"clickity" poems
An old man sits
on the edge of the bed
just after he's tucked in his grandson
He fiddles and fits
While his old gal, she knits
And his boy sleeps, soft and handsome
But what is this?
He can't help but think
As his grandson rolls restlessly round
What sort of ploy
May claim my boy
When his pops is dead in the ground?
His wife, she shakes head
All afluttered and red
Claiming that he's been a fool
For Death, he comes
For every which ones
As sure as summers for school
But wife, he cries
With tears in his eyes
As his boys turns roughly about
"What will become
Of my dear grandson
When a grandfather he is without?"
His wife, she smiles
Is silent awhile
As her needles go clickity-clack
"This boy, you see
Is our legacy
And a family he never shall lack."
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
I am walking on a trail I am uncertain of
Reaching for the stars while hopelessly grasping for the ground underneath my broken feet
I am touching your tears afraid that if I do not wipe them away you’ll wipe me away
The thought of you in pain always makes me feel like throwing up
Someone as precious as you should never understand what it means to be hopelessly alone while surrounded by people who love you
I am afraid to understand the misery that lies beneath your more than somber smiles
I’m following a journey written out to me by the government
Spending money I don’t have
Hopelessly aiming for a future where I can provide for you and help everyone who’s ever helped me
This accumulative debt is a spark in my check book
Ruining my finances but helping me achieve something greater than myself
I could never write poems the way you write music
And every time I look in the mirror I see a missing piece of me and I cannot find it no matter where I look
I’m trying to find myself alongside you
Afraid that you’ll be another to leave me behind and achieve grand things without me
Even if I am a lowly writer
Even if I am a hopeful poet
Even if I am a hopeless person
I need a sense of fulfillment to keep me alive
I am a train and no one is filling my coal
I have stopped on the tracks of life and I do not know which way to go
There are storms rolling in and the thunder is so loud that I cannot hear myself scream
My heart beats at an exponential rate and I no longer know if I want it to finally explode
Or for it to just stop
The clickity clacking of my fingers typing away on my keyboard is music
So I am a musician just like you
Only my instrument of choice is my growing vocabulary and my lyrics don’t always make sense
But I am still walking
Sometimes I run to a destination I’m certain doesn’t exist
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 6:18 PM UTC
tickity-clickity whirr went my father to set
the little merry-go-round musicbox by my bed
with its adorbsable mini-suction cups lining
purple porcelain tentacles
winding round and round
lulling gently with that nostalgic ice-cream truck tune
reminding me of sweet tang juicy mango slush
on a hot afternoon
where the posh-painted ponies fly by with the tide rising up and down
in a seaside villa of some spanish town
in all the grandness of their primary colors so carefully chosen to brush
at the command of a fairy princess with her crown gold-gilded
she's twirling whirling, a mechanical ballerina on springs
gracefully petite her frame, so small the sash on her shoulder
that slips in the breeze to catch the eye of a little soldier
in his regimentals properly fitted, buttoned in brass
a lass like me lovingly adoring bunnies in top hats and bow ties
spats on their feet to tap dance for me
in my dreams the never ending spin of a teacup party
the catch of a hook where the lullaby loses flight
but I'm already asleep with a kiss goodnight
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
I am bombarded
by ideas, languages,
diversity in all directions.
The smell of sewer
intertwined with perfume
and the sweet smell of
Thai food.
The jingle of the cups
of the homeless and
the clickity-clack of girls
walking in stiletto heels.
Never a dull moment
in this city of
diversity.
Find the beauty
Lose yourself in the rhythm
of life.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
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.
Mar 14, 2011
Mar 14, 2011 at 7:16 PM UTC
I'm sat at my window the snow softly falling,when I hear the telltale "clickity clack" of a pair of heels.
I imagine the wearer, tall by the time lapse in clicks,
wearing warm well cut clothes, due to the weather.
Her heels beat a tattoo, loud in the night time silence.
Echoing into the dark.
Hush, do you hear it? A softer step, masking its existence in time with her heels. No? Listen at the deep silence, stabbed by the staccato stilettos,
there, a soft crush in the snow. Her heels have quickened their tap,tap, tap on the pavement, the snowfall has also quickened, and so has the soft crushing steps of a man.
My heart imitates her stilettos, dread clutches at my core.
There it is the muffled scream that stops the stilettos,
snow is voicing a struggle, it's fresh crispness creaking and crying.
