"clackety" poems - Hello Poetry

we did what we could that night and a supernal being is ashamed. this is the drift of thought in the vast ocean of gilded gold frothing at the edge of rotund: giving back a silenced enigma, spewing the answer in an exhaust of white rancid smoke dharma burns plastered to cigarette. burning and burning, afloat are the high-pouncing embers looking for fleeting shades and dagger-ambulations of a shadow's swagger in tectonic soiree. we did what we could that night. like a flash of lightning at the back of hoarded hills, or say, something brutal and brash with modern sensibilities we never jell — we come not with softness or life peering out of our eyes like little girls serenaded by mad men in the eve of forlorn nights. we did what we could and some god cringes, winces away like the erratic dance of candleflame. the leviathan black spreads its parasol and we are no strangers. when our veraciousness starts to pierce the veil, the populace should start to worry of their trapped conditions. we came here for something: be it flesh, be it wisdom, be it plain inebriations — we will never flinch at the squalor of tomorrow's sobering. keep in mind, kaibigan. it's all levitation and transcendence. the darkness wept as the car groans near the end of its immaterial life. i flick the last cigarette into the grey-faced pavement. all oceans drowned, all shadows burgeoned, all fires emerged plump, this silent radio rivers through the wave of this ephemerality, the onomatopoeia of strangeness, the thud of the senseless head of metal on the body the clackety-clack of hours thereafter! ayeayeaye! the streets sing no mild appendage. the solstice is lost in the length and precision of all things. bringing ourselves to the brink of absence, our pallid selves set ablaze, emblazoning the quick life of matchflame or rumble of thunder — the steady phoenix of that night! this is learning to breathe again, o, what currents purloined in vicious swarth as we keep this river flowing into our throats, jamming our souls to compelling music. remember kaibigan, it's all levitation and transcendence.

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Oct 28, 2015

Oct 28, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC

windsor-i-guadalupe-jr

Levitations

we did what we could that night and a supernal being is ashamed. this is the drift of thought in the vast ocean of gilded gold frothing at the edge of rotund: giving back a silenced enigma, spewing the answer in an exhaust of white rancid smoke dharma burns plastered to cigarette. burning and burning, afloat are the high-pouncing embers looking for fleeting shades and dagger-ambulations of a shadow's swagger in tectonic soiree. we did what we could that night. like a flash of lightning at the back of hoarded hills, or say, something brutal and brash with modern sensibilities we never jell — we come not with softness or life peering out of our eyes like little girls serenaded by mad men in the eve of forlorn nights. we did what we could and some god cringes, winces away like the erratic dance of candleflame. the leviathan black spreads its parasol and we are no strangers. when our veraciousness starts to pierce the veil, the populace should start to worry of their trapped conditions. we came here for something: be it flesh, be it wisdom, be it plain inebriations — we will never flinch at the squalor of tomorrow's sobering. keep in mind, kaibigan. it's all levitation and transcendence. the darkness wept as the car groans near the end of its immaterial life. i flick the last cigarette into the grey-faced pavement. all oceans drowned, all shadows burgeoned, all fires emerged plump, this silent radio rivers through the wave of this ephemerality, the onomatopoeia of strangeness, the thud of the senseless head of metal on the body the clackety-clack of hours thereafter! ayeayeaye! the streets sing no mild appendage. the solstice is lost in the length and precision of all things. bringing ourselves to the brink of absence, our pallid selves set ablaze, emblazoning the quick life of matchflame or rumble of thunder — the steady phoenix of that night! this is learning to breathe again, o, what currents purloined in vicious swarth as we keep this river flowing into our throats, jamming our souls to compelling music. remember kaibigan, it's all levitation and transcendence.

59

The clickety clackety of my mother's bureau always started school mornings. My rumpled clothes lay in a heap by my feet. Sweet lemon-water perfume stings my nostrils, and piercing sunlight winks through the shades. Good morning, morning, sing me a song about dew-kissed lilies, brewing coffee, a jogger's labored breathing, and a sparrow's jittery chirp.

