Clocks poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best clocks poems ever written. Read all poems about clocks.
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
a girl who keeps slipping off,
arms limp as old carrots,
into the hypnotist's trance,
Elan that lifts me above the clouds
into pure space, timeless, yea eternal
Breath transmuted into words
Transmuted back to breath
Things get broken
like they were pushed
by an invisible, deliberate smasher.
arrive. The Ladies from the Ladies' Betterment League
Arrive in the afternoon, the late light slanting
In diluted gold bars across the boulevard brag
Of proud, seamed faces with mercy and murder hinting
Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing
Now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips like a puff of summer wind
Without notice, our dear love can escape our doting embrace
Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on
the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I've been up all night, talking,
talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues
1. Cogida and death
At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
My friends without shields walk on the target
It is late the windows are breaking
Let's go hand in hand to a strange spot
Secretly, stealthily, without paying heed
To what they perceive and say of us
We'll take a walk in hillsides in pair
We have a soul at times.
No one’s got it non-stop,
Day after day,
For my poems, my friend Valsa George has a hunger.
She’s over fifty, but, compared to me, she is younger.
She suggested I write about ‘the advantages of being old’.
It’s a challenge, but, Valsa, on this idea you have sold......
I would like to sing someone to sleep,
have someone to sit by and be with.
I would like to cradle you and softly sing,
be your companion while you sleep or wake.
There was a time when in late afternoon
The four-o'clocks would fold up at day's close
Pink-white in prayer, and 'neath the floating moon
I lay with them in calm and sweet repose.
WHEN daisies pied and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
One day people will touch and talk perhaps
And loving be natural as breathing and warm as
Tell me not, in doctored numbers,
Life is but a name for work!
For the labour that encumbers
Me I wish that I could shirk.
Shine on, O moon of summer.
Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak,
All silver under your rain to-night.
The sounds of home greet me
the trickling sound of the fish tank
my mother's eccentric cackling
and my step father's loud voice
Four seasons, that's all -
Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall.
Change clocks on the wall!
In the monsoon this year, when you come to visit
I thought we would spend the night like this
I will spread my heart at your beautiful steps
I will take a picture of you with my own eyes
A clock once chimed at every hour
Driven by gears, cogs and springs
steam once flowed through this clock
Powering its arms with each tick and tock
How had it been the clocks,
My father's days were ruled by the tick of clocks
Punctuality was his watchword
He was a genuine time piece
He kept my grandfather's waistcoat watch on a chain
The time on our clocks, an idea created, by man,
it useful to track our past, along with creating future plans.
The years of our lives, our just numbers in time,
When it failed to ring
I wondered why it didn't—
This alarm sweet that must sing,
But nowhere was there a hint.
Breathing of seconds - off digital clocks, cast iron church bells and distant, hard-fought memories,
The pacing of life,
The purpose of days - together, apart,
This journey half sung rings loud now,
At a right angle to paper you grasp A wisp of morning mist a tranquil tree on a grave Sky awakening in the bedroom Young women at odds naked frenzied stalk A daytime walnut destroys the evidence of the brain's crime Alcohol all year round sustains a headache Holding tight forks at a table sparkling with the sea The world puts eyes into mouths A poem that has never been finished At a right angle to paper just written on an epitaph Is washed over by the river on floorboards Blood nailed up as a ladder with two frozen legs Is taken along to the crowds panic buying trash Another morning preserving the cruelty of clocks At a right angle to a derelict street it says This is not the last time for you to come down on paper
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