These noises are not new, they're why I sit at the window,
listening for the female, the male, the footsteps, the scream,
knowing that in the morning the news will feature the man dubbed
"The stiletto shredder".
Me, go as a witness you say, how?
He does what he does outside my window knowing I can never tell,
I'm his perfect witness,
I'm blind.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
*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.*
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 11:55 AM UTC
so guess what, one day
I found a key (to a closet (in the church.))
and it was very dark and dusty
in there &
the ladder nailed to the wall was only wide
enough for
one
foot
at-a
time,
so, it’s lucky that
I’m skinny enough to wri-i-iggle my shoulders
up and through the hole in the
closet’s web-trailing ceiling.
I clambered up there and into this black
forest.
Plants were sprouting
up in big rills and clumps--
stalks thin as my finger and
pipes wider than my waist,
some fading up into the ceiling’s darkness...
others squatting low, and glaring up
at me with One. black. eye.
they were all deathly still.
Then,
the creaking boards, the black forest, the cramped path of unmarked dust that winds between the pipes, all that just
SIGHED and VIBRATED,
and with a hisssing hoarsse
!shhhhhhhh...
breathed!
and my heart just stops!!! BAM!
{cricket}
and i feel ****** into a dark mouth! i am caught and trapped by this black closet’s maw andI’mwaitingfor Godknowswhat tocomewrigglingfromthepipes-- ! --!
and then guess what?:
!b’URsting up its throat
is a SONG!
slowlyand Suddenly,
a blaring, screaming,
golden
!EAgle of a chord
that s(oa)rs and c’RASHES into anotherand another one
all rising and falling,
champing at the bit until One Thousand hhums and shhivers
fill each pipe.
and it feels like
holding ten coins in a stack and making them jump-clink-clickity-HOP together--
oh, it feels like
pushing your fingertips into a bucket of cold paint
it feels like the moment after jumping off of a tall tree
it feels like un-rippling your braided hair with both hands
like a songbird’s claws curling about your finger,
like closing your eyes in a hot summer-sun
and falling asleep in a hammock
it feels like holding a blacksnake
that curls and struggles strong against your wrists,
that’s what this church ***** feels like.
I’m gonna **** the genius that started playing while I was in there.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
She texted all through dinner again.
Clickity, clickity, clickity.
Describing to someone something about what the waiter was wearing.
The ******* waiter?
Maybe if she took the time
she would find me at least as interesting,
as handsome, or ****
as her 2 dimensional clicking keys?
Clickity, clickity, clickity.
They don't write letters on paper here in Clickityville anymore.
I even use to have my favorite pen and ink.
Now they "pencil in" time for everything,
Clickity food, iPod jog, or even clickity ***
Trying to fit it all so neatly on their Clickityville plates,
but they never do.
When I talk to Clickityville people now
I can tell when I start to glass them over.
They reach for their clickity, clickity, clickity.
So ******* rude.
I'd rather they said,
"I'm sorry, but you bore me and I would rather,
you know.....
clickity clickity clickity."
I can see it in their Clickity eyes,
while they are trying to listen peripherally,
They want so badly to clickity, clickity, clickity.
****
they asked me to give them advice on their Clickity relationships.
And while fidgeting in their Clickityville North Face jacket pockets,
looking for their clickity, clickity, clickity,
I was attempting to give them some of my best nuggets of gold.
Just give
your lover
your full attention,
and they will do the same.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
LOVE REMEMBERED
all that remains
her cigarette smoke
crawling lazily to the ceiling
her footsteps
echoing down the hall
the angry slam of a red door
from the pavement floats up
the clickity-clack of red stilettos
the Morse Code for loss
a Focus LP
caught on a scratch
caught on a scratch
the same pale pink
lipstick kiss
on cigarette and champagne glass
rain falling now
in the open window
wetting the still sleeping cat
a church bell
scatters crows
a drunk staggers down the road
the end never appears
to be the end and then
it just is
I stumble against the record player
Focus get back into the groove
"...'round goes the gossip...'.round goes the gossip..."