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Jun 9, 2010

Jun 9, 2010 at 12:23 PM UTC

alex-diaz

School Mornings

The clickety clackety of my mother's bureau always started school mornings. My rumpled clothes lay in a heap by my feet. Sweet lemon-water perfume stings my nostrils, and piercing sunlight winks through the shades. Good morning, morning, sing me a song about dew-kissed lilies, brewing coffee, a jogger's labored breathing, and a sparrow's jittery chirp.

15

burning pages. epiphanies procured through the pages of a book. let's burn the already ones read. i doubt the meaning of life is within the confines of the downed pink capsules. the hollow shell of a human form. i keep validating it. chemical communication has every place here. the warm. hands clickity clackety against the keys. because they are home. furiously scribbling is the one organic anecdote. throwing a verse down is much preferred to THROWING DOWN. which is what human nature gives on the tendency to fantasize about. let's not quabble over semantics here. (and let's not mention fantasy). i'll check for justification in the mirror image of my face in the bottom of the carrot-stick bag. no such luck, the soul ain't there either. WANT TO VERBALLY SPAR, BABY? i don't think you, nor i have the ability. (actually i do, it's more your well-being i'm concerned about) erstwhile you sit and wait for the first attack, you should think into purchasing some pantene. 2.99 at walgreene's. i've forgotten what i've started for. so let's not quabble over semantics here. the death of white roses are never wept over. it's expected. (maybe a vase in the corner is quite befitting of the lovely token of hopelessness) it's like a catch-22, it's like fighting a losing battle.it's winning something like a full paid scholarship to plumber school, or finding out your best friend is a **** on christmas mourning. merry christmas. one should be cautious in stealing public property. the owner hadn't left it out for the recycling. you should have read the label. and you: i'm done.

0

Mar 14, 2011

Mar 14, 2011 at 7:16 PM UTC

meggan-emily

4.2.2006(or, drunk in high school)

burning pages. epiphanies procured through the pages of a book. let's burn the already ones read. i doubt the meaning of life is within the confines of the downed pink capsules. the hollow shell of a human form. i keep validating it. chemical communication has every place here. the warm. hands clickity clackety against the keys. because they are home. furiously scribbling is the one organic anecdote. throwing a verse down is much preferred to THROWING DOWN. which is what human nature gives on the tendency to fantasize about. let's not quabble over semantics here. (and let's not mention fantasy). i'll check for justification in the mirror image of my face in the bottom of the carrot-stick bag. no such luck, the soul ain't there either. WANT TO VERBALLY SPAR, BABY? i don't think you, nor i have the ability. (actually i do, it's more your well-being i'm concerned about) erstwhile you sit and wait for the first attack, you should think into purchasing some pantene. 2.99 at walgreene's. i've forgotten what i've started for. so let's not quabble over semantics here. the death of white roses are never wept over. it's expected. (maybe a vase in the corner is quite befitting of the lovely token of hopelessness) it's like a catch-22, it's like fighting a losing battle.it's winning something like a full paid scholarship to plumber school, or finding out your best friend is a **** on christmas mourning. merry christmas. one should be cautious in stealing public property. the owner hadn't left it out for the recycling. you should have read the label. and you: i'm done.

24

*Riding backwards on a train Leaning my head into the window Seeing my own reflection – Clackity Clack – Clickity Clackity Clickety Clack, Don’t talk back, Clackity Clack. What I see in the passing frames Bridges, houses, brown fields And rough terrains. Clackity Clack, Clickity Clack Don’t talk back, Clackity Clickety Clack. There goes an old barn beside an Azores tree There goes an Azores tree beside an old barn My God there goes another one – that’s three Clackity Clack, Clackity Clack, Clickity, Clickity Don’t talk back, Clickity Clack. Telephone poles all passing as one Streets and warehouses, street signs And red lights – green and now a nun Clackity Clack, Clackity Clack Don’t talk back, Clackity Clickity Clack. Into the tunnel we clamber and scramble Concrete walls all painted with daises So close to the glass we go into this gamble. Clackity Clack, Clickity Clack, Clackety Clickety Are we coming back, Clackity Clack. Deep under the bay we travel As loud and deep as the devil. All held back by nothing but gravel. Clackity Clack, Clickity Clack Please don’t crack, Clackity Clack When all at once into the terminal we fly We made it – me – myself and I Slowing to almost a crawl - good-bye! Clackity, Clackity, Clackity Clack Next time I’ll check my Zodiac.*

