"clocking" poems
Petite arctic terns
navigate the sky
on epic migration
wings clocking
45,000 miles each year
it seems they know
how to go
with the flow
by thumbing a lift
on atmospheric airways
that crisscross the planet
adding thousands of
seemingly needless miles
to an already
arduous journey
flocks congregate
in open ocean
to rest and fuel up
on fish and krill
for the last push home
these tenacious birds
understand
the cliché
it's all about
the journey
they synchronize
with invisible currents
because to beat
into the wind
is a futile expenditure
they pause
in community
to re-energize and feed
on unfathomable
bounty
four ounces
of feather
and hollow bone
instinctively holds
these truths
there is much
to be learned
from an
arctic
tern.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
sleepy sleep
sleep in sleep in sleepy town
my eyes need wakey up
sleepy sleep my bed does call
me lids so glued there stuck
look at me at half past three
a hedge still in me hair
eyes so red a cameras light
saucers oh my dear
give me bed a silent night
cos sleepy snooze is me
time to snore and wake you up
me fidgits sleepy sleep
na na night its time for kip
me bed is calling me
clocking tick soon far away
a dream of dreams i see
rise and shine yet i need more
some sleep will do me good
bags of spuds upon each cheek
come on dont wake me up
sleepy in as sleepy does
im staying where i am
soon be dinner oh thats good
a lay in i'll be dammed
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 12:07 AM UTC
There, amongst the northern skies,
Tears driven by ghostly squalls to
Fall on the blackened, bleak rooftops
Of this northern town, forgotten.
Left to a grey Victorian rot
Decaying factory ceilings collapsing on,
Litter strewn floors, newspapers decompose
With triumphs from yester year
Industrial dust stained brickwork
Grimy reminder, of the grim past
Haunted dim gaslight probing the fog
Days, nights only separated by murky light
A ghostly silence, hangs like a grimy fog
Cloaking lost sounds of dull beating on metal,
Boots tramping over cobbled stones,
The sounds of clocking on, clocking off, no more
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
You tell me tales of Rio
Thailand, Fiji, Cairns and Rome
I know that you are thinking
I'm a boring stay-at-home
Here's me, so rough and scruffy
-You, impeccably dressed
I know that you expect that I'll
Be suitably impressed
But while you're clocking air miles
I'm planting trees at home
To **** up all the carbon
We have recklessly let go
And while you're busy shopping
Trying to buy your life some zest
I'm too busy laying hedges
Too be suitably impressed
I'm sorry, these things you boast of
Are not doing it for me
Not all the things that one can buy
Compare to just one tree
I really shouldn't show off - but
You see my life is truly blessed
With each flower, bird or bumble-bee
I'm suitably impressed
So stop boasting of your travels
Stop judging by the cost
If that is all you care about
Such treasures will be lost
Your obsession with your image
Your concern with money, wealth
Is ultimately certain
To affect your mental health
Just stop. Step outside into nature
It's a simply made request
I'm sure you'll see the wonder
And be suitably impressed
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 6:30 PM UTC
The tedious graveyard shift comes around again,
The ghosts and ghouls of my past clocking in.
We meet each other at the silver gate;
We greet each other with the same stare each night.
I wonder if some will stay overtime with me under this moon,
Or if we can led our own paths once more come morning.
Oct 2, 2021
Oct 2, 2021 at 5:58 PM UTC
Beggars line the busy streets
cup and cloth outstretched
the look of desperation etched on their faces
like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph
they don't ask me for spare change
just a simple nod of acknowledgement;
even after a shower and a change of clothes
I must have their look, that broken beaten look
the look of the street.
George Square is busy today
tourists happy clicking panoramic memories
admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph
a list of names they will never know
and marvel at the antiquated architecture
to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone
in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers
while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt
I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance
to the passing of a woman named Judith
the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings
knowing I've been there for 3 hours already
because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts
because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street.