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 3:59 AM UTC
the sunset was stunning
just like you
the constant clickity clack of the train wheels on the tracks
remind me of the beat of your heart
everywhere i go
has bits and pieces of you
a trail of clues
for me to put together
until the sun has set
the clickity clack of the wheels has silenced
and i step into the night
and am blinded by the most beautiful light
you
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
Nobody can break me,
But myself,
And I do it so carefully,
To build a shelf,
Filled with stories of the lonely,
Pages of truth known only to me,
For I am the one they know,
To own the barely beating heart
That pumps ink instead of blood;
I break it on the daily,
To spill words so familiar,
Yet foreign like careless whisper,
Like the sweet nothings he once gave me,
Or the promise he broke chance after chance;
Still my heart held on,
Ink filled to the brim,
Flowing through the tips,
Coursing through every vein,
At the touch of my bony fingers,
Dancing away on screens,
Or the clickity clacking,
From typing bits of him,
But more of me,
And how I never knew,
That truth is this heart,
It bleeds free,
It bleeds true,
But not in shades of red,
Just black and blue.
@byizn
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 8:24 PM UTC
There once was an Old Lady that lived down the Lane
She didn't give a **** about what people would say
She would Cook and Bake and Feel full of joy
Until one Late Winter night.
Something didn't go quite right.
With a Clickity Clack
Her cats ran away
Neither did she know
She would never see day.
She forgot the Sweet cookies she left on the stove
And the warm Bread Loaf That would always grow.
Soon she Smelt burning and the house tumbled Down
Poor little Grandma could only Frown
And Now to this day her corpse shall stay
And chase away who ever would came.
Shed scare the caretakers
And Burn them to
And now they say if you go in her house On that cold winter night.
You might as well Pray with all your might.
You'll soon smell the fire That burned that Old Woman
And You'll just stand there. And Keep on cooking.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 8:47 PM UTC
Don't Call Us ( we'll call you )
running with my loaf of sugar
trying to reach the top of the world
the boards were singing fine flatted fifths
and the strings were burning the fuzz tones
the radio station said they had no time
maybe I should try again later
so in other words what you're saying is
don't call us, we'll call you
well I wouldn't put it that way exactly
let me hook you up with the green eyed lady
she will give you the direct approach
although at times she'll ask for tongue in cheek
when Hammond eggs sung the clickity clack
we wanted so desperately to return
but we would not let those thoughts proceed
so when they called back for our help
we simply, succinctly, sweetly said
don't call us, we'll call you
Gomer LePoet...
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 6:33 PM UTC
For the train goes by so fast
full steam ahead.
The engine powerfully in charge with the box cars
being led.
The conductor blows the horn
as its coming around the bend.
As the conductor yells " I hope there
ain't nothing in the way, for some things
I cannot mend. "
As he grins and sips his coffee listening to another
"chug-a-chug-a-choo-choo," he thinks of things he's
seen gone by and remembers with nostalgia,
boo-hoo.
As the train will soon approach with the sound of
rolling wheels on the track,
like a rhythm of a song as it sings
"clickity-clack, clickity-clack."
The box-cars roll and caboose will
trail,
while the engine slows and does not
fail.
Time to help the passengers off with their
luggage and their cases.
Then another trip departs soon from the station
as its engine speeds up and races.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
Clickity-clack
It leaves the station,
then it begins its acceleration.
Off to its new destination,
all the cars in formation.
Choo-choo
The train goes rushing by.
Can you hear the whistle blow?
It zips along day or night,
in the rain and in the snow.
Chugging-chugging
Over the hills and through the mountains,
through the square and pass the fountain.
With a screech, its journey is done,
Hop aboard we will have such fun.
ALesiach © 11/09/2014
Jul 27, 2019
Jul 27, 2019 at 4:58 PM UTC
There’s a lot of sounds around me.
A door opened just now.
An agreement.
Door shut.
A bag rustling.
My keyboard’s clicking sounds.
A click of my mouse.
Chairs scraping the floor.
Footsteps.
There are many sights as well.
People in school uniform walking around me
Walking through many doors.
Many words too:
13:23 THURSDAY 31 JANUARY
THE PRINTER IN THIS AREA IS FOR CREATIVE ARTS ONLY thank you
PLEASE LEAVE THIS AREA TIDY
FOOD
ART 1, 2, & 3
PUSH
ART SHOP OPEM TUESDAY
DANGER LIFT MACHINE
SAMSUNG
So many words.
There’s no smell.
No taste.
All I can feel are my clothes and the clickity clackity keyboard
Wait: another sound - laughter
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 8:28 AM UTC
Not lonely, is that puzzle,
Such is the fervor-
The clickity of longing.
And warm, belly turns,
Over what might be met.
