Best Clog Up Poems
No pushing or breaking of water
It was a c-section that brought her
But this is about
What wouldn’t come out
A poop just as big as my daughter!
Perhaps it was pain medication
To clog up and cause constipation
Nurse said I must show
They won’t let me go
Till poop- there it is- defecation!
Determined, I pulled an all-nighter.
That turd was a hell of a fighter.
And then with my tush,
Turns out I did push!
And poof! I was seven pounds lighter!
Categories:
clog up, creation, daughter, fun, funny,
Form:
Limerick
Boys don't cry,
I felt my soul collapse and concave into a black hole located in the epicentre of my white heart.
They never told us that when you let pain nibble on your sanity you lose yourself to the gluttony of pain.
They never told us that pain never seeps out from the pores of hope,
Or that thick ropes make for comfortable ties that clog up pain from condemning your head.
Boys don't cry,
They only taught us to seal tight the bottle that encages our emotions so that they can live like freedom-deprived animals in these cages.
They told us to drown in shallow glistening pools of tears that defy the laws of gravity,
Taught us to be barbarians and never display weakness on our plain faces.
But they should have told us that
Boys do cry.
Maybe it will take time to unfasten the 'nots' of society but until then...
Boys do not cry, they simply sweat through their eyes
Categories:
clog up, cry,
Form:
Free verse
Moggnome was a wee little soul from Tashee,
standing on tiptoes, he might reach to your knee.
Pomegranate face, fringed by dandelion fluff,
a thickly thatched head, and like that wasn’t enough,
for it grew on his hands, and his ankles and feet,
bird nest like brows, it also clung to his cheek.
If he’d ever given thought to a cut and a shave,
there would be enough clippings, to fill up a cave.
For Moggnome had much more hair, than most,
it would stick to the knife, as he buttered his toast.
If he washed from a sink, it would clog up the drain,
so when storm clouds appeared, he’d shampoo in the rain.
It was wild and unruly, with a mind of its own,
like a candy floss head, crowning a paper stack cone.
But below the surface of this savage, dense mane,
beat a stalwart heart, tempered by an astute brain.
Strolling one morning, Moggnome’s mind gave a lurch,
for swinging from a bough, like a bird on a perch,
sat the fairest young maiden, of gnome lore it seems,
a charcoal haired beauty, he would seek as his queen.
With a smile kissed by angels, she gave him a nod,
and his spirit soared skyward, as though sunk in a bog.
Her eyes glimmered like emeralds, imbedded in moss,
but how to woo this sweet vision, he felt at a loss.
At that very moment, a troll charged out at full gear,
his aim was that pendant, now screaming with fear.
Moggnome rolled at the troll, like a tumbleweed mass,
the impact as he struck, even felt by the lass.
They twirled and they spun like a trundling wheel,
and as they came to a halt, attack lost its appeal.
Shaken and bewildered, the troll bolted retreat.
Not a word would he mention, of this humbling defeat.
As Moggnome brushed off dust, from head to thigh,
his breath whooshed out, in the form of a sigh.
The maiden stood anchored, in the shimmering light,
While she gazed at her hero, with awe and delight.
She advanced like a vision, a nymph from his sleep,
and with a kiss to his brow, his hair curled like a sheep.
Some say they were wed, at that very same place,
where Moggnome won honour, and his sweetheart’s grace.
Categories:
clog up, fantasy, imagination,
Form:
Imagism
The mighty oak tree sits near
Orange and red leaves
Looking like it is on fire
They clog up the eaves
Beautiful to see
Sight unlike any around
In awe completely
Russell Sivey
Form Seguidilla
Categories:
clog up, life, nature, tree,
Form:
Rhyme
They’ve found a body in my back yard. I
imagine what a dead house would look
like. A stillborn Brownstone with its Jurassic
sandstone hiccupping fossils and family
feuds. Terrace houses would ripple rumour
and rife gossip from one mirrored house to the
next, those prison bars on pavements. A Bungalow
would be simpler: no basement layers or levels
of intrigue, no Who before the Dunnit. Now I
imagine what type of house would best cover a
crime…. no room in High Rise or Loft - the body
would just float, just hang there. A quickly
erected Tent could hide disturbed earth; or a
chugging Barge to clog up clay and clods of mud
over not yet decayed fingers and thumbs. A
Farmhouse has a credible need of a pyre like
an Igloo’s plausible need for ice. A Tudor revival
wouldn’t want anything of the sort. Then I imagine
how the rooms would react: bathroom tiles cracking
into brave smiles and kitchens hiding knives in fear of
another attack; staircases sagging like the confused
brow of a mourning man, a living room offended by
the very antonym of itself. I imagine what a
guilty house would look like… crocodile tears from
a Pacific Lodge and panicked lies of a Flounder, the
subtle reveals of a Dingbat. I doubt a Shotgun
would even try though, nor the Creole Cottage; just
accept its racial profiling. They’ve found a body in
my back yard. So, am I a church now I have a graveyard?
