Long Clog up Poems
Long Clog up Poems. Below are the most popular long Clog up by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clog up poems by poem length and keyword.
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.
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.
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?
"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
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.
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
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.
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.
In 1999, my youngest son, Josh was born
He was clingy, difficult, a bit sickly,
but delightful, had the biggest grin,
and loved to laugh
And the world dimmed in May of 2025 when he died
My world, my heart and our family broke into a million
pieces. Our family is each searching for their own pieces,
but I am confident we will stand together, but how do we move on?
The holidays took me down this year and we still have lots of firsts to go,
the first thing I learned was how to breathe through the pain
and the second was to accept help, whether I asked for it or not,
and the third was that God has got me no matter what.
That should have been the first thing I learned, but sometimes the body
functions more automatically than the heart.
Sometimes I wonder if I still have a heart, because it feels so numb.
I can feel it beating in my chest, and I am still alive, so it is still there.
But what is my place in the world now? I have job that is important to me,
I have an amazing family, and I have incredible friends and I have words
Sometimes the words flow freely, but sometimes they clog up,
but they help me to express what I don't express often:my profound GRIEF!
I love you Josh, and my world was blessed when you arrived 3/19/99 and I
did indeed cherish every moment of being your mother, even the years
wracked with mental illness and self medicating. But I LOVE YOU,
no matter what, always and forever! Love, MOM!
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.