The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway,
the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke
like a coal fired power station in the sunlight
this is where they go for over-priced craft ales
with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak
a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays
dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded
the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet
that was simply spare change to begin with
I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call
pretending in mime to be semi-OK
that the compadres are running late
and "tell me about the theatre show later"
the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies
while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco
and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me
because I have the look of the street.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
Neither girl nor male… So what am I? Am I the so-called perv aiming to invade the wrong bathroom? Am I a heretic aiming to impose my wickedness onto the world? Am I the clocking stares they give me? How about the result of a broken home or a broken heart? Does my mere existence force you to reevaluate your identity? When all I'm trying to do is figure out mine. Neither girl nor male… So you tell me where I am to relieve my bowels. Or am I to stitch them shut for your comfort? While I'm at it, shall I stitch my eyes shut as to not burden you with running mascara; which further assaults my "feminine façade"? I'm sorry to burden you with my fake ***** of which a second of labor (turning your head) would relieve you of your distress. I'm sorry you'd rather slave away starring and clocking them. Clocking me. I am sorry that I was born male yet refuse to live up to such expectations. I am sorry that despite my best efforts I cannot pass for how I feel. Believe me—for the life of me—I am trying. As punishment for lack of natural ******* I stretch my skin to form a pleasing cleavage. As punishment for having the wrong body type, I wear a cage around my abdomen two sizes too small that cuts into my rib cage dare I seek the comforts of sitting down. As punishment for being born with a male anatomy, I crunch my disheveled sack of nerve endings between my chaffing thighs. Dare my body have the audacity to ***** itself for any reason I bend the muscle, in such a way never intended, between my legs just to have one less aesthetic reminder as to what I am not. Your clocking stares painfully remind me that I may never be seen as how I see myself. But ****** do I try. Until I do, I am condemned to be neither male nor… female.
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 4:05 AM UTC
The grandfather clock ticks away! day after day, everyday ,
it doesn't stop to listen to the baby gurgling, or the toddler screaming
indifferent to the many sounds of angst and ecstasy!
the small hand of the clock controlling every hour of our lives
the big hand, a mere spectator to the brevity of those moments lived
the silent ticking of the pendulum,
a call to take a second of respite!
from life, from living, from only "just existing"
I did try to stop time once, held the hands of the clock in my own calloused ones
and that is when the Townclock chimed somewhere, faraway!
Jul 2, 2020
Jul 2, 2020 at 12:17 PM UTC
I can’t help but remember the night where everything ended.
The make up running down your face.
The clocking stating that it’s 2 AM.
The door of my cheap apartment room closing as I watched you left.
It’s 2 years later and I’m still in the same apartment room.
Instead of me remembering,
I drink and I forget.
But I slowly begin to realize.
That everything...
S t a r t s
To go
b
l
ur
ry
And I can’t seem to put the pieces back together.
I wake up and it’s all bleak.
It hits me like shattered glass.
It comes in fragments.
But I’m okay with this.
Because I remember the night it all ended.
Your makeup running down your face.
The clock stating that it’s 2 AM.
You leaving my cheap apartment.
And me staying there.
Just to stay.
And think.
And believe.
And hope.
That someday.
You would finally come home.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 12:11 AM UTC
Sunlight, moonlight
Come with their own greeting
Sun says, “good morning”
Moon replies, “good evening”.
Clockwork shift change
Little conversation on the horizon
Clocking in, clocking out
Leaving and arriving
Feb 11, 2022
Feb 11, 2022 at 3:52 PM UTC
A locking click
the clear is hall
a clocking tick
is hear I all
a rocking drop
the near is fall
a blocking chop
I fear the saw
a pampy crapper
I nose my hold
a campy happer
I clothes my fold
a fighty scrapper
that big is bloke
a lighty snapper
I cig my smoke!