0

Jun 1, 2017

Jun 1, 2017 at 11:55 AM UTC

willy-shakysphere

BART - n - San Francisco

*Riding backwards on a train Leaning my head into the window Seeing my own reflection – Clackity Clack – Clickity Clackity Clickety Clack, Don’t talk back, Clackity Clack. What I see in the passing frames Bridges, houses, brown fields And rough terrains. Clackity Clack, Clickity Clack Don’t talk back, Clackity Clickety Clack. There goes an old barn beside an Azores tree There goes an Azores tree beside an old barn My God there goes another one – that’s three Clackity Clack, Clackity Clack, Clickity, Clickity Don’t talk back, Clickity Clack. Telephone poles all passing as one Streets and warehouses, street signs And red lights – green and now a nun Clackity Clack, Clackity Clack Don’t talk back, Clackity Clickity Clack. Into the tunnel we clamber and scramble Concrete walls all painted with daises So close to the glass we go into this gamble. Clackity Clack, Clickity Clack, Clackety Clickety Are we coming back, Clackity Clack. Deep under the bay we travel As loud and deep as the devil. All held back by nothing but gravel. Clackity Clack, Clickity Clack Please don’t crack, Clackity Clack When all at once into the terminal we fly We made it – me – myself and I Slowing to almost a crawl - good-bye! Clackity, Clackity, Clackity Clack Next time I’ll check my Zodiac.*

35

remember when you ****** the marrow out of my bones slurp and down in your belly and how angry empty it was and how you tried to fill them back up with words like cottonballs and how hollow they were and how hollow were my bones and how our sounds had changed from warm and slick slippery ******* when we parted to dull clackety skeletons accidentally bouncing off each other: dry tock-tock-tocks and echoes and now my marrow’s all grown back and rosy is my colour again and if i jump your bones now maybe it will sound softer and squashier maybe we can be moist again maybe we can be apart but not lacking warmth and maybe we can be parted but not lacking warmth

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Jun 22, 2010

Jun 22, 2010 at 12:58 PM UTC

restivo

bone marrow

remember when you ****** the marrow out of my bones slurp and down in your belly and how angry empty it was and how you tried to fill them back up with words like cottonballs and how hollow they were and how hollow were my bones and how our sounds had changed from warm and slick slippery ******* when we parted to dull clackety skeletons accidentally bouncing off each other: dry tock-tock-tocks and echoes and now my marrow’s all grown back and rosy is my colour again and if i jump your bones now maybe it will sound softer and squashier maybe we can be moist again maybe we can be apart but not lacking warmth and maybe we can be parted but not lacking warmth

18

rickety rackety hickory sticks 10 bundled for the burning 6 finicky syncope, verse that predicts 10 a pleasure twice returning. 7 clickety clackety silver-wrought tongues 10 kittens and cats in cahoots 7

0

Feb 15, 2013

Feb 15, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC

j-carroll

for burning verse 1

rickety rackety hickory sticks 10 bundled for the burning 6 finicky syncope, verse that predicts 10 a pleasure twice returning. 7 clickety clackety silver-wrought tongues 10 kittens and cats in cahoots 7

6

my grandparents lived on the side of a mountain to the west a coast and in-between a railroad track in the mornings, I would lay stationed in my grandfather war cot it is soaked the tears and blood he shed for this country I was too young to understand this I am only waiting for the train my dog barks and growls at the rattling picture frames of the locomotives clackety warble I crept upstairs to find my grandparents having coffee my grandmother a white plump cigarette my grandfather a gentle grey bear a toy carousel waiting for me I sat under a dim table lamp moving the carousel around with my fingers watching the horses twirl and my dizzy boyish gaze sparkle at the wonder of my grandparents who finally want me around who finally asked me to sit with them as they have their quiet morning I was not always so quiet when my brother was awake we would throw rocks and sneak into my grandfather shop to peek at his gun collection he did not like this my grandmother never had the patients for rambunctious adolescent men waking the dead with the television and screeching for us to play outside I never knew my grandmothers love or never felt it unwelcome on her stage always playing the role of nuisance not until this morning this significantly raw occasion just maybe I wasn't such a burden but after that morning when night swiftly moves in and tired eyes feel like old college roommates I still wait for the melody of trains I still creep upstairs to find my grandparents drinking coffee and they tell me to go back to sleep

