Clock
The clock, it tells a story-
One look at its tired face-
And a glimpse of both of its hands-
Why those seconds, just simply race...
Tick tocking its continued sounds-
Reminding us that time simply flies-
No it does not sprout feathered wings-
Nor take to the azure-blue skies...
But it moves nonetheless-
And with each day that passes away-
We are another day older-
And out of our youth-filled May...
Out of our heated July...
Rapidly, the clock, it simply ticks away-
Out of the falling leaves of our October-
Into Decembers white-ice chilled days...
'Tempus fugit', all we old timers cry-
Where oh where did all of our minutes go?
Just look at the clocks tired old face-
And its worn hands and you will surely know...
Dedicated To: G.A.C., Phillip, Joe, Bub, Lugh,
Zeike, and Pete.
poem by Theodora Onken
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Related quotes
Tempus Fugit for M lady Abha Sharma
Tempus Fugit
The minutes pass by fast or slow
They come and go
without a pause.
Simply because
that is what they’re meant to do.
They’re passing through.
They cannot stay,
brook no delay.
They’re measured by the tick and tock
of every clock
You can’t deny
time must pass by.
4-May-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tired sick.
When you don't have something that is what is everyone craves,
Then the trouble begins in waves. '
The clock loudly and soundly does tick
While you get tired sick.
You go do something that depends on others
Better do quick lest disagree your mothers.
Rhyme does you no then good,
Seems like that something is the only food.
The world beats around in their newly acquired fun
While you sit alone there, one and only one.
The clock loudly does tick
making you sick; really really sick
Tired of the fun, you go sit one,
While the music subsides and leaves you then,
With what you want.
The clock does tick,
Making you tired sick.
poem by Pablo Picasso
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Dusk and Dying
Dusk purple trees reach out high,
Gently brushing the Cotton Candy sky,
The nostalgic horizon passes by
And time races toward the time to die.
And I cannot help but wonder “But Why”?
Time is simply passing by, passing by,
Passing by….
But does it pause for me? Not I.
For me time simply passes by,
Like these leaves that patch this somber sky,
Time simply passes by
Like these leaves that have dried,
Skipping over the concrete, so spry.
“Simply live and let live! ” I try,
But life and living keep passing me by.
So, as my verse so aptly implies,
Whether I live, or whether I die,
I simply bid you fond goodbyes,
Like the sun as it sinks ‘low the cotton candy skies…
poem by Rachel L. Moore
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Tickity Tick Tock
can't sleep.
don't sleep.
won't sleep.
shan't sleep.
never sleep.
never sleep.
never sleep.
tick tock
tick tock
tickity tick
tock
tock
tock
the little hand drills a hole into my tired mind.
can't
tick
don't
tock
won't
tick
shan't
tock
never
tick
nev er
tock
never sleep
the clock keeps ticking
as my mind struggles to keep up
too many ticks.
too many tocks.
the clock's too loud
it echos through the silent night
too many thoughts
all at once
i need them on paper
scribble
tick
scribble
tock
that fucking clock
it never fucking stops
i cant fucking sleep.
a dog barks
tick
a car screeches
tock
a horse neighs...what?
i can't be that tired
i can't be hallucinating
i
can't
sleep.
don't sleep.
won't sleep.
shan't sleep.
never sleep.
i need a digital clock
Time Ticks
Reach out and rewind your clock before
it melts away like the flow
of crimson from a dying animal
that slowly loses its color,
for your clock ticks like a metronome
keeping time until the very last
beat of the song. Mend
your clock until your last
note is sung and your breath
is taken away from you. Before
the shadow that advances like water
filling in every crack gets to you,
rewind your clock to stay alive
and rid yourself of the tang
of fresh blood and the menacingly silent
ticking of your clock. Simply wrap
your trembling hand around the cool,
slippery surface of your timekeeper,
and rid your world of the stench
of Death. Or will you simply awaken
to find your death a mere dream?
Will you find that the reality
of Life is only a frank lie?
poem by Zoe Guillory
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Grand-Father's Clock
My grand-father's clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor;
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a penny weight more.
It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
In watching its pendulum swing to and fro,
Many hours had he spent while a boy;
And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know
And to share both his grief and his joy.
For it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door,
With a blooming and beautiful bride;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
My grandfather said that of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found;
For it wasted no time, and had but one desire --
At the close of each week to be wound.
And it kept in its place -- not a frown upon its face,
And its hands never hung by its side;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
It rang an alarm in the dead of the night --
An alarm that for years had been dumb;
And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight --
That his hour of departure had come.
