"clunking" poems
The heat,
The way it ripples from the steel handlebars
And burns my hands,
The way the clunking of the chain feels
As each pedal propels me forward
Beneath the sun.
The sky is blue,
The air is crisp and leaves pinpricks
On my skin,
Soothed by the tenderness
Of sun rays that fall like curtains
Upon the concrete.
It smells of rubber,
A lingering scent of nostalgia
That fills my lungs like tar
And fills my heart with youthful
Thoughts.
As the wrinkles emerge,
And the delicate cracks begin to show,
I realize that my bike
Is the last memento that
Resonates through my aging ways.
Let's take a final spin down the boulevard,
Before the sun goes down
And my bones ache once more.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
here’s the clunking throb of my heart
and you walk in from work
your hair a fluster of black strands
heels flicked off and keys
tossed into the bowl with a clatter
you flump onto the sofa
say nothing
but listen to the clunking throb
of my heart
and I know we’re both thinking
something has to change
but the answer is hidden
like a note under a stone
we breathe
and the traffic continues outside
we sigh
and the phone shrieks by the door
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 4:24 PM UTC
I am the lust of the universe
longing to know itself
I am the thoughts like a cascading stream
water pummeling the rock of my soul
molding, shaping, forming, conforming
I am the peace of the bamboo forest
a society of shoots
shades of green solitude
standing together, clunking hollow,
serene, transfixing parallel angles, mesmerizing
obscuring the gaze beyond, reflecting within
drops drip and fall with a shake
I am the child throwing sand into the ocean,
jumping from the rushing water
challenging fate with a raised fist and a laugh to do his worst
I am the dancer in the waves
lifted by the tides
pirouetting in the current
I am the red stone cliff on the sea shore
sovereign stratum carved
growing with green, lush yet hard
I am the buttressed black lava rock
standing in the water, remote and mysterious
accepting time and erosion, jagged
I am the new sun rising red
arising from the mountain mist swirling on the ocean
ascending from the clouded horizon
a grand illusion of motion, perception, the seer
I am the beach wood
fallen from the trees standing
as sentinels to the ebb and flow
laughing in silence with the wind and the sound of tides whooshing
I am the surfer
riding the energy of the earth
slicing across the liquid wall face
I am the flag of men
unifying and dividing
I am the sand welcoming water and feet
soft as creamy butter
I am the mother and the son
replenishing, trailing, following, playing, watching
sharing belly buttons
I am the butterfly gliding on the Kona wind
wandering immortal
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
In the hollow of my brain,
sometimes a pebble,
bouncing off walls,
resounds, clunking.
It is not an idea,
just an attempt
at patience.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
There is a plot of land near my home which once housed an abundance of flora and fauna.
Turtles, birds, rabbits, snakes, wild dogfennel, pines, periwinkles, alamandas and southern river sage thrived in this space which now boasts only an open plot of beige mounds, cement cylinders, and monstrous machines.
I grimace at its "progress" daily.
Across the street, a large patch of wildflowers sit up and gaze upon this scene.
Day after day,
Erupting from the blue-eyed grass,
A family of spanish needle
and Mexican petunias
turn their blooms toward the beeping and the clunking of machines.
White peacock butterflies and red-tipped dragonflies dance around the feeding bees. I'd like to be like the flowers. To bloom rebelliously in the face of greed and destruction. Even though soon, they will be gone too.
Sep 23, 2022
Sep 23, 2022 at 4:14 PM UTC
did because i well jeez 10:23 farther steeper i'd was a outside 10:24 a junebug
is creaking on the well like a fine cylinder. it's because steeper or 10:27 clunking
a light of amiable is sort of. at 10:31 a common a cool the. into if.
a very sorry long is diacriticly loose with the scab of lunging trees
by the barn 10:31:53 is . it's was almost because i did i well jeez
the june is a crimped fine determined juice. did it seem because or and a breif
i s haloed somewhat or creaking a junebug is big for by the stalls shuffling with legs in the sort of barn by the 10:36 it's gabled a bit. or does it seem a because well did i and meyou. pm well it were 10:37 and longest brown is seemingly. otherwise unmarked a phonetic element. by a 10:39PM leafing softly
the scuttle a. unnerved little scraping. beneath or metatarsaled cadence a the grassed stripping earth went from the basest mouth of timbered certainly to the unskinniest blue. a vanity of wheels or because well did i jeez
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 12:19 PM UTC
Guard's boots echo on stone floor
Crash of ocean pounding rocks
Roar of wind across the waves
Lost gull cries against the storm
Clang of iron door slamming shut
Key rattled lock clunking tight
Stifled whimper, slap of skin on skin
Maddening laugh follows screams
Psalms 23-4 whispered over and over
Sounds of hell slide through my bars
like wisps of black smoke in the night.
r ~ 6/15/14
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
My car tyres are going bald,
most probably cancer.
That would just be my luck.
I once had a bike that got AIDS.
Please don't ask.
Seeing it just fall about, a nut here,
a bolt there, the broken
spokes, the clunking chain that
would turn no more.
It's rusty revolutions.
Disintegrating in front of my eyes,
like Tom Hanks in Philadelphia.
Seeing a BMX brings it all back.
Once at a car boot sale, I bought 3 car boots
only to find they were broken but
on a positive, someone bought my shoes,
even though they weren't for sale.
I walked home, socks on feet, the rain
seeping through,
the car boots on my back clunking,
I was thinking
life really isn't so bad
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 4:03 PM UTC
Behind the mask of darkness
Always lies the madness of one inner self
It is important to respect one fear
Around this time of Halloween
The autumn leaves had blanket the cold October ground
Covering the Jack' o lantern on the front porch,
And I wasn’t about to let nothing petrify me that cold night
I remember that morning had come a minute too soon
Before my R E M cycle kicked in
I wasn’t mentally prepare to face another day
But there I was once again: undone
In my country we were never allowed to,
Celebrate Halloween or dress up in
Anything, that resembles evil, ghost, globin,
Headless horsemen, or vampires,
It was known to be the works of the devil doings
My candid thoughts were on Halloween spooky night
The loud screams of trick or treats,
was heard all around this gloomy town of Collins port
Small tots all dress up in hideous costumes
I had allowed fear to control my thoughts and inner space
Black spiders, howling wolves and black coffins,
The creepiest sound and display on route 69
Grown folks hide behind the masks of darkness
While parading the street of Sotho in Manhattan
Another long night of evil spirits, witches and ghosts terrify the night;
Toddlers with Tiaras was on the verge of tears
what a lose-lose situation: From beginning to end
Close to ten there I was cruising down route 69
I check the glove compartment, took out a peppermint patty,
The rusty Beretta Nano pistol was still there,
snugly into my glove compartment
My pepper spray was close by my trigger fingers
Suddenly, I felt a **** scraping, and clunking, squeaking sound
My tire blowout in the middle of nowhere,
Behind the mask of darkness
Always lies the madness of one inner self
"Trick or treat!"
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
The wood chimes are clunking
with each sweep of breeze,
lending melody in this space.
This is where I dig,
dividing root from soil,
time from life, and us
from everybody else.
Squirrel scampers the border,
raising hackles and creating a
two-legged dog and mayhem.
This must be his habitat,
passed down through generations
until the brick and concrete conspired
to break the oak stronghold.
The view from the decking
throws itself through other gardens
to the far distant fast lane.
Noiseless here, with only
the high haunting whistle
of the slow circling
red kite.
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 11:46 PM UTC
an early day,
when my eyes awake to the lapping of sunshine.
i feel the tassels of this blanket come lose.
red thread threading through my hands.
thoughts of you heading through my head.
as if you were pulling in,
in that old Ford,
shaking the California from your hair.
all that wilderness and happy rust leaving
a dusty beach in our driveway.
as if you were clunking up the stairs,
familiar,
waiting later to unpack.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
I walk along, my glass feet clunking
But you long ago found you could drown out the sound
Struggling to keep up, my glass lungs heaving
But you long ago learned to be unconcerned
Lapping up snatches of conversation, my glass lips laughing
But you long ago grew bored of the girl who is now ignored
Lagging behind, my glass legs tired and aching
But you long ago blocked out my desperate shout
Screaming in frustration, my glass throat cracking
But you long ago stopped seeing my clear, colourless being
Sobbing and lonely, my glass soul shatters
And you turn
And you remember
How pretty I look when I'm broken
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
today i am but,
a rude mechanical thing
a wind up toy.
plodding along with whining gears
today i am but,
a fool's pawn to swing
a mere pendulum being,
arcing between
the sun and moon
today every thing is done
purely on muscle memory.....
....my thoughts...
.... are engaged elsewhere.
the only difficulty encountered.....
....they neglected to inform me
of their intended whereabouts
so now this is me,
a discombobulated, thingamajig
bought from Ikea, sans the allenkey, put together inexpertly, clunk-clunking
along, not right..a little bit wrong....clank- clunking on
by.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
Off it goes again. Grinding. Clunking.
Trying to refrain from stalling. Smoking.
Off it goes once more. Trying. Failing.
Trying to recall. Dying. Paling.
I know I’m awake but still thoughts’ll not come,
I try every day through the stars and the sun,
I know I am here, but I don’t know my name,
I try every year with my cold, empty brain.
There must be a mind half attached to this soul,
But all that I find is a vast, hollow hole.
There must be a light, somewhere down in the ghost,
Be dim or be bright, or be neither or both.
There must be a face to bring me from this Hell,
Some sound in the space that’ll ring a faint bell,
There must be a memory, emotion or more,
That can rise up to meet me, to open some door.
A fact or a fiction. A truth or a lie,
To pull back the curtains consuming this mind.
If someone could show me a photo perhaps,
Or play me a melody from back in my past.
Or pass me a trinket that used to hold weight,
To help me out-think these old derelict wastes.
Or perhaps take my hand and speak straight through the fog,
And so wake up the man, wake the person that was.
And stop all this sitting, and searching alone,
And stop me from missing all I must have known,
As for now I’m misplaced – with no sense of my time,
And for now here I wait. With my cold, empty mind.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
It’s one of those things
you don’t notice is gone
until it’s gone.
The last cup of coffee.
The last roll of toilet paper.
The things we use to
make Home.
The clunking of your refrigerator
magnets on the cookie sheet
followed
by a chorus
of pictures, cards, and old
grocery lists quieting their
fluttering song.
We said nothing,
like nothing even changed.
BG-Sometime in 2017
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
If I could touch the glow with the tip of my finger,
If I could wrap my arms around its eminent gaze,
If I could define its home on the edge of the horizon
in bathing puddles of purple-pink haze,
If I could run so fast that I’m sprinkled in mist
of passionate fires of elegant breeze
that spray from gigantic, white marshmallow puffs…
these clunking feet may fall to their knees.
Kiss me with summer,
a sunset tease.
Clothe me in musings,
a sunset pleased.
There’s nothing
quite so exhilarating.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
Ugly pensive shuddering blah dee dah
Wondering where the wind is
Holding back for god knows what
Crippled by ghosts with long ropes
Making a spectra out of myself
Passive abuse waiting for the sunrise
That never comes
Because the sun only sets
On the travelers journey
And the wind only blows
At the command of Demigods
The time is nigh
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC
Dropping, hitting, clunking,
Like a stone falling into the stomach.
All day long, it jumps and sinks.
Your indifference stings
Worse than my blisters,
And worse than your hate.
And like a child,
I cling to your side
And look in your eyes.
I am searching for love,
And acceptance,
But all I see is a blur.
All you show me
Is your disgust,
And all I feel is sorrow.
Why do I remain attached?
Love is the lock
To these gagging binds.
Everything I do is gross to you.
My whole existence
is gross to you.
"Mostly."
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 8:38 PM UTC
Our teeth clashed –
A clunking omen?
Tipsy fingers strolling.
“I think you might be a genius.”
“Shh.”
Onto backs, rolling.
Something asked,
Can’t disobey it.
Dreaming mouth delays it.
“I love you.”
“Shh.”
No, I’ll say it, I’ll say it.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
'Cape Town
is not in SA,'
she said.
My mind darts back to
the bus.
We sit
in an overly-cooled double-decker
like sweating bottles in a plastic cooler-box
- jerking and clunking and
squirming - skin stuck to PVC comfort
and upstairs,
breezing through
the city, taking in the sights.
Tourists.
I am a tourist in my own country.
We all are
because we cannot
span a hierarchy in
one lifespan.
For those that doubt -
let it be known that our land
is rich.
It can be noted in our gold
which brought the interest of European nations -
attracted to the glow of ore and the glint in our river rocks,
allowing them to watch
our brown-skinned beauties,
with clay pots and earthy skins beaded
with sweat, sway away
only to follow them
(not with sight alone)
and surrender the crown jewels
to enrich our land - a new born culture.