Categories:
clog up, analogy, bereavement, body,
Form:
Personification
Villanelle : Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars
Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars
Nor of how déchets comets shunted life to arid earth
What’s our life worth if we live in mangers as bores
Wildly lashing oceans marked the limits of our maws
When travel slithered on foot mountains did us girth
Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars
How many the astral bodies how shiny the lights of yores
Would clog up the firmament to keep us from eternal truth
What’s our life worth if we live in mangers as bores
Flights of human minds forged in the blasts of quasars
Can in no way enlighten the frigidity of the hearth
Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars
Even if life down hère could have evolved brazen bizarres
Pluck not excuses from the skies aloof to comfort us in mirth
What’s our life worth if we live in mangers as bores
Much rather stop this brilliant race from owning stars
Than believe in the sacrosanct rule of space by earth
Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars
Will life be chaste if we stoke more monstrous maws
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Categories:
clog up, allegory, stars,
Form:
Villanelle
Sickness and tragedy
are not punishment
but facts of life
viruses attack
wars kill
tumours grow
leukemia strikes
blood vessels clog up, burst
the innocent are killed by
drugged and drunk drivers
psychotic people act out dreams
that only make sense to them
in a parallel reality
alcohol distorts
ends in abuse
children are killed
by playing with guns
drown in pools, rivers
these are but facts of existance
there is no theistic God
directing these processes
of cause and effect
whom we can call
don't misunderstand
God is very real
but different
to the traditional
belief of old.
Categories:
clog up, care, god, drug,
Form:
Free verse
"garbage in, garbage out...sometimes you gotta clean out the mental closet"_ quote by poet
junk
in the attic
of the mind,
lingering on;
gradually
gathering dust.
cumbersome junk
of tossed aside woes
piling up;
steadily
ballooning
into a big pile
of tainted white elephants
that clog up
my thought process.
occasional practice
of mindfulness
is my way
of clearing out
the mental clutter.
Form J - Just Write Me A New Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance LaFrance
Theme chosen: Junk
Date written: 03/22/2022
Categories:
clog up, analogy, metaphor, peace, perspective,
Form:
Verse
Inquisitive, needy, desperate
That's me
Always mewling at your doorstep
Follow closely at your heels
So
You could never once think of leaving
Me behind
I disgust myself
It's too late to shake me
Now;
You've already fed me
Though I'm ashamed, I never hesitate
To beg you still for more
I'm
Famished otherwise, and even then,
I've drawn this path too
Many times
It's too late to shake me
Now;
You're already mine
And the guilt settles in
Like
Amber leaves clog up your gutters
And the truth, it burns at
Me
Like the fire churns the wood
Laid at your hearth
Discount my pelt of night and
Jealous, emerald eyes
Take them not for evil, but for
A form of love in disguise
Take me instead to be your cherished
Pet
Love me as if I were your own, as
If I really belonged with you
Humor me, for once, when I tell you
That I love you
When I bite my own tongue, release it
Give me the words that
I could say
Teach me how to keep you, even as
You write me off and make me
Say goodbye
Or better yet, surprise me by
Asking me to stay
Let me believe in love by telling
Me that this is somehow
Irrevocably okay
Categories:
clog up, love, me, love, me,
Form:
Rhyme
I grew up on a farm and we never had an alarm clock
we had an old rooster and every morning he would wake my dad
three hundred sixty five days a year
He never said I think I will sleep in today and not do my job
I don't think so
He was just doing the job that God gave him to do and never complained
And the little hen does she know that when she lays her eggs
and hatches her chicks that she is feeding our family
I don't think so
she is just doing the job that God gave her to do and doing it well
she sings all day and never complains
When the little birds pick up grass and string to build a nest in the corner of the
house do they know they clog up the drain so the water won't run off
I don't think so
They are just doing the job that God gave them to do to feed their family
and when they began to sing in the morning no choir on earth is more beautiful
and they never complain
I wonder why God didn't give us a bird brain then we could get up in the morning
and instead of complaining we could go to work and lift up our voice to our
heavenly Father and thank him for giving us our job
Are we not greater than the rooster the hen and the birds
I think so
Categories:
clog up, inspirational, nature, people, god,
Form:
Narrative
I dig a spur of the moment
into the feral flanks of a rocking horse.
