Long Clogging Poems
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Everyone believes in mental anguish.
Like seashells clogging everything nice.
Gruesome last bits of seaweed.
Blah.
Everyone is generous as they claim.
With their last life boat.
They want everyone to clamor aboard.
So that it gets weighed down and- no survivors.
Burden.
Unease.
As that little boat wheezes its last wheeze and starts to turn sick.
Everyone is on their last life boat, some days.
That’s either mental anguish or seaweed I’m spitting out.
When your life boat gets so full it’s like a gruesome cannonball.
No one is moving or even squirming anymore.
Burble.
It’s gruesome.
Hello
Jacqueline R. Mendoza
Filipino, 38 years of age
Got disabled on October 11, 1999
Was diagnosed on 2013
With Depression Mental illness
Last February 2012, saw a vision
A curly blond baby angel
Appeared to me
Looking at me intently
He said to "Tell the priest that the babies are safe in heaven
God, wants to give women chance (on the left ear)
Choice (On the right ear), to save themselves"
Saw my previous tragic car accident
Spiritual Director said "It's turning point of my life"
Its called private revelation
After searching for a spiritual director
Thought, Fr. Alex Legaspi
Thought, Fr. Jesus Labor but
Eternal God said he is my soul mate
Really cannot be
Eternal God gave Fr. Piers Lahey
Pastor of St. Andrew Catholic Church, Daly City CA.
Christmas Eve 2012, Eternal God told me to write a litany
After many trials of finding a title
Eternal God gave me “Litany of Divine Truth”
Failed to write the date when Sacred Heart told me “shave my hair”
Our bathroom is always clogging
Fr. Piers sent me to Legion of Mary or other smaller groups of the Church
Start sharing my vision, see what they say
Father Christ said “Reverence is for the Righteous”
Called Him Father Christ, Mother Mary
“You say please when asking for something”
Called Him Father Christ, He’s a High Priest
An Eternal High Priest
Propagate it
Didn’t want to, it just came from me, I’m nobody
Sensed He’s sad
“Okay, You will help me okay?”
Result, made Reverence Rosary
Novena for the abortion
Gave Fr. Piers
You have questions
Call me #(650)-307-2062
Subconcious streams flitter through my silty porthole
Ebb and flow through my consciences' filtering scroll
Clogging the interstices and my formative, fragile mind doth control
Perceptions of self flood my sensory console
Pent-up desires breach mind's, shallow levee and over carefree banks roll
Carnal instincts bleach and, over time, corrode my chaste compass's steady pole
My soul's rudder listlessly through the choppy waters doth stroll
Delusions of grandeur and trite fantasies o'er my wayward ship troll
Teetering sails are blown about by truant winds so droll
Faulty navigation beaches my tattered psche on a barren shoal
Battered by the waves of inconstancy paying a penitent toll
Tunneling through the brackish bilge; a frenetic mole
Seeking to escape frollicking tidal waves that my froward, youthful mind did cajole
Sifting through the rancid seaweed that years of cresting tides did dole
Cloaked with guilt, shame stranded on a rocky, desolate atoll
Still vainly trying to justify my hopeless condition; my fleeting worth extoll
I Love You
Smokers of the world unite
Keep that ciggie burning bright
Nick O’Teen is having fun
Clogging, blackening the lung
Don’t you know that it aint smart
To let that fiend into your heart
There won’t be any looking back
After fatal heart attack
And when the girl that you adore
Says she’ll kiss your lips no more
She’s looking for a smoke free zone
Leaves you standing all alone
When you're just a year from death
Pleading, begging your next breath
Even though you've never seen her
Meet your new friend Emphysema
So smokers of the world unite
Keep that ciggie burning bright
You'll never have a friend so true
When every drag says, I love you
This mixed message was brought to you by
The Devil Himself Hua hua hua hua
Gravely digging the grave digger digs
holes for souls; waste pits plotted
earth soils clogging
Collections of bones for storage and mind
Disposal in disguise
Many a form, Goldfinch alike, are left
in place of death; laying spent, shrivelled
dishevelled, colours still abright
I wasn't going to dig a hole so I left it
where it lay; no-one will dig for its soul
No grave digger digs such a small pit
No respect, no clogging, no digging
Instead the finches are left
along with the Linnet, the Thrush, the Owl
and the Crow; destined to be sucked back
into nature's cauldron
to go wherever birds go
I look outside my window, at the trees growing bare
I stare at speckled leaves, piling random everywhere
I watch them decompose, death’s clogging up my air
I want to rot with them, on the sidewalk over there
I’m weary with vitality, having discarded all it’s flair
I’m sick and tired of continuance, recycling and repair
I’m on the whole partial, to forget about the stairs
I’m doing cartwheels, first rectangular then a square
My heart lives up my sleeve, can only deal from there
My thoughts for others, cannot be bothered to share
My sole sense of achievement, is self inflated despair
My halo at last comes full circle, I kick away the chair
''W'' New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Choice word #1 Weary
11/24/21
Oh, I'd share it with you if I could;
Gift wrap and send it for your greater good;
Put it on the swiftest sunray; honest I would.