They knew our land was fertile.
They saw the potential of our fruit.
They brought the slaves with them.
They gave us coloured children,
European red in their veins and now picking white grapes off the vines.
They never wanted to leave
so they fermented,
barreled, corked.
They gave us jobs and homes and vaalwyn.
They took a lot
- our gold, our jewels, our women, our soil -
but they introduced
diversity.
We are rich.
But why is he so poor?
Don't look now
but on your left is a beggar.
Coloured,
clothes discoloured.
Unaware of our presence,
he digs through the refuse with a
growling stomach.
We all stare -
a double-decker full of eyes aimed
at the oblivious forager -
I turn my gaze.
How is it that we have
so much and so little
at the same time?
How is it that our president spends our income on Nkandla
and not this boy?
How is it that Helen and Patricia put up portable loos along the shanty fence
but have forgotten to feed this poor soul?
How is it possible for me to sit in uncomfortably icy air
while my brother burns under the glare of my fellow travelers?
He and I,
we are of the same land.
We are both rich.
Yet both of us display a reality
that neither of us truly deserves.
'Cape Town is in SA,'
I say.
We just have no idea.
Ignorance is indeed blissful
but it is also most wasteful.
Our land is rich and our people
deserve more than a blind eye.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
Grime soaked fingernails
Plastered crusty smiles.
The world passes by at 80 mph.
We are warped into
Clunking metal,
We are one with shrieking steel
And I am the queen of this mess.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
I still remember you
Walking hand in hand
Fresh off of the clunking city bus during the afternoon rush
Smiles as new as a pack of bright yellow pencils on the first day of school
Him a miniature version of you
The pride in your deep brown eyes
The pride in his
2 years have flown
I still see you two
Hand in hand
Great fathers lead by example
He is so proud of you
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 11:19 PM UTC
Now the cuts
have faded to pale seams,
from the girl
who left her key on the counter,
and took the _why_ with her,
and the friend
you hadn’t seen in years
but still called brother,
his last painting
hanging quiet on a wall,
in a room no longer yours.
like the ghost of an old song,
still in key
you rise again
fingernails dark with soil,
burying sunflower seeds
in morning’s cold fog.
The dog needs feeding.
There’s toast to burn,
and leaves to steep.
You carry your small life
like a cracked bowl
that still holds water.
After years bent in ritual hunger,
knees pressed to rock,
tongue dry from vow,
nights lit like altars,
no revelation came.
No divine telegram.
No trumpet of truth,
just the kitchen humming
and the silence after the call.
Only the widow neighbor,
waving through fogged glass.
Only the pipes in the wall
clunking like an old lung.
Only the light
barging in
without your consent.
You believe in coats
with missing buttons,
safety pins where zippers gave,
old threads that never matched
but held anyway.
You forgive the past
not because it asked
but because you needed the room.
It builds in your bones
like wind in an empty house,
constant, uninvited,
and full of old names.
Like a tune half-remembered,
only the hum
remains.
Jun 20, 2025
Jun 20, 2025 at 9:52 PM UTC
A bridge broken from one side to another.
A telephone wire cut.
Something's wrong inside my head.
The thing is, I don't know just what.
Chirping alarms
Whirring fans
Smoky smells
Red. Blinking. Lights.
A robot whose been programmed wrong,
An exposed sparking wire.
The buttons don't click all the way.
Hazardous, watch for fire.
Danger
Danger
Danger
Do not approach
This automatic switch is supposed to make me excited
This one makes a genuine smile.
Nobody notices, though, that I'm on manual control
And have been for a while.
Overheating
Overworking
Overdoing
Over
Electricity and buttons and wires
Do not mix well with water, I think.
But because I'm in desperate need of repair
I'm in constant thirst for a drink.
"Should have bought that extended warranty."
"Did you turn it off and on again?"
No.
No. Because it's broken.
Hard drive shorting
Lights are blinking
And I'm thinking
My last thoughts exporting
Crackling
Clicking
Clattering
Clanking
Clunking
The only thing that works well anymore
Is the part that goes through the motions.
Perseverance is my constant notion
As I burn myself out on the shore.
It's hot to the touch.
Back off.
Soon, it might Explode
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 9:14 PM UTC