I belong to the stars
and the wide-open anywhere.
My heart belongs to Molly Maguire
a colleen from the low bog country.
No wait, this is a dream sequence
brewed to overflow at 3 in the morning.
The beery light is turning sour
as I check my watch for tics.
My problem is to many cookies
not the edible kind
the kind that clog up a computer
or a brain (same thing really).
When I struggle out of this muddled bed
I am going to get myself a deep scan,
clean up some dirty memories
so that I can plug into a sharper faster reality.
Might even rewrite this poem
into a clearer form of gibberish,
but will probably be too busy today
downloading a spinal cord
into my aching
and malfunctioning mainframe.
Categories:
clog up, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
A poet dreams, a poet writes
Words of passion, mostly unlike,
Like a rhythm nation, they rock in time
Coming from strange but gifted minds
Like a blank canvas that opens up so many feelings and thoughts
Writing words that will affect other people’s hearts,
Dreams filled with hopes and despair and some with luck
Others just need the words to help pick them up
A poet words help others to find their deepest feelings within their own being
Hopefully they will teach as well help those who need just need some healing,
With love and a understanding that can be construed between each line
Taking on subject matters to their limits and beyond most of the time
Subjects which may considered tabooed, others are right on the mark
Company that is for the lonely, one who hides away in the dark,
Addictions and life’s tough woes, a constant reminder for all
Breaking down the barriers of the self imposed walls
Aspirations of greatness stopped by the initiatives of a once strong will
Pouring out the kindness that will essentially help those with the will to live,
Granted far be it not everything is always right
But hopefully the truthful meanings come out in the things a poet writes
Passions of truthful inspirations coming with the territory of what we live
Trying to show the goodness we have learned and what we have to give,
Reflections of a simpleton who plays the poor man’s role
Someone who struggles daily to reach their goals
No judgments or scruples that can be comprised to clog up a mind
Basic instincts that weave moral fabrics, keeping track of somebody during their
lifetime,
Ethics proposed to every individual so they stay on track and not get forgotten in the
mist
Remembering those who simply need a hug or a loving gentle kiss
Producing pictures like a physic that’s able to see within the mind of others
Taking them on a journey within a piece of literature about many subjects covered,
Each individual deciphers the messages that touches their own heart differently it seems
Keeps a poet writing, bearing their soul that is filled with all of his or her, Dreams!
December 30, 2003
Categories:
clog up, introspection, on writing and
Form:
This old brush would once brush cleanly
This old brush once smoothed my hair
This old brush once snagged a single strand
When I was kempt and fair
This old brush began to clog up
With the hair that it had pulled
This old brush was like a fur ball
Can my barnet be refuelled
Ain’t gonna need this brush no longer
Ain’t gonna need this brush no more
Ain’t got time to rub those creams in
Nor to tap the surgeon’s door
This old brush served through my youthful days
But now lives in a drawer
If this old brush could be bigger
I could use it on the floor
This old brush outlived its uses
This old brush redundant now
This old comb is all I need now
This old brush must take a bow
This old comb ain’t working proper
Like that old brush always did
There’s a dumb old tufty bit
Of which my comb will not get rid
Ain’t gonna brush this hair no longer
Ain’t gonna sweep it to one side
Cos I’ve got this centre parting
It’s about four inches wide
Ain’t got time to rub those creams in
Nor to tap the surgeon’s door
Ain’t gonna need this brush no longer
Ain’t gonna need this brush no more
Categories:
clog up, hair, parody, song,
Form:
Rhyme
Glazed ceramic, spun with hands
with tender finger prints imbed
somewhere from the hills of Spain
given to us when we wed
Signed in marker on the bottom
brushed in dust and gold
holds our trinkets of disaster
crystal cracked and cold
There's that time we strung each other
ice glass beads on threaded wind
and that time we threw one another
bouncing back and forth again
What about when our eyes were blinded
wandering around in the dark for days
or all the grease we drenched on wheels
to clog up the cogs in a thousand ways
More to be said, just not worth saying
Held in the chocolate jar and sealed
Somewhere in Spain there's a lady still spinning
these jars in ceramic, dynamic, congealed
Ours we will smash in the fire one day
freeing the bruises in smoke to the sky
We will laugh silly and send our disasters
spiraling upward, toward the heavens they'll fly...
Categories:
clog up, life, love, passion, people,
Form:
Quatrain
Just dropped by to add to the flap,
a choice between that or a nap.
I’ll clog up the list;
your post will be missed.
Nine more and we’ll call it a wrap!
Categories:
clog up, silly,
Form:
Limerick