Long Clouded Poems
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Written: July 19, 2026 for a contest sponsored by: Unica Hija
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Dear Fin, you velvet-hearted sprite,
you steal my chair by perfect right;
you rule the house with whiskered grace,
then wear innocence upon your face.
No monarch ever reigned from race.
You stalk a sunbeam down the hall,
declare a feather ten feet tall;
each paper ball, each dancing string,
becomes a wild and wondrous thing—
your kingdom needs no crown at all.
You purr away my clouded hours,
as bees awaken hidden flowers;
your emerald eyes, half-moon, half-flame,
make every ordinary day the same
feel stitched with little miracle game.
When midnight sheds her silver glow.
You run through shadows, quick as flow.
Then cuddle near my sleeping heart.
As if you had known it since the start
It's loyal caretaker during the night.
So here's my ode, dear Fin, to you—
long may you rule with velvet paws,
ignoring every human law;
for every heart must surely bow
to one small cat... especially now.
Your sadness
like clouded winter snowflakes,
floats upon chilled winds
against dark tear stained skies,
accumulating in sorrowed drifts
around my heart
Frigid moments
shiver of lost and lonely days,
when mornings never arrive
and arctic evenings wrap
your lonely world in
bleak frozen fingers
And I watch helpless,
through frosted glass panes,
icicle teardrops glistening
on my chapped cheeks,
wanting desperately to hold you
safely in my arms
So you will know
this season shall not last,
spring will soon bring her flowers
and blue skies to warm you,
to comfort you and to love you
just as I do
JOYFUL JONES DIVORCES THE SEA
Tenacity of oceanic roar,
Davy Jones hammers each chord.
Embryonic fish, fracture in exploding bubbles.
Opulence anchors heavy, on seabed chest with ill afford.
Whales spew foam from nettled lips,
Throwing tail - haphazardly splashing.
Blubber of sperms bleed precious oil whilst
Knotted nets with jigsaw teeth - recklessly hashing.
~
Lighthouse green and placid starlight blue,
Gentle sun warms the skin with clouded sin.
Jones plugs up the bottomless pit with fingertips
And takes this island of caribbean water out for a spin.
~
The magician’s fish feast pulls at the banquet’s cover.
The velocity of vortex lashes kit and kin with vertigo,
And salts and peppers this treat with staring eyes.
What more can this torrential downpour bestow?
The finger of God tastes the bitter sea…
He writes his name on a wall of water.
Spoiled stink, of seafood bait wades -
As the Lord Hushes up his son and daughter.
Kim Rodrigues © 2016
Though I hate giving clothes away,
There comes a time that I’ll
Put something on and must admit
It’s really out of style.
That denim dress I used to love
With jet black velvet collar,
Would likely, in a thrift shop,
Bear a tag that says “One dollar.”
And likewise for that flowered frock,
So comfy when I wore it.
It now appears so frumpy
Even I cannot ignore it.
Those high-waist jeans and puff-sleeved shirts
Have kept my closet crowded;
And when I try them on, my husband’s eyes
Grow glazed and clouded.
“Awful! Ugly! Throw them out!”
I hear his sage advice.
They’ve not been worn in many years
So it’s no sacrifice.
Yet still, I fold them lovingly
And pack them for the poor.
Perhaps someone can use the clothes
I won’t wear anymore.
I picture people picking through
My former favorites pile,
And hear them cluck their tongues and say,
“Was this thing once in style?”
Be there the bight of a November drain
turned off tattered ruffles blotted feign
a ledged I removed and tender earlobes
waif yonder spectral possession probes
cracked nut overture eighteenth twelve
emptied shells retiring indicative delve
drain feign earlobes probes twelve delve
the hour,
Penchant dragged scrape innard depth
souring blindly binds ruse lids breadth
spar sun astir, causation its wandering
scar bites of frost attend a clouded ring
constant errs my inner chambers abide
pivotal piques tricked darkening inside
depth breadth spar scar abide inside
the hour,
A vast plague of vulture flights accrues
a lowly sill contempt its stay construes
awake dreamt feverishly reposed body
quake aloof save I some valued nobody
unsorted escort disembodied but feats
wonder maroon beheld tethering beats