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Nidhi Panandikar Jan 2018
Ticktock sings the clock and
a rhythm follows through,
Slippery slop my sad tear drop,
awaits the morning blues.

Ticktock the seconds pass,
but time for once stays still,
a moments worth wrapped in a lifetime,
a chase to chase without thrill.

Ticktock I wait for you and,
subtly ***** my self,
for a life without you sounds sad but true,
cant extend a hand for help.

Ticktock a final goodbye,
good wishes and good wills we share,
tears of sorrow, no hope for tomorrow,
one last time i bow down for a prayer.
Gigi Tiji Oct 2014
Clicketyclick —

sickly screens,
shooting
sixty
picture-frames
per second

Tickety ticktock, rapid-fire
photon cannons,
ripping holes
through our
faces

rectangles,
riddled with anxiety ridden
read scripts

the resultant
retinal scarring

Wicketywicked, weary eyes,
dripping with serrated pixels

triple dotted,
typing-awareness indicators
create silly suspenses,
inducing temporal
dramas,
emotional
micro-traumas

every second a slice
through my,
now practically nonexistent,
patience

Am I a server,
or am I a servant?

Eyes, sunken, with
withered skin

I'm waiting for my fix

Ding-ding
Bloop!
Pinggg
Here comes the dopamine! —

—Clicketyclick
Ticktock ticktock
Says the lazy clock.
Kring-kring-kring
Hear the morning sing.
Wake up! Wake up!
No more time for dreaming.
Zzz-zzz-zzz
Bees? Snore?
You're still sleeping.
Beep-beep-beep
It's your boss calling.
Bang! Hurry! It's 8 a.m.
And the world keeps spinning.
Ting! You're late.
Prepare for screaming.
Sarah Wilson  Jan 2010
ticktock.
Sarah Wilson Jan 2010
the lights are dim, the sun is setting
a glass of wine, half-empty
casts a lonely shadow on the wall

a clock is ticking
a solemn reminder
of how time keeps running
even if we think we’re running
out
Christiana Krump  Dec 2015
Class
Christiana Krump Dec 2015
They wait for the bell with baited breath
The voice at the front of the room buzzes about their heads
The nightmare swells as they stare out the windows
Wanting to break the wishbone that will free them again
Ticktock
Ticktock
Ticktock
smallhands  Aug 2014
ticktock
smallhands Aug 2014
The clock's got that wicked angle about it,
and I guessed it-nearing the point of no return
The kind we seek in labyrinthic nights
The numbers and hands dictate, and
I follow without a fight

-cj
Donall Dempsey Oct 2016
“I’M THE GUILDFORD GUILDHALL CLOCK I AM!”

Oh I’ve been knocking out time now since…eh….let’s see 1683

Minutes and decades flow through me
The everlasting skies above me.

I’m iconic I am
dressed in my black and gold.
I ( if I may be so bold )
AM GUILDFORD.

The pride of Surrey.

I watch the High Street
as it runs down to that

young whippersnapper statue
THE SCHOLAR or whatever.

People congregate about the chap
eat sandwiches….listen to a busker

busk opera.
Only in Guildford!

But it’s me they look up to!

And is it time for tea?
Why so it is and. . .
citizens clatter over the cobbles.

I’m the Guildford Guildhall clock I am!

Tip! top!

Ticktock!Ticktock! Tiptop!Tip top!

TIP!!!!!!!!!!

TOP!!!!!!!!!


This poem was commissioned by the BBC for National Poetry Day on the 6th of Oct. It will be broadcast tomorrow.

To be said in a pompous good old chap voice….proud of what he is and what he’s done. Rather like a gone to see old fashioned sergeant major. No time for these young statues who have hardly done any time at all. He’s aware of his iconic status and intends to go on doling out time to us humans. But as it always chimes: “Humans come and humans go but I go…on for ever!”

In the late 17th century, a clock maker by the name of  one John Aylward came to Guildford. Aylward intended to set up his business within the centre of Guildford, but was time and time again refused by The Guild Merchants.

But he didn’t give up. Oh no not he.
John set up his shop just outside of Guildford and then set about working on a glorious looking clock now commonly known as “Guildhall clock”

After offering the clock to the merchants, they displayed in over the High Street and made John Ayward a member of The Guild Merchants, allowing him to set up his business in the centre of town. So his ‘gift” to the merchants became the great gift to the future citizens.

For performance on stage there is/can be a little intro….offstage.

‘OK YOUSE SECONDS….FALL IN IN MINUTES AND FORM HOURS. CMON C’MON WE HAVE A POEM TO DO! BY THE RIGHT….QUICK…WAIT FOR IT…WAIT FOR IT….MARCH! LEFTRIGHTLEFTRIGHLEFTTICKTOCKTICKTOCK…TICK….SQUAD HALT!

TICK TOCKITY TOCK TICK!

MY GAWD…ONE AFTER THE OTHER YOUSE ARE WORSE THAN BROWN’S COWS. OK SQUAD…AT EASE!

PRETEND A PERSON IN THE AUDIENCE HAS ASKED THE QUESTION” WHO ARE YOU?”

AND THEN OF COURSE WE ENTER THE POEM PROPER.

Here be a little bio...just to show I'm logical! Dónall Dempsey was born in the Curragh in Ireland and was Ireland’s first Poet in Residence in a secondary school. He has appeared on Irish television and radio and has read and performed all over England, in Scotland, India, Ireland and France. He now lives in Guildford, Surrey where he hosts a regular poetry performance night. Dónall’s poems have been published in numerous journals and anthologies and he has published three collections of poems, “Sifting Sound into Shape”, “The Smell of Purple” and “Being Dragged Across the Carpet By the Cat”.
Donall Dempsey Mar 2019
GRANDFATHER CLOCK

"When granda died
he turned into a clock!"

I was 7 or so, so this seemed
an acceptable fact.

"Oh we still kept him in the corner
wound him up every night."

I glanced at the nothing in the corner.
There was only a slab of sunlight dozing.

"Oh we had to pawn him
a long time ago!"

I gasped: "Noooo!"

"Oh he had to go
he had only one hand

and his pendulum
was broken."

Sam the dog barks
asks if I am coming out to play.

I of course am
coming out to play.

Auntie Nellie scolds
Uncle Michael.

"For God's sake Mikey
will ya ****** well stop!"

Mikey sticks his tongue in cheek
a characteristic tic.

"Can't ya see the poor child is
ejeet enough to believe ya!"

Whenever later I chance to meet
a clock that could be my granda

I touch its face tenderly
stroke the mottled glass

"Ahhh Granda!" I smile
giving him a great big hug.

"TickTock!" says granda
"**** ****!"
My da's da died before I was born so I never knew him...only shards of stories...fragments of who he might have been. I used to walk around the farm imagining him doing the exact same back in the day of say 1922.  When I was as small as stupid and as impressionable as hell my uncle would answer a normal question about my granda with a tall tale such as this. He'd tell me the most surreal things with a straight poker face and I love him so much I believed anything and everything he'd make up. If my father gave me his love of poetry...it was Uncle Mikey who made me one with all his glorious making up! Nellie used to scold him about this but it didn't stop him as the words coming out of his mouth grew into an enchanted entangled forest. He was the treasure trove of my childhood and I was rich beyond my wildest dreams.
Traveler Jul 2017
Behind the clocks
Ticktock, ticktock
An immortal
Spirit dwells
No flesh that sags
Nor slowly rots
No meat on
His bones
To tell
Temporal
Disturbance
Fatigue sets in
As we scrape
The bottom of mind
Post it on your page
And now you're all in
Cursed to be
One of his kind
....
Traveler Tim
Pylyp  Nov 2019
Ticktock
Pylyp Nov 2019
Moving ever forward
Forever looking back

It only costs
A piece of me

Each time
Each moment
Turns to black

— The End —