Still the clock kept the time, with a soft and muffled chime,
As we silently stood by his side;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
poem by Henry Clay Work
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Time
We test time by seconds, minutes,
hours, days and years.
We then add figures in front of them.
We put time on everything,
whether it is inanimate or animate.
Time will have a space somewhere there.
We are cultured to
seek out time from everywhere.
When we cannot find it,
we are entirely lost.
However, do we really need
a clock to tell us things?
We can eat when we are hungry,
sleep when we are tired,
work until we’ve had enough
and play whenever the moment takes us.
In reality, we don’t need time.
Just think they never
had watches in the olden days.
Have you ever tried
to do without time?
If you haven’t then
you’re missing something so grand.
There are no worries and stress
that modern day brings.
It is healthier living at its best.
Totally relaxing
to enable you to run with the wind.
Time who needs it anyway?
Do we really need to be governed by a clock?
26 October 2007
poem by David Harris
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Flexitime for Friend Denis joe
A blank faced clock which has no hands
must still obey Chronos’ commands.
The minutes pass without display.
Times moves on inexorably
the hours passing speedily
Today replaces yesterday.
Why are men obsessed by the clock
they measure every tick and tock.
What does it matter anyway?
we know that darkness rules the night
and that the day is filled by light.
Some time to sleep and work or play.
Avid clock watchers fail to see
that time can pass variably.
4-May-08
http: //Blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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There Are Arms That Tick Tock On My Clock
I'm not blocking out your knock on my door,
No more,
No.
No more,
No.
Or padlock up that lock one notch...
No more,
No.
No more,
No.
I've got a life I'm living.
(And) I'm tired of sitting around,
Just to kiss.
There are arms that tick tock on my clock.
No longer into limits giving minutes benefit,
No more,
No.
No more,
No.
When I give attention I expect to get a little bit.
And more I could store!
I've got a life I'm living.
(And) I'm tired of sitting around,
Just to kiss.
There arms that tick tock on my clock.
I'm not blocking out your knock on my door,
No more,
No.
No more,
No.
Or padlock up that lock one notch...
No more,
No.
No more,
No.
I've got a life I'm living.
(And) I'm tired of sitting around,
Just to kiss.
I've got arms that tick tock on my clock.
I've got a life I'm living.
(And) I'm tired of sitting around,
Just to kiss.
There are arms that tick tock on my clock.
There are arms that tick tock on my clock!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Tick Tick Tick....!
Tick Tick Tick Tick,
Clock Ticks,
Lub dub Lub Dub heart beats,
Cycle of inhaling and exhaling
makes breath,
Pulses from unknown center has own lifetime,
keeps time for us, clock that set in
every cell schedules its life and
birth! Life is light trapped in atom,
excited electron has to fall back,
Just like life raises up and falls
back,
rhythm, wavelength and
frequency decide energy of light, local time may not match with
clock in other region,
Light travels covering space
does truly decide time?
You are the medium where light
is slowest, faster it is in different medium
and plane, Before the internal clock stops,
Sending warning alarm,
Alarm thyself, you are here not
only to know,
But also to the wish of the one
beyond light and clock, who can fix clock even in a light
photon,
can fix clock in everything,
Arise and awake before chime of
alarm,
No snooze is there in your clock, Never get yourself lost in
yawning,
No one can stay here.
when time is up!
Namaste and thank you all before
my clock ticks and buzz to say
time is up!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Lived In a Way That I Like
I am tired of providing someone else,
Entertainment.
Or become the subject of someone else's convenience.
There are those who react as if appalled...
If the hands on a clock does not stop for them!
And I am not loaning any tick tocking done in my behalf,
To anyone to prove a thing.
I've played both roles in a yesterday that has gone.
You know...
The Master of Ceremony with touches of comedy,
For someone momentarily bent out of shape.
And even though some may fine my lack of interest,
Offensive.
I've learned to walk away from that kind of mind play.
This is 'my' life!
And it will be lived in a way that I like!
Or...
Moved in a direction made without hesitation.
I am not loaning any tick tocking done in my behalf,
To anyone to prove a thing.
