Clog Up Poems | Examples

I Don't See What You See

Sparrows enjoy a certain reputation
For intimacy and hope

Crosby Stills and Nash sang of them
In Suite: Judy Blue Eyes
As compatriots to the morning
Air
With guitar strums and high notes

Truth be told
Sparrows are bulkier than the normal song bird
And not particularly
Pretty
Brown and gray as a mound of dirt

Chirpy jerky punk band

And they have no problem with crowding out
From a bush or bird feeder
Finches and chick-a-dees

They’re kind of a bully

Push around those that are smaller
Who carry pouches of yellow and pink
And tiny symphonies

They clog up my eavestroughs with nests

Right now
I watch one sparrow land on top of another
And the tree branch bends down
Under their heft

Bounces up and down
To their sex
Again

The limb
Seemingly
Waving them off

Or so it tries

As if it’s saying
Get off me you animals.

A Warning for the Recently Widowed

When my ashes are brought home
don’t place them on a mantel
between the tacky Hummel figurines.

Tip them out onto the backyard
to nourish the cabbages.

I am not coming back,
but check the wind once more,
I might blow into the house again
and the dust-buster will clog up.

Do not look for me in the sky,
I am not there,
nor on or under the earth -
please really?

I may appear to you at night
if you lay with another man,
haunt you
if you marry again,
but that’s just me
and my little insecurities.

Also dear, be warned
I still retain the power
to trigger the cat to pee on your bed
if you neglect
to dust my photograph.

Love yer.

This Old Brush

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

Working the List

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!

Longer

No longer can you plan a trip
When driving is the means,
For calculating ETA’s
Is like a hill of beans.

Construction doesn’t help things,
Though it keeps the traffic slowed,
But the problem is how many
Cars and trucks clog up the road.

To cross a bridge this morning,
Where the backup was a mess,
Added fifty minutes to our ride,
As well as lots of stress.

At times we cannot help it – 
Cars can take us door to door,
But it certainly takes longer
Than it ever did before.

Poop- There It Is

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!

Tech Talk

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.

Junk In the Attic

"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

A Poem For When I Am Gone

Do not cry for me, for I am gone.
When my ashes are brought home
don’t place them on a mantel
between the tacky Hummel figurines.

No, tip them out onto the backyard
but be sure the wind is not blowing 
into our neighbors open window,
that would not be cool.

I am not coming back
so check the wind once more,
or I might blow into the house again
and the dust-buster will clog up.

Do not look for me in the sky,
I am not there,
nor on or under the earth -
please really?

I may appear to you at night
if you lay with another man,
haunt you to your grave
if you marry again,
but that’s just me 
and my insecurities.

I am what ash becomes
when sifted through
the harps of heavenly angels:-

I am a song in your heart, 
the sparkle in your eyes,
the light beneath your smile
your shelter in any storm.

Also, I’ve the power to
trigger the cat
to pee in your bed
if you neglect 
to dust the photograph
of my grinning mug.

Boys Don'T Cry

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

Villanelle: Talk Not of the Birth of Planets Around Distant Stars

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

God Is Not Dead

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.

Mighty Oak Tree

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

Curious Kitten

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

The Chocolate Jar

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...

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