0

Apr 14, 2016

Apr 14, 2016 at 6:29 AM UTC

tyler-j-perrin

Sleepless Florence Morning

my grandparents lived on the side of a mountain to the west a coast and in-between a railroad track in the mornings, I would lay stationed in my grandfather war cot it is soaked the tears and blood he shed for this country I was too young to understand this I am only waiting for the train my dog barks and growls at the rattling picture frames of the locomotives clackety warble I crept upstairs to find my grandparents having coffee my grandmother a white plump cigarette my grandfather a gentle grey bear a toy carousel waiting for me I sat under a dim table lamp moving the carousel around with my fingers watching the horses twirl and my dizzy boyish gaze sparkle at the wonder of my grandparents who finally want me around who finally asked me to sit with them as they have their quiet morning I was not always so quiet when my brother was awake we would throw rocks and sneak into my grandfather shop to peek at his gun collection he did not like this my grandmother never had the patients for rambunctious adolescent men waking the dead with the television and screeching for us to play outside I never knew my grandmothers love or never felt it unwelcome on her stage always playing the role of nuisance not until this morning this significantly raw occasion just maybe I wasn't such a burden but after that morning when night swiftly moves in and tired eyes feel like old college roommates I still wait for the melody of trains I still creep upstairs to find my grandparents drinking coffee and they tell me to go back to sleep

38

milk hair, milk clothes a world painted in thick hues of the very same cream the whirr of a printing press on blank paper The flutters of fragile wings are perhaps all but enough to bring a child to hasty tears. A mirror bought to of echoing frailty, a chord at its highest piercing note. The crescendo before dusk. A pair of hands encased in its own Who polite and light on the tongue, a vain blind no less Barred fingers in cells of clickety clackety letters and fonts of paintbrushes or the odd twitch. It prays. Soundless noise. not a pin-drop not the screeches of bosses And when the paper is stacked high on coffee refrains and static routine. It screams. The mirror. Cell blown to bits Custody broken Mirror tattered refunded at a bitter price. Blank as snow and crisp as winter. Gone like snow the very next morning. But ever so physically there.

0

Aug 26, 2019

Aug 26, 2019 at 7:22 AM UTC

bleupoet

The blank canvas

milk hair, milk clothes a world painted in thick hues of the very same cream the whirr of a printing press on blank paper The flutters of fragile wings are perhaps all but enough to bring a child to hasty tears. A mirror bought to of echoing frailty, a chord at its highest piercing note. The crescendo before dusk. A pair of hands encased in its own Who polite and light on the tongue, a vain blind no less Barred fingers in cells of clickety clackety letters and fonts of paintbrushes or the odd twitch. It prays. Soundless noise. not a pin-drop not the screeches of bosses And when the paper is stacked high on coffee refrains and static routine. It screams. The mirror. Cell blown to bits Custody broken Mirror tattered refunded at a bitter price. Blank as snow and crisp as winter. Gone like snow the very next morning. But ever so physically there.

29

What? Are you HERE? She's on her phone, waiting for her suitcase. *Girlfriend, I live twenty minutes away from the Airport. Now get your luggage and run out Here before your roses start Stinking.* She's through the arrival gates in five minutes. Swapping flowers for bags and a kiss, I cannot for my own life grasp Her surprise. *Not used to being treated Like a woman?* She smells her roses, fresh from 7-11, Click-clackety-clacking down the airport Tiles with less to carry than Ever, this day. She answers, and I Feel so **** Giant. What a drawf World it has Become...