When lessons are learned it is best to use them.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Clock Stopped
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 pendulum
stands very still to the one
in my mind that tilts to
to and fro, to and fro
a child concentrating
on his yo yo
the golden horse on its top
gives it a different chi
with spanned wings that
looks ever anxious to
take me to wherever
i wish to be - carte blanche
so long i have the time
it is a no show though
the minute and hour needles
do the same hands over head
posture of a ballet dancer
yesterday, today and tomorrow
and the clock looks onto me
like a deaf man with all the
endowments to talk but without a
proper word to get things across
so that he is all hands and fingers
a round and well bred
attentive audience numbered
one to twelve sit like ministers
as they wait for hands to point out
the importance of each, why
they should be at their place
the clock is old as myself
even time must grow old and
must stop one day and what a
graceful way to do so with
such a glamorous and
flamboyant posture and on
a face everyone once confided in
- a face that blandishes
a rough mole where
its owner would work
every now and then
to put back the health
of his time so that
it would chime at the right time
morn, noon and night
the clock invariably
takes me back to years ago
when our house was flying high
with a horse with spanned wings
that promised much fun with its hourly
ding dong ding dong solemn call
that never failed to to plough into us
the seriousness of time
then it was a new clock and
had dutifully counted the minutes
and seconds with absolute accuracy
as we inched our way up the
expectations of dad and mom
grannies, teachers, and friends
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Me-Time Continuum
I watch the clock ticking out its time.
I hear the gears tocking 'till the chime…
I hold my stare acutely
And focus ears astutely.
The whole gestalt of this assault by me on clock
Collapses in to hence become
A new me-time continuum,
This clock and I a vacuum;
Dial and me, we've come to be
A synergistic, fatalistic victim,
Hmm…
When it ticks, I then tock:
I am me as well as clock.
When it tocks, I then tick.
We burn together down the wick
In candle wax, both cold and warm,
Together now in molten form.
We jump the side but soon to stall,
Only to solidify
Until the active plateau
Chases…
Down…
Sinking…
To melt again the bit that ran (us) –
All in a time storm
With timeless plan.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
Ti me time time time time time time time time
Time time time time time
Time time time
Time time
Time time time
Time time time time time
Time time time time time time time time time
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Today I Read The Poem About Falling
today let me tell you i read about falling
contained in your poem which sounds like
zen,
something metaphysical from the point of view
of taoism
which likely you must have learned so well while you were in Tibet
when you studied in Thailand
when you spent sometime contemplating on the ruins
of Myanmar
you tell me that not everything that falls
reaches the ground
some of them simply dissolve in the air
and the hands and palms of the earth
waiting
actually receives nothing
like snowflakes overrun by summer heat
like your sighs simply dissolving in the clouds
but at the conclusion you were honest enough
to admit that some are simply falling
and keep on falling
and falling
to some depths
of infinity
on an eternal abyss
that even time
has no power to catch
and hold them
they just keep on
falling
it is their nature
agape, askance,
behold!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Monitored or Not It Just Becomes Hypnotic
People think that happiness will come and just sit.
Just sit!
Just sit!
People think that happiness will come and just sit.
Just sit!
Just sit!
Like the hands of a clock that tocks with a tick.
Tock tick.
Tock tick.
Tock tick.
Tock tick.
And the running and humming becomes toxic.
Toxic.
Toxic.
And nothing exotic will make this erotic.
Monitored or not it just becomes hypnotic.
And people who want what they want wont stop!
Like the hands of a clock that ticks with a tock!
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
Or the chopping heard of meat on a butcher's block!
Sssshop chop.
Sssshop chop.
Sssshop chop.
Sssshop chop!
People like their beef stewed nice and hot!
And nothing exotic will make this erotic.
Monitored or not it just becomes hypnotic.
And people who want what they want wont stop!
Like the hands of a clock that ticks with a tock!
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
People think that happiness will come and just sit.
Just sit!
Just sit!
People think that happiness will come and just sit.
Just sit!
Just sit!
Like the hands of a clock that tocks with a tick.
Tock tick.
Tock tick.
Tock tick.
Tock tick.
And the running and humming becomes toxic.
Toxic.
Toxic.
And the running and humming becomes toxic.
Toxic.
Toxic.
And monitored or not it just becomes hypnotic.
Like people wishing happiness will come and just sit.
Just sit.
Just sit.
And all they have to do is just wait for it!
Like the hands of a clock that tocks with a tick.
Tock tick.
Tock tick.
And monitored or not it just becomes hypnotic.
Monitored or not it just becomes hypnotic.
Monitored or not it just becomes hypnotic.
Hypnotic.
Hypnotic.
And monitored or not it just becomes hypnotic.
Hypnotic.
Hypnotic.
And monitored or not it just becomes hypnotic.
And monitored or not it just becomes hypnotic.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Procrastination: The thief of time for M lady Catrina
The clock ticks inexorably
Each second moves the minute
hand forward infinitesimally.
Or so I’m led to understand.
But I afraid I cant agree.
Sometimes if I should look away
The hands move forward rapidly
Much quicker than the normal way.
What happens to the time that’s passed?
I can’t retrieve in any way.
The present has become the past.
I’ve lost a portion of my day.
I wonder if you’ve noticed too
The sneaky tricks which clocks can do.
18/07/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Automation
Tick tock, tick tock,
computer's clock,
steal lady of the night.
She sits alone while birdies flock
to bid her a goodnight.
Tick tock, tick tock,
computer's clock,
the world's automated
and the lady in a metal cloak
will live alone, unaided.
Tick tock, tick tock,
computer's clock,
her hard drive stirs again
and while I type this poem,
so dies my mighty pen.
Tick tock, tick tock,
computer's clock,
so true, so true the fear
that life as we once knew it
has slowly disappeared.
Tick tock, tick tock,
computer's clock
we victims of our time.
The last bird flies above us
while all of nature dies.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Tick-Tock
Tick-tocking in my ear
My dollar clock I hear.
'Arise,' it seems to say:
'Behold another day
To grasp the golden key
Of Opportunity;
To turn the magic lock--
Tick-tock!
'Another day to gain
Some goal you sought in vain;
to sing a sweeter song,
Perchance to right a wrong;
To win a height unscaled
Where yesterday you failed;
To brave a battle shock--
Tick-tock!'
You measure out my breath,
Each beat one nearer death . . .
O God, grant unto me
A few more years to be,
That somehow I may prove
My loyalty and love:
Wind up this worn-out clock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock!
poem by Robert William Service
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New-Year's Eve
Good old days--dear old days
When my heart beat high and bold--
When the things of earth seemed full of life,
And the future a haze of gold!
Oh, merry was I that winter night,
And gleeful our little one's din,
And tender the grace of my darling's face
As we watched the new year in.
But a voice--a spectre's, that mocked at love--
Came out of the yonder hall;
'Tick-tock, tick-tock!' 't was the solemn clock
That ruefully croaked to all.
Yet what knew we of the griefs to be
In the year we longed to greet?
Love--love was the theme of the sweet, sweet dream
I fancied might never fleet!
But the spectre stood in that yonder gloom,
And these were the words it spake,
'Tick-tock, tick-tock'--and they seemed to mock
A heart about to break.
'T is new-year's eve, and again I watch
In the old familiar place,
And I'm thinking again of that old time when
I looked on a dear one's face.
Never a little one hugs my knee
And I hear no gleeful shout--
I am sitting alone by the old hearthstone,
Watching the old year out.
But I welcome the voice in yonder gloom
That solemnly calls to me:
'Tick-tock, tick-tock!'--for so the clock
Tells of a life to be;
'Tick-tock, tick-tock!'-'tis so the clock
Tells of eternity.
poem by Eugene Field
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School's Out
Watching the ticking of the clock,
Tick-tock tick-tock
The clock that counts our days away.
Tick-tock tick-tock
Two minutes left and shrinking fast.
Tick-tock tick-tock
It’s summer time and school is out!
Thank you Sir for teaching us
Another year is gone.
Thank you Miss for showing us
The meaning of those songs.
Summer’s here, summer’s here,
School is out, school is out.
Although we’re glad it’s holidays
Thank you for the year!
Heavy feet trudging through
The sweet smelling grass.
A sneeze, a speck of hay fever,
Blame it on the class.
A fire bell with lots of groans,
Hurry up, we want to go home,
Ticks on registrations chart
Jimmy, here ma’am, no it’s Mark!
Yes Sir no Sir, three bags full Sir.
Left right, left right.
Emily, Amy, quiet now!
Tick-tock tick-tock
I’m too hot in here now Miss!
Tick-tock tick-tock
Sssshhh, there’s only seconds left.
Thank you Sir for teaching us
Another year is gone.
Thank you Miss for showing us
The meaning of those songs.
Summer’s here, summer’s here,
School is out, school is out.
Although we’re glad it’s holidays
Thank you for the year!
It's now the summer,
School is out,
The last day gone with and enormous shout.
Some of us you'll see again,
Some of us you won't.
But the thing that we want you to know is
Thank you for the year!
poem by Thistle Wargul
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