Long Clogged Poems
Long Clogged Poems. Below are the most popular long Clogged by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clogged poems by poem length and keyword.
Today was the first day of class.
You should have seen all the people.
Everyone couldn’t have had class, some of them must
have been gawkers, the types that slow to watch
flat tire changings and car wrecks.
Some were carrying maps - freshmen.
Like student drivers they clogged the paths,
drawing a few looks.
They gaggle together like geese,
Jeeezus - shut UP and get ON with it, freshies! I thought.
Not ungenerously - I remember being lost - back in the day.
I have class, myself - in both the intrinsic sense - of style -
and in the “research for credit” ‘check in on the first day,’ kind.
Still, we’re parading, and I’ve always loved parades.
My one regret is that there are no mimes or elephants.
ok.. poetry..
Stress is somewhere in my propinquity.
See, it’s known to stalk this vicinity.
I’m not a freshman, so it hasn’t struck yet,
but when it does, and it will, you can bet,
that initially, it will shake my tranquility
and end our start-of-year festivities.
It will creepily creep, destroying my sleep,
until I prove my scholastic resiliency.
.
.
Songs for this:
Violently Happy by Björk
Schoolin' Life by Beyoncé
The hills,once green,now bare
yeild to poppy fields.
in rainy season,fierce torrents race down
towards the valley.
And in the valley,ancient rills-
dug by the kings,
most of them now chocked and buried
encroached out of view.
So water gushes wild
past the old foundations deep,
swallowing homes,roads,and,markets
without mercy in the monsoon's cruel roar.
Coming to my locality,
a rill that drain water stood for ages
encroached by the selfish ones
whose places remain dry
even in the rainy season.
And that rainy season brought
floods to our doors.
Our locality drowned,homes flooded once more.
Then the local club rose,
cleared the clogged course,
and waters receded- the levels fell low.
Relief washed over us.
But this very winter,
scourge struck anew;
encroachment returned
as intruders broke through.
The rill level does not drain;
the cycle repeats
the levels stay high again.
Once more we brace
for the rains yet to come.
It is a perennial threat
to our safety,weilded not by outsiders
but by the majority of people
from amongst us.
A sinewy faith built rough cabins.
We were pleased to claim this land
for Jesus.
We raised cities that were bear free.
Everything soared;
later crime and meth rose even
higher.
Cracks appeared where a garish paint
had weathered the sky.
Plaster flamingos crumbled,
angelic limbs hung down
caught in ceiling fissures.
Pink plastic arrows littered concrete.
It was a Mall dream; it was our dream.
We began to order stuff
from worker ants in other countries.
Plaid went in and out of fashion,
Horseless cowboys kept up the long tradition
of truck wrangling.
Impedimenta impeded the improperly taught.
Log cabins transported themselves
to theme parks,
too little hope clogged casinos floors,
rage stalked the freeways.
God spoke to us,
urged us to fill storage units
with our long raked-over crap,
sad holy relics in duct taped boxes -
yet neatly piled
in a persnickety Midwest way.
.
Babel: “A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.” Alexander Smith
The preachers preach what they've been taught.
Reporters say what they’ve been told.
The politicians lie and lie.
I watch a tragedy unfold.
On social media I see
some folks who like to blog or play
while bullies bully; haters hate.
“Talk to the hand” they seem to say.
Mean twitters, memes and certain posts
use scalding words - an endless thread
scrolls down as if into a pit
where fire by sparks of hate is fed.
Opinions can be strong, but why
can’t some folks hear the other side -
with peace agree to disagree?
Yet fight they do and then collide.
Insanity is not just lurking.
Madness spits right in our faces
as many blab and jabber on,
heedless of the social graces.
Ears get clogged up; loose tongues flap.
See Babel’s Tower now so high!
We’ve come too far to still believe
that towers climb to touch the sky.
The fire raging underneath it,
spurred on by hate, crawls up each wall.
Violence will overtake us;
Then Babel’s Tower we’ll see fall.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The grid failed first~
then the pipes burst their seams,
weeping silver tears down frozen walls.
The night groaned under the weight of frozen sky
a thousand fractures in the power lines~
silent screams of transformers dying.
Darkness engulfed the Lone Star State,
gnawing at the edges of counties and cities.
But the men came anyway,
their gloves split by the cold,
boots cracking ice like thin bones.
No heroics, just work~
Men in orange vests moved like ghosts
through glassy, slick streets
their breath leaving them in ragged clouds,
each one a prayer for warmth.
Linesmen dangled like marionettes
from poles slick with betrayal
fingers numb, breath curling in shattered puffs
stitching light back into the sky
one frayed wire at a time.
Blue lights cut through the sleet~
not for crime, but for warmth
for the woman shaking in her car with a newborn,
engine dead as stone.
The police traversed the streets,
tires spinning on invisible black ice,
their cruisers sliding like doomed ships,
flashlights cutting through the gloom
where families huddled under blankets,
where an old man’s oxygen machine sputtered silent.
The fireman’s axe didn’t care about the cold~
only the door it shattered, the grandmother inside
still clutching her rosary.
Firemen across the state kicked in doors,
their axes swung against ice-clogged hydrants,
each strike ringing hollow in the frozen air.
Somewhere in East Texas,
a lone fireman’s breath hung in the air~
white flag of exhaustion
as he hauled another body
from a house without heat.