©2011 Lyn
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 9:46 AM UTC
Cloaked eyes of white
Open throat cries dry
Echoed padding cadence
Panting tremours
Unable to get away
The streets are unsafely empty
Equality to walk
No illiberal clocking in
I have a cogent life
Will not cede segregation
The struggle, snapped the stem
Stole the stamen from my flower
Shook my pollenous verve
Scattered my soulful scent
Destroyed my confidence to regrow
Sneering the lonesome wolf
Crushes the very flowers that will save it
Without heart of virtue
Praying on those they cannot have
Betrays their own soul without anguish
Proto-stalkers seek help
Decant your desires
Throw off your fur coat
Open up and do not venture into a nightmare
Your Samaritan will always befriend and guide
Lay down your sword
Change the parochial pathway
Magnanimous now live
Fields of flowers beckon
Don't be a brick in the wall
Embrace the feminine essence
Yield flowers their blossom
Steer the legislation to counter the wolven spread
More tulips amongst thorny parliamentarians
Educate the children and those in power
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 7:39 PM UTC
There's a gentle metronome
Resting on my writing desk
Like a robotic lullaby
Humming me to rest
Tick-tick-tick
Through the night
Let my wrongs turn to rights
A dream that's a home
Tick; goes the metronome.
There's a fragile metronome
Posing on my wood bookshelf
The only sound in the room
Echoing all by itself
Tick-tick-tick
All day long
A sharp, melodic song
Cranking out a soothing tone
Tick tick; goes the metronome.
There's a cracked metronome
Sitting on my windowsill
Clocking in and out
The worst type of sleeping pill
Tick-tick-tick
Night and day
Hypnotizing it's prey
True tranquility stands alone
Tick tick tick; goes the metronome.
There's a defective metronome
Laying on my bedroom floor
It's sickening harmony
Rots me to my core
Tick-tick-tick
Losing power
I'm awake every hour
A heart weighed down by stone
Tick tick; goes the metronome.
There's a shattered metronome
Placed at the foot of my bed
A sound that’s lost its tempo
A heartbeat that's fled
Tick-tick-tick
In my brain
Repetition in vain
Break me til I'm nothing but bone
Tick.
Stops the metronome.
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 10:23 AM UTC
the hangover is a losers' complaint...
what's with these hiccups?
it's a bit like feeling guilty
listening to the bangles....
because musical preferences
are "second" to your sexuals ones;
i'm going to **** this penguin...
you tackle the giraffe...
the **** is up with hiccups?!
i'm not choking... i'm not practicing
rich girls' eating disorder...
i'm starting to think that i'm
actually boxing, i.e. someone's
punching me in the stomach...
hiccups!
hiccups!
hiccups!
a music reference to the 19 80s...
hip to be square...
walk like an egyptian...
puff the hooka pipe... puff the viper...
******* hiccups... that are
180 in terms of hook-ups...
getting punched in the stomach or
the ******* neck...
ostrich...
head in the sand...
hiccups?
am i trying to burp?
i really feel like
farting, easing a **** out....
gonna be swiss... and ease that **** out...
to be honest... clocking somehow into uni...
hiccups!
to be honest hiccups aren't funny..
they're not as funny as coughs... or farts...
hiccups aren't funny.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 2:26 PM UTC
Where once the waters of your face
Spun to my screws, your dry ghost blows,
The dead turns up its eye;
Where once the mermen through your ice
Pushed up their hair, the dry wind steers
Through salt and root and roe.
Where once your green knots sank their splice
Into the tided cord, there goes
The green unraveller,
His scissors oiled, his knife hung loose
To cut the channels at their source
And lay the wet fruits low.
Invisible, your clocking tides
Break on the lovebeds of the weeds;
The **** of love's left dry;
There round about your stones the shades
Of children go who, from their voids,
Cry to the dolphined sea.
Dry as a tomb, your coloured lids
Shall not be latched while magic glides
Sage on the earth and sky;
There shall be corals in your beds
There shall be serpents in your tides,
Till all our sea-faiths die.
1.5k
Being a writer
Is not a part-time job,
Like being a nurse
Or a teacher:
Where clocking in
And out
Is as simple
As lifting and putting down
A pen.
