With no reason
I kick off empty cans clattering.
Don't say
Where I am in a dense fog.
Sparkly, dazzling dresses
Lovely made up faces
Tinsel in hair
Glitter to spare
Moments of glee
Captured in a selfie
Waiters bustling
Calling out orders
Over everyone chattering
Glasses clinking
Plates clattering
Cutlery clanging
As familiar songs play
Last christmas seems yesterday
Memories rush to mind
Of Christmases long ago
Crippled by the gun
Reminders of life being done
In a team
Movement to the scream
Inferno of insanity
Never ending results of vanity
Aluminum scraps all of the scene
Lighting glows in a sheen
Mental breakdowns
Internal empty rounds clattering upon the floor
Napalm dressed corpes
Drowned bodies twisted and warps
Sovling crime is what me do.
Angry and thundering skies,
Free random moving charges collide,
The magic of electricity,
Material medium is not needed,
Nature propels collision as charges,
jump from one level to another,
Dark dense moving clouds accompany this,
There is a boisterous flow of wind,
Clattering and clinging sounds can be heard,
Water flows from the fountain above.
March 8, 2022.
Hammers of hate beat the steel
Into a helmet and blade.
Blacksmiths and armorers feel
Proud of the death-bound brigade.
Marching past crowds on the curb,
Clattering heels on the stones.
Later, the crows will disturb
Flesh as it ripens on bones.
Preachers and Popes prate of peace,
Powerless to change history:
Powder, and guns wrapped in grease
Auger what always will be.
I know if this country of ours is tiger
sometimes would go hunting
and sometimes may be hunted upon
now, how do we know whether tis prey or predator?,
which cry is prey and which one is predator?,
do we call such notion revolution or sigh or development
or growth.
Which at the moment is like clattering?, metering?,
nary-freding or waking?, eh?.
Shadows dancing about,
encircling around wrists
changing into snakes
and then it rains blood.
Constricting coils of rope,
a clattering of bones.
Laughter surrounding,
legs run but everything
is slowed down.
Screams are silently
stolen from lips.
Falling down into
a pool of fire.
Eyes close in horror,
open again....safe.
Alive.
Awake, in the real world.
Karlin K. Jensen, November 21, 2012
I.
Ghost-wagons roll in the ruts,
Creaking and clattering on,
Passing the villagers’ huts,
Peasants relieved, once they’re gone.
Spirits ten centuries old,
Ghosts of barbarian tribes--
Tribes whose maraudings are told
Shudderingly by old scribes.
II.
Ghost wagons leave with no trace.
Oh, but where is your child?
There he is! But look at his face!
Savage-eyed. Daemonic. Wild.
Spooks were making love their bones were clattering
Fresh in after death sex they were a prattling
They missed the first session
How to spook the passion
And slipped to their graves skulls down saber rattling
Spooks were making love© Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty 14 November 2014
Crow lines wrinkle the sky.
Bare trees pole dance with a naked wind.
A clattering rain washes winter's watery eye's.
A man walks with himself.
His great coat belted tight,
a frozen bonnet of thorns
upon his chilled head.
Only the empty graves of yesteryears
can see him.
Only tombs and crypts
may greet him.
Only the long lost, long forgot
may follow,
as they walk within themselves
one step behind.
Rutted twittens, ivy shadowed
flecked with fuchsia blooms
as spring nods gaily
to wake dozy summer
and clattering of feet
on the sparse cobbles
that meander in quaintness
toward sprawling flea markets
where bustle and laughter
of children, echo, larkish
amid the ruddy traders
who grin and joke
behind their wobbly trestles
draped in gingham cloth
that sport a shambles
of vibrant, ancient treasures.
April rain comes hastily,
unexpectedly, like the fleeing rogues of
flaming, crackling farms, clattering on the
roofs of waylaid shelters on
the roads of banishment —
uncompromised,
singing light songs from a
heavy-storming sky band, grey and grieving.
Follow in the footsteps of April rain —
so light, so infrequent, and cautious,
though it rains down thin spikes of
frazzled water, young and ravenous,
for the initiation of roaming soils.
Unmistakable, that sound
Hooves clattering on the arched
Wooden bridge
In pursuit
Keenly aware of the thumping
Of my own heart
As the woods on the other
Side of this ancient traverse
Offered escape
Pine needles and moss underfoot
I weaved my way under mountains
And over rushing rivers to a shelter
I’ve visited before
A cool drink of mountain creek water
A stone’s throw away
A stone’s throw
Away
12/4//12
The earth trembled that day,
The clattering sounds fused
With crying sounds
Could be heard from miles away,
The fear etched on the faces of many
The screams of pain resounding
While they scramble to safety
Tramping each other in the process
It is impossible to escape
Without being traumatized
Left with visible and invisible scars
Those lucky enough to be alive
Relay tales of horror
With loved ones missing
And many still ensnared beneath buildings and debris…
The plumbing here is atrocious
With clattering so ferocious
It spits and splats, like angry cats
And can also; be quite precocious
Just a tiddle, as with its handle i fiddle
Gazing into its innards, only a dribble!
I peer so intent, on my knees in a dent!
As concrete makes; pain so complete.
Wow, I lurch without perch and numb feet
In I draw breath, then rattle smash bash
A torrent’s comes flash' a watery lash!
In sodden clothes, I must beat a retreat.
©Joe Maverick 20-11-2022