The child in his arms didn’t shiver.
Not anymore.
All night, the wind screamed.
All night, these men did not stop.
In the morning, as the thaw crept in,
some slept in trucks,
some drank bad coffee from a thermos,
some stood staring at downed lines~
weary, yes, but still standing.
They were not gods~
just men with wives who texted be safe,
whose children didn’t understand
why they had no heat and why lights stayed off.
No monuments would bear their names,
but for a week,
these men were the only thing
between Texas and the abyss.
Mornings nail me to the chair of the clocks of my penance,
Minutes pierce me like poisoned needles.
I devour luminous mirrors
That regurgitate falsified truths.
I feed on bitterness and devastating pains,
To endure the dictatorship of suffering and indelible scars.
My lugubrious laughter has fossilized,
My wounded heart has turned into a granary of grudges.
My demons and ghosts knock at the door of my fate
Like soldiers demanding their tribute.
I sign contracts with my own perdition,
I rent my youth for a few bills tarnished by my cowardice.
Outside, crowds kneel before the showcases of misery,
Praying to plastic idols.
They sell their time at the market of sterile chimeras,
They call freedom this cannibal chain.
I would like to scream until the dungeon of my existence shatters,
But my throat is clogged with dust.
I would like to break this glass ceiling
That separates me from a life I have never tasted.
I am a voluntary slave in this morbid century,
A spectator forced to contemplate his own decomposition.
I cling to notebooks scribbled with the blood of my sacrifices
Like a castaway on a raft of ink.
If one day my melancholic monologues escape their bars,
May they become a fire in your veins dilated by fear.
May my pain turn into a banner,
And at last may this ordeal implode beneath your wounds.
I broke a cup
from your slender shelf
It showed three cracks
and a grey patch
A cruelty
A smile from the teeth
A looking askance
at the ethicist
The eyebrows a little raised
A bird or two shut the wings
Two plus two four
this math received a jolt
The river though kept up its
murmuring flow
Bubbles and froth
in the cascade from my bones
clogged a few arteries in my system
The hands thought several times
to pick up the vacuum cleaner
and some fragrance
jasmine that you chose
Procrastination with a strong grip
held me in two thoughts
The sari and the suit still
in rhythmic steps
No heavy downpour
calling for a readjusted walk
The cracks would often
lift grey clouds in my sleep
A little girl with her fists clenched
A flare-up of anger
At the last dinner party
Everybody left
You were waiting for the car
I came close
and broke the lid on the pent-up charges
You smiled a little
your breath made the air heavy
The car arrived
Happy feet went inside
Starve a fever, feed a cold
Oh what's the use! Achoo!
All the Kleenex in the world
Will not undo this flu
Chicken soup, Vick's Vapor Rub
Capsules, gels and cream
All of Grandma's herbs and spice
With tons and tons of steam
I can't recline, I can't lie down
My septum's full again
My ears are clogged my throat is raw
I just don't know till when!
I guess I'll shiver till I sweat
Or sweat until I'm cold
Or call a friend or eat some toast
Or something much more bold!
I'll stop the moaning stop the pity
Complaining's oh so cheap
When I stop to think of it........
It just makes sense... to sleep!
She stared into an empty space,
as she stirred what remained of her mother.
Her eyelids swollen,
with cried and uncried tears
that drained her tear glands into dryness.
Smoke still rose from the barrels
of guns whose cartridges
refused to empty.
Death smiled in her mirrors,
obscuring her feeble grasp on life.
One stray soldier rushed near;
she begged him to cut the thread tying her to life.
But he ignored her,
for his own heart too hung in his mouth.
Even her grief he ignored.
Many children and women
shared the deathbed of her mother.
Only gritty sand served as their mattress,
while caked blood clogged their veins,
and vultures circled to feast on mangled flesh.
She blamed not the soldiers,
but those hidden behind round tables
who ordered the destruction and death
of innocents
that understood none of their political riddles.
Surely the future is too crowded
to create for her a space.
Poverty waits for her to see tomorrow,
before her belly tells her
its emptiness kills faster than bullets.
Yet those who shot dead her mother
care less what becomes of her tomorrow.
Their mandate is to kill, and kill they do.
But who will tell those iron-headed leaders
that wars sink the poor deeper into poverty?
Black-ice sheers,
it cuts deep into paved-ways and lots.
Night snorts a frigid fog,
the caked and idling cars
only sludge a gripping freeze.
This glacial dark fangs wrists and hearts.
Grit nips at tender cheeks and tongues.
The lights of bistros cannot withstand
their desolate backyards.
A scree of black curb can be crossed,
only if the heavily shod
mash and smash through.
Are we in the end days or
in an age of small uncertain fears
that cannot now truly thaw?
We slip along
uncover small pockets of glee
in these long frozen hours
where exhausted minds sleep
and walk.
Death is upended,
lungs mask against a stabbing air,
small ice sculptures appear
in snowy humps and heaps
as if this time will always be congealed,
nailed like this to scraps of eternity.
Later, these days,
with all there residue of lost souls
will be swept way
from the crusted edge
of mall steps and clogged paths.
Then it will be a different time,
a forgotten time, one only recalled
as a mist behind wintry eyes
as we, all unmuffled now,
glance backwards into yet another
uncertain future.