I'll seek the Sun happy-
That she'll be Moon.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 12:37 AM UTC
Travelin' hard,
Hoppin' train cars,
Seeing places that were once afar,
Hear the clickity-clackin',
Of that railroad a-cracklin',
Watch my feet start tappin',
And my lips start rapping,
My words start unwrapping,
As I start unraveling,
Some hysteria I've been feeling,
This road I'm walking,
This person I'm turning,
These people I'm befriending,
The choices I'm making,
The path I'm taking,
It's leading somewhere alright,
But only a small light is insight,
For this outlandishness I'm a-feelin',
For these feelings I'm a feeling,
Why can't I be good enough,
To pursue what I want to do,
I'm not the type of guy to deny,
The feelings that are nye,
How I live, how I breathe,
How talk, how I walk,
Should all be determined by me,
Not some farmer type taking notes,
Like I'm some sort of overdue goat,
No matter what they say,
If I think I can find away,
I'll do what I need to do anyway,
Confidence can be attacked,
It will effect the way you act,
If I can believe in myself,
I can do what would benefit ones-self,
And that's to remain happy,
Not caring about the negativity,
Of ones unfaithful liability,
Or your own self,
Trying to prove your wealth,
Prove your good enough,
Prove you can do everything,
Prove you can be anything,
Prove that you can do what you want to do, To yourself,
Tell yourself your full of gold and silver,
You won't need the confidence to do a thing,
You already have it,
And only you can be blamed,
For letting it boil into shame,
Take your dreams,
And pursue what you want to do,
Don't let anything or anyone,
Spoil your fun in the sun,
Because you never know when you will get a new one,
Instead of wishing for a time machine,
Trying to get a blast from the past,
Just hop on the same train I'm on and let the good times last.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
WHAT ARE YOU LIKE?
You are like...
a Victorian architectural folly
glimpsed from
a passing train
fieldsandtreesandcows
dashing by with a clickity clack.
And one thinks to one's self
did I really..
...see that
or what
or not
or how
or why?
And then one is swallowed
down a tunnel's gullet
and only one's own
face stares back amazed!
And I can almost hear you laugh:
"Yes...that's me...me...exactly!"
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 5:22 PM UTC
LOVE REMEMBERED
all that remains
her cigarette smoke
crawling lazily to the ceiling
her footsteps
echoing down the hall
the angry slam of a red door
from the pavement floats up
the clickity-clack of red stilettos
the Morse Code for loss
a Focus LP
caught on a scratch
caught on a scratch
the same pale pink
lipstick kiss
on cigarette and champagne glass
rain falling now
in the open window
wetting the still sleeping cat
a church bell
scatters crows
a drunk staggers down the road
the end never appears
to be the end and then
it just is
I stumble against the record player
Focus get back into the groove
"...'round goes the gossip...'.round goes the gossip..."
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 4:40 PM UTC
*Haven Lane
By
Jude Kyrie
The night brings dreams where specters host
Old memories coming alive like forgotten ghost
I am looking to find haven lane.
The place where i will be safe again.
Down the pathway
Along to the sea
I find the roads
but not for me.
In the fog the house lights glow
Blinking in air as white as snow
Where is my mother she's here again
Cutting fruit for a pie at haven Lane
Her old chair creaking in pain
As she carves apple skins at haven lane.
I know she's there at haven lane.
I must find haven lane again.
Grandmother cast a stitch of knitting
It's shapeless length the moments flitting.
growing stitch by stitch as she is sitting.
Clicking ceaselessly in Haven Lane
Knit one purl one cast one
Clickity clicking again and again
Outside, In the fog, I feel the pain.
Cutting my flesh wide open again
Dreams wash away in the morning rain
I am Lost and alone like haven lane*
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 6:54 PM UTC
oh but the click
when u click
clickity click
click click
it's a hit
isn't it
as if u
clicked
into place
snik
Jan 3, 2025
Jan 3, 2025 at 2:38 AM UTC
Turning, turning, turning the handle
Hoping, begging, praying Jack won't escape the box
Turning, turning, turning the handle!
Hoping, begging, praying this fear is only in my thoughts
TURNING, TURNING, CLICKITY-CLACK
WATCH OUT! MOVE AWAY! GET FAR, FAR BACK!
T U R N I N G , T U R N I N G
..............false alarm
Turning, turning, this is tiring my arm
Turning, turning, clickity-clack
Don't worry, this has happened before,
It can't possibly be ja
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC