Travel Poem by Ron Padgett


Rating: 3.5

The little clock dings the night on the roof.
It hurries towerd the mystery of luck.
I don't know where these things are hidden
what is not behind is silence on the face
of a plaque dividing the barrel from the wall.
They intend to porpose a lower voice to sing a voice higher.
That at night one's life full of bits of wood
is silent is passing between the veins
much paints falls on the world indoors.
You are finished hearing throught a filter
where noise lends a sort of joy to your own clock

Joe Blow 22 November 2017

Unless I am simply unfamiliar with the word 'throught', there may be a typo in this poem.

1 0 Reply
Susan Williams 06 July 2016

I am a bit sleepy-headed... I hope that is why I cannot make heads nor tails of this work. It's like I'm an inch short- I think I'm onto it and I reach out and it slips away as if I never had a glimpse of its truth. I shall have to try again when my two brain cells are awake... But I don't feel too bad, I see that I have company with Tom below!

3 0 Reply
Tom Billsborough 06 July 2016

Not too impressed. Tom Billsborough

1 1 Reply
Edward Kofi Louis 06 July 2016

I don't know where these things are hidden! Nice work.

1 0 Reply
Ron Padgett

Ron Padgett

Tulsa, Oklahoma
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