No,
Writers have words
Flowing though their veins;
Poignant thoughts and emotions
Shape and reshape themselves
Into poems in the writer's mind
Almost by instinct.
But
Do not be fooled:
The writer's world
Is no paradise:
Thoughts tug at our brains
In the middle of the night,
Like a child pulling
At its mother's coat
Beckoning us to the page
Where finally we free the thoughts
That have been held captive.
And finally with sleepy,
Satisfied eyes,
We place the final fullstop
On our latest masterpiece
.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
Enlighten Me-
I’m always underestimating self-master bating-
Graduated-
At the top of fund frustration-
My motivation needs money relations-
The contemplation of money making has my mind at a constant hating-
My breaking patience-
Has my mind like a **** relating-
Regulations of all my banking-
See my bank account disintegrating-
I’m suffocating-making payments-Late fee statements-
Debit-Credit-Cash-oking
Debit-Credit-Cash-oking
Racking bills my back is breaking-my nerves are shaking-
Shaking more than I anticipated-
Now I’m here with a life to fear-
Writing till my mind is clear-
Writing till I feel what’s real-
Writing till I seal a deal-
Multiplying-
Adding-Subtracting-and dividing-
Signing more checks than providing-
It’s suicide I’m not denying-Rhyming trying its crucifying-
Clocking in before the sun is rising Grinding flying hoping griming-living life nine to fiving-
Its re-revising-Re-defining-Rectifying-
More so that I think I’m hiding-
Killing with finical violence-Violating my banks alliance-
Maxing plastic so fantastic now I need some re-advising-interest rates have a grown man crying-Million dollars seem so un-winding-
Now I’m whining-
Constant buying-
Gas rates got me into biking-riding-fighting-
Just surviving-any discount seems so delighting-winning lotto seems o-so-righteous-buy one get one is so exciting-
Boot leg buying I ain’t lying-
Being broke is constant rewinding-It’s reminding-so relying-over drawing is my new binding-it’s confining-so I’m finding-Making takings of my disliking-Making takings that are so dang freighting-dollar scratchers are so inviting-
But this realization is so enlightening-
Moving as fast as a bolt of lighting-
I’m asking you G-d to help me like this-
I’m feeling the pain and I think I might just-
ROB ME A BANK-
BY:
RICHARD ITSKOVICH
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 2:57 PM UTC
I wouldn't normally understand
Quite how to say it
But if you listen close
This might just start to explain it
You see, it's a secret
A tiny little world
Where a boy can be a boy
And a girl can be a girl
I had a house there
that I shared with my friends
We resided there quite peacefully
Drinking, dancing on the weekends
But an earthquake shook
the whole wide world
When my third friend
took to flight
Flew back to Earth
on a pretty pink balloon
Now he's the moon
But I don't see it out
That often
Maybe if you're lucky
One day the clouds will open
But I don't think that's
gonna happen
My second friend and I
Flew back as well
But compared to our tiny world
Earth starts to look
a little like hell
There's no bandanna in the
crack between
the bed and the wall
And I can't smoke ***
when I walk down the sidewalk
But that's okay
We're here to stay
Without the moon on our side
But we still got a whole world to change
I won't tell you how
I've told far too much already
But anyway back to the story
My second friend is lost
outside somewhere in the dark
the clouds are clocking out the moon, she
can't follow her heart
And I understand her sorrow
Cause I'm just a moth
on the wall
that was attracted to the moon's glow
Where'd it go?
But I got too close to the light
And it almost burned me
Don't get too close to it
It can burn you too
But it's beautiful
Magnificent and magical
If it would just come back
I wouldn't be
scared of the glow
I'd keep my distance
She loves the moon too much
I don't know if she can resist it
Or if she even wants to
the light burned her
so much she kinda lost it
"I wouldn't blame you
If you wanted to fly
our spaceship
Back to our little planet."
