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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=422373" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Clock Stopped</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">poetry in progress</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the old wooden clock at<br>the grocery store ticks on<br>and on on the wall of my mind<br>taking me back to childhood years</div><div style="margin:10px 0">it peeks at me every time <br>i pass by one lone child <br>hungering for love and<br>sweet adventures </div><div style="margin:10px 0">in it a mirror pendulum <br>stands very still to the one<br>in my mind that tilts to<br>to and fro, to and fro<br>a child concentrating <br>on his yo yo</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the golden horse on its top<br>gives it a different chi<br>with spanned wings that <br>looks ever anxious to <br>take me to wherever<br>i wish to be - carte blanche<br>so long i have the time</div><div style="margin:10px 0">it is a no show though<br>the minute and hour needles<br>do the same hands over head<br>posture of a ballet dancer<br>yesterday, today and tomorrow</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and the clock looks onto me<br>like a deaf man with all the <br>endowments to talk but without a <br>proper word to get things across<br>so that he is all hands and fingers</div><div style="margin:10px 0">a round and well bred <br>attentive audience numbered <br>one to twelve sit like ministers<br>as they wait for hands to point out<br>the importance of each, why <br>they should be at their place</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the clock is old as myself<br>even time must grow old and <br>must stop one day and what a <br>graceful way to do so with<br>such a glamorous and <br>flamboyant posture and on <br>a face everyone once confided in <br>- a face that blandishes <br>a rough mole where <br>its owner would work<br>every now and then<br>to put back the health <br>of his time so that<br>it would chime at the right time<br>morn, noon and night</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the clock invariably <br>takes me back to years ago<br>when our house was flying high<br>with a horse with spanned wings<br>that promised much fun with its hourly <br>ding dong ding dong solemn call<br>that never failed to to plough into us<br>the seriousness of time </div><div style="margin:10px 0">then it was a new clock and<br>had dutifully counted the minutes <br>and seconds with absolute accuracy<br>as we inched our way up the<br>expectations of dad and mom<br>grannies, teachers, and friends</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Tiong+Chunghoo">John Tiong Chunghoo</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=422373" data-title="A Clock Stopped de John Tiong Chunghoo" data-description="poetry in progress

the old wooden clock at
the grocery store ticks on
and on on the wall of my mind
taking me back to childhood years

it peeks at me every time 
i pass by one lone child 
hungering for love and
sweet adventures 

in it a mirror p..."></div>
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