0

Oct 1, 2014

Oct 1, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC

sgholter

So **** Giant

What? Are you HERE? She's on her phone, waiting for her suitcase. *Girlfriend, I live twenty minutes away from the Airport. Now get your luggage and run out Here before your roses start Stinking.* She's through the arrival gates in five minutes. Swapping flowers for bags and a kiss, I cannot for my own life grasp Her surprise. *Not used to being treated Like a woman?* She smells her roses, fresh from 7-11, Click-clackety-clacking down the airport Tiles with less to carry than Ever, this day. She answers, and I Feel so **** Giant. What a drawf World it has Become...

21

(20 minute poetry) it kills me to hear when the next one gets near think I fear the train more than the journey but it carries me along to the sound of its song clackety clack down a narrow gauge track and my ticket's a single do I not want to come back? I used to be monarch of all I surveyed, a hero, my subjects obeyed me now they despise me conspire to depose me who knows what the outcome will be? the eight forty three arrives at platform nine running six minutes late due to leaves on the line. An opportunity to work which is more than my worth and for more than they pay I could do something different.

0

Dec 21, 2016

Dec 21, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

The next train

(20 minute poetry) it kills me to hear when the next one gets near think I fear the train more than the journey but it carries me along to the sound of its song clackety clack down a narrow gauge track and my ticket's a single do I not want to come back? I used to be monarch of all I surveyed, a hero, my subjects obeyed me now they despise me conspire to depose me who knows what the outcome will be? the eight forty three arrives at platform nine running six minutes late due to leaves on the line. An opportunity to work which is more than my worth and for more than they pay I could do something different.

35

The After Effects After hours of hearing her sweet voice that drifts me to sleep every night. Sometimes softly that I shrink in my bed, occupying a very little space just like a snail getting into its shell for sleep. And sometimes scolding me just like a mother would do & sends me to sleep & I would go to sleep like a sincere child following his mom's command. After those beautiful hours of my meditation session, My favourite soothing music, My best part of the whole day, Comes to an end when the sun rises. In the morning when I'm already awake. (I don't wait for this moment to come.) I now stay awake hoping today..... today might be the day when she won't leave. Her first deep breath in the morning, Followed by an adorable yawn & stretching of the body just like a cat does. "Good morning" she whispered. That's when my day actually starts. That's when the sun, for me, rises. I won't say anything(I know that's weird) But just because I want to stay calm & listen to those breaths and whispers one more time which will leave an everlasting impression on my mind & I could, somehow, spend the rest of the day, thinking about her and wait for the night to come. "Now it's time to go" whispered her voice again. I feel like a prisoner who was just enjoying his talk with someone special over phone but on either side of that glass. I would give her a sweet kiss & she would smile(I can see that smile)& say goodbye. A clickety-clackety sound of her earphones, Then Silence! I could now only hear the noise of my fan. And My own heartbeat.

0

Sep 16, 2018

Sep 16, 2018 at 1:57 PM UTC

udit94

THE AFTER EFFECTS

The After Effects After hours of hearing her sweet voice that drifts me to sleep every night. Sometimes softly that I shrink in my bed, occupying a very little space just like a snail getting into its shell for sleep. And sometimes scolding me just like a mother would do & sends me to sleep & I would go to sleep like a sincere child following his mom's command. After those beautiful hours of my meditation session, My favourite soothing music, My best part of the whole day, Comes to an end when the sun rises. In the morning when I'm already awake. (I don't wait for this moment to come.) I now stay awake hoping today..... today might be the day when she won't leave. Her first deep breath in the morning, Followed by an adorable yawn & stretching of the body just like a cat does. "Good morning" she whispered. That's when my day actually starts. That's when the sun, for me, rises. I won't say anything(I know that's weird) But just because I want to stay calm & listen to those breaths and whispers one more time which will leave an everlasting impression on my mind & I could, somehow, spend the rest of the day, thinking about her and wait for the night to come. "Now it's time to go" whispered her voice again. I feel like a prisoner who was just enjoying his talk with someone special over phone but on either side of that glass. I would give her a sweet kiss & she would smile(I can see that smile)& say goodbye. A clickety-clackety sound of her earphones, Then Silence! I could now only hear the noise of my fan. And My own heartbeat.

45