I can't tell her that
Cause I'm not sure
either of us know
exactly how to get there
Our only chance is to
take a picture,
make some changes
We just have to get out
of the dark
Which way is that again?
Well I forgot where we parked
But we can find the light again.
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 4:52 PM UTC
You told me you dreamt of stars
From before cave painters
And ice ages
Celestial
You said you came from the time
Before “Let there be light”
When light and dark pooled
And eddied together
You said we could exist
In an isolated state
When even oil and water were in love
And we are but atoms
And you said
We could run away from
The ills and the joys and
The businessmen clocking in on time
But I am a cynic
And a threw down your sonnets
And your romance
Because I’m not a dreamer
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
The universe is immeasurable,
we are merely infinitesimal
machinery keeping pace,
as churning cogs tick wildly
transmitting within allotted time,
attempting heartbeats' cohesion
clocking our own honed destinations,
accumulating illusions 'tween mass
waiting to return as a speck of dust
in the never-ending saga of
inexhaustible collectives amidst
systematically creative contrivances
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
These special summer afternoons
have no time markers,
no human dividers,
no watches watching
or clocks clocking,
just grins and smiles,
divining the divide,
painting lovely
the one canyon
of humanity and nature
attending to each other
These summer afternoons
have no time markers,
but drift perfectly sequentially
from sun to nap to
black striped grilled franks,
and red watermelon,
orange cantaloupe,
cold coronas,
and desserts of
indeterminate beach walks,
and quiet talks
These summer afternoons
are as close
as I remember,
what it was like to
be seven or eight,
years of age,
knowing only
carefree summer months
that were
carelessly treasured,
thinking there is
always another,
looking forward to tomorrow
to do nothing in
exactly, happily,
the same way innocently
I am an adult
and that means,
cares are ever present,
ever fair or fear not,,
they lurk and
attack the goalie,
with noisy or subtle unrelenting attacks
but as I overlook the waters,
scenario soul gentling me
under the cooling coverlet of
the perfect breeze and
what lurks
is the moment
the eyes and heart
are fulfilled,
satisfied by what they see
The bay,
dotted with the boat traffic
not too much,
but just interesting,
a right tiny armada
to entertain,
all of us,
inattentively observing
the submerging
descent of
summer daytime friends,
and I think of you only,
at this perfect second
and I am besotted
with grief
and guilt
why can I not grant you the moment,
that I desperate wish to share
my arm is not, not,
careless slung, but
grasping firm with squeezes tight,
finger under chin chucking,
come friend be with me,
and for just this moment
your anti-toil tool here,
your plight beyond my comprehension,
though I live a life on the unknown edge,
what matters is the relativity of us,
and I relate to your weariness,
I weep with desperate knowledge
transporting you here is still an
impossibility
though my eyes see glory,
though my heart cannot refuse
the scene's peace invading me,
it is not fair, it is not fair
and I want you
to have this more than me
so I can keep it too
until then it is a glaze,
surfacing the coating,
that is me
but substance is untouched
until this guilt morphs into a
shared pleasure
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:36 AM UTC
I see these recurring themes,
In my recurring dreams,
I can’t seem to encolor the world
my whole world is blowing gray,
and them recurring themes
I’m seeing seem to be scene securing
recurring dreams to my recurring days.
I was counting sheep,
hoping in some way it would amount to sleep,
I wasn’t even drowsy must of been about a thousand deep,
way up on some mountain peek,
somewhere where the clouds can speak,
If I don’t ****** fall asleep soon,
I think I’m about to leap.
Now I am falling like rain,
Someone is calling my name,
Woke up driving a car with some fool up all in my lane.
Saw some dude with a sign he said, “The end is coming soon”
Last night I swore I saw another moon.