I'd do anything to halt the chatter you've been hearing;
All the sounds of trouble that you've been fearing;
All the cries, deception, and lies that are clogging your ears;
All the promises and propaganda that have driven you to tears.
From birth until now, lost opportunities and aborted ambitions
have clouded your future. Love, warmth, and tenderness have never
attended or assisted your nurture. For me, it was always high on
the list of things I always desired and sought. Its longings must
be more than a muse or a thought. I tell you sincerely, we must
find this place of serenity and balance. It is one of my greatest
quests, my pearl of great price, better known as silence.
050923PS
At crack of dawn we headed out
before a cock or rooster crowed
and soon we found our asphalt path;
at home again, upon the road.
That 'greasy spoon' was our last stop,
Where we each tended to our ride;
we filled the tires and topped the gas
before we found our way inside.
Once we were seated I looked up
to see the morning TV news;
The screen declared the time and date;
showed several bustling TV crews.
'St. Helens Explodes!' the headline read,
'Spewing ash and rock and gasses,
leveling surrounding forests
clogging rivers, vales and passes'
The date: May 18th, 1980
The time: 8:45 AM
the cameras showed masses of people,
darkened clouds engulfing them.
Behind them a vast, towering cloud
of ash and dust in blackened skies,
with traffic wrecks and crowds of people
looking up with fearful eyes.
Then You and I, we made our way
out to the parking lot in back,
and looking east we plainly saw
the skis were turning fully black.
Soon some others of our club
came out to gaze in disbelief
upon the place we had just come from
sighing now, with some relief.
Until we finally realized
that we should move away from here,
to park the bikes in our garage
And stay inside until it's clear.
Listen to the silence,
before the sip of this brewed potion,
an enticing concoction,
Do you hear the harvest ,
The songs oozing from the volcanic sandy loam,
perspiring earthy herbs that graciously glow,
sprinkling notes of the sweetest flowers,
the heavenly dark red golden lake that awaits,
in the ark of this marble mint mug,
For a minute, the rich roast takes hold on to these lungs,
Pulverizing every weight that rests on my ribs,
Singing songs of spring to my winter brain,
Have I been too needy,
for the touch of coffee to run down my throat,
hoping it would wipe away every artery clogging my heart,
Maybe I yearn for these beans way too much,
Or are they simple my subconscious crutch.
Are we the shade of the shadow
or a shadow in the shade.
Are we sashaying toward pinhole dreams?
While trudging above an open grave.
It all seems like a giant garish gothic play
acts and players hand-picked centuries in advance.
Hobbled masses humbly kneel on crumbs to pray.
Realizing opinion nor ballot was ever worth a damn.
These two-legged, greedy, greasy snakes.
Eyes made of slag have no vacancy signs.
Clogging up our gossamer soul veins.
They're here to minimize, intimidate.
Project, disappear, dismiss, assassinate.
Straitjacket the masses with normalized madness.
We, the people, are not the ones playing God.
Poisoning water, field, sky...
Smiling in the light while eating innocents.
In the shadow of ritual and sacrifice.
These devils openly mock and taunt us now.
(byproducts of a boiling swamp).
Yellowing the face of flailing freedom.
A billion greenbacks can galvanize
such audacity and shallow bravery.
Of these deeply soiled oligarchs
and pathetic plastic kings.