A Clock Stopped Poem by john tiong chunghoo

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