Hoped out my tomb it must of been around eleven-ish,
The second moon said that the red moon is devilish,
The red moon said,
“I can’t imagine what the hell it is to be in prison in your present tense,”
But when the sentence ends its possible if not probable there will be better friends,
stretchers and machine to give you medicine,
When the setting said go to bed again don’t forget me kid,
went to counting sheep and I woke up in a shepherd's skin.
softer than a leopard skin ,
wonder what the sheep the shepherds been,
another setting setting in,
another setting setting in
Now this is where the stress begins,
The wool was full with strings and scabs,
and all I could think of is I want to sleep so bad.
I looked up at the wall and I saw the clock was melting,
I fell to my hands and knees and then began collecting,
its stiff ***
ran my finger tip through the tik toks.
They could trick my wrist like an handle filled with wrist watch,
That **** locked oh **** I wish that I could pick locks,
woke with a fist **** in a boxing ring.
The clock went ding,
My opponent was a clock.
God that clock started clocking me,
I don’t wanna punch my clock,
This is ****** sad,
Put a boxer in a box turn him into a punching bag,
Put a boxer in a box turn him into a punching bag,
I see this recurring themes,
In my recurring dreams,
I can’t seem to encolor the world
my whole world is blowing gray,
and the recurring themes
I’m seeing seem to be scene securing
recurring dreams to my recurring days.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
Sat on a train
and I gaze along
face after face
of strangers
that all share
this same moment
in time and space
and yet they're
all so vacant,
staring into space
and time bears
no relevance,
cause its the same thing
day in day out,
all of us sat there,
headphones intact
listening to our
own soundtracks
as we make our way
through tunnels
unaware of the tracks sound
as we're shuttled around
and I'm dumbfounded
by how wisdom
is found in the loss of interaction,
sat across a
man in a suit
clocking up percentages
and in a fraction,
I've took stock
and mocked up
a story for him
through his action ,
this one man
of many in this
age of distraction
Until this traction
created by volt-age
comes to a halt
as this train stops
at the station,
my station in sight,
this stationary moment
of insight interrupted
as doors open,
my form plateaus
as I step onto
the platform,
leaving this
train of thought
for another one,
adjourned as
I Journey on.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 4:13 PM UTC
A Paris night, with all it's sweet endeavours,
Blurred by a face with emerald eyes,
Out shadowed by the shades of her hair,
She must be the truth of beautiful lies.
With a cup of warm coffee in her hands,
With the gentle wind unfolding her hair tress,
The waiter with bewildered bones,
Greeted her 'Buenas Noches'
She grinned and with tender steps lead her way,
While a pair of eyes was at sea.
In the wild calm of her imperfect picturesque,
The shackles of his heart were set free.
Behind the looking glass, the boy stood subdued,
In the utter waves of her essence,
The euphonious ripples of the angel's visit,
The graceful gift of her presence.
The night turned into a hopeful day,
With the pair of eyes still seeking in the streets,
Searching for the beat of his heart,
The earth to his feets.
With desire clocking to despair,
Those eyes grew wet,
With the clock beating seconds,
He had a journey to get back.
The bags laid still on the room,
The food untouched at the bed,
With eyes lost in that night,
He raved the streets of Paris till a miracle shed.
And his eyes met that lovely face,
The girl you can't stop from falling in.
The blood rushed once again through the veins,
Working the muscles to bring a smile,
The smile of an answered heart,
The smile that explains the mystery we call Love.
But the face was lost again,
In the same old Paris streets.
With a hidden smile, he turned back,
Hoping their small worlds would meet again,
In a place where hearts reigned.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 4:16 AM UTC
Feel the air, vibrating,
Recoil from the heavy tang of metal flooding in,
A shift in levels, could rightly be the earth shaking.
Were it not for that thick darkness, vocalization would be a sin.
Curling toes grasp at nothing but space,
No solid mass. Gravity pulls but from within.
Humanity has lost the race.
It is sabotage, unsaid.
And demons come, with dripping fangs and pointed ears.
There is no more precious, no more sacred,
We are no more but fears,
And it is from fears they feed.
A pinch for a flinch, hear now from the chamber the clocking back of gears.
With each passing moment a growing greed.
These are the Demon Years.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 4:50 PM UTC