13 Ways Poem: 13 Ways of Lookin' at a Clock

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Clock

I

It shrieks! It

screams! The

Clock shouts

“Get up! Get

up!”

II

The clock caught

Quentin Compson.

Tied its

ticking, tocking

time to his

tan shoe---

tugged him down into

the Charles River.

III

Crimson colors

the college ruled

sheet of paper that

dates 2/13/

08; small 

black print

indicates that

it was

6:00 o’clock.

IV

legs

spread

stirrup-style,

forceps forcing

the forehead

forward. tug,

tug: pop!

It’s four o’clock.

V

Each egg

coils with

cracks. Curling and

cracking each

creation as

the internal

clock continues

to tick.

VI

A cold, hard

ebony barrel

holds my

temple

still. The clock

reads 10:26

pm. He has

four minutes.

VII

A clock rules

this family,

At the ting-

They rise.

At the tong-

They eat.

At the tingtong-

The separate.

VIII

12 numbers.

2 stems.

White. Black.

Bland Colors.

Plain. Simple. Yet

a clock is

king. Is 

emperor. Is 

karateka. It

can karate-

chop one’s

 job, kick

one’s meetings, elbow 

strike one’s 

life if

one does not

follow it’s

calculated time.

IX

Clocks

corrupt

leisure.

Clocks contaminate

freedom.

Clocks kill

liberation. Clocks

execute

true

existence.

X

Time ticks,

passes. The mother

glances, glares

at the gold-rimmed

clock. It’s

midnight. Angry,

anxious,

apprehensive:

No sign

of her

daughter.

XI

A cuckoo

bird coos at

noon! It

glides

from inside

its cuckoo

clock dwelling!

XII

Each number added

numbs the

youth. Rubs the

adolescent aura from

the face. Each tick

clocks a

rigid line lapping

across the

face.

XIII

When Earth’s orbit

reports to

the Clock at

365 days, this

little blue emerald

orb we

believe rules

the universe

and its

inhabitants—

obeys the

Clock’s 

commands and

time

turns.  

Syllabic Poem: Monkey B/a/r/s/

Monkey B/a/r/s/

A bold smoke bomb explodes

            in the twilight sky

                        showering, slow

                        kaleidoscope kisses

            spilling, splattering wishes

for the hungry, hollow human eye;

It awakens from its

            submerged, seasoned sleep,

                        swelling from pits

                        of dark, damp disregard---

            Consciously crawling! Bombard

its buried bubble, butting the b/a/r/s/

The orb absorbs, perceives

            the gaudy garnish

                        glow and receives

                        a merry memory:

            Mount^i^n^g a sanctuary,

to see the sunset, the sky’s sad smile.

Spooky silhouettes scrape

            the dusky-dying

                        day, while it rapes

                        the forgotten fun-filled

            eves. The limbs, the boughs that peel

back, where one can swing, seesaw, or sway.

Unconcerned, unconscious

            of the springtime scene,

                        subconsciously

                        scared of shutting out these

            escapades. Memory flees

fast! Falling down! Forgetting---dark d*a*w*n*s*