Echoes

Tick echoes after tock,
From the dusty clock.
The old timer
In the silent room.

He watches ticks turn into years
Hears chimes echo
In deaf oversized ears.

Threadbare clothes of yesteryears,
Bald at the elbows and knees
Where cobweb threads
Make ends meet
Barely.

Faded photos of childrens’ children hide
Behind soot and grease.
Seeking their smiles
With watery glass covered eyes.

A brown faced reminder
Of a life that was
And one that is
Outside.

Gnarled knuckles weakly clutch,
Medals earned
That mean not much to outside.

Found in silent echoes
Of memories.
Brown smiles witness
His last tock.

Tick echoes after tock,
From the dusty clock
In the silent room.

I don't know what it is you've been eating but this style of poetry is my favourite. Where you 'show' the reader instead of telling them. Not in every instance, but enough to make them think.
Unless it absolutelly necessary, the repetition of words and phrases can sometimes become a stone in a shoe, a stone in a shoe, if you get my drift. However, in this case I think the repeated 'tick and tock' is needed. Clever use of the phrase 'Old Timer' too.
But yep, your walk around the poetic Hypermarket has borne some fruit.

Cheers, Darren.

I'll keep working at it, trying new things.

I never realised how much enjoyment I would get from doing it.

Thanks again.

I've reworked this. Please give me feedback. Do you prefer the 1st version, the 2nd version or are they both crap?

Echoes

Tick echoes after tock,
From the dusty clock.
The old timer
In the silent room.

He watches ticks turn into years
Hears chimes echo
In deaf overgrown ears.

Threadbare clothes of yesteryears,
Bald at the elbows and knees.
Cobweb threads
Barely make ends meet.

Faded photos of childrens’ children hide
Behind grease and nicotine.
Seeking their smiles with
Watery glass covered eyes.

Tracing with yellowed finger,
A brown faced reminder
Of a life that was
And one that is
Outside.

Gnarled knuckles weakly clutch,
Medals earned
That mean not much to outside.

Found in silent echoes of memories.
Through smoky uric air
Brown smiles witness
His last tock.

Tick echoes after tock,
From the dusty clock
In the silent room.

I can see why Darren enjoyed this, this imagery

Looks like we have all been doing 'time' ones recently.

Ok, I like the idea and there are some good lines but do you think that maybe tock and clock are too obvious, or is that what you wanted?

I think you could shape this even more, its good but I reckon you could really shape it up.

the problem is I end up trying to preach all my ways Darren and I dont want to do that, thats why Im not brill at reviewing, I rather phone people or see them in real life, I feel like a teacher marking, but that's just me. I think its good to put up all our work.

Will you read this one out?


the other problem is that the poem dissapears when you are typing a response, so I cant see it without opening another window, hang on ill do that now,

ok got it, actually its better and better with each read, I see the old timer now with the medals and for some reason I see him sluomed in a boiler room, maybe a place he was happy to go and tinker around. the picture I have is of steam a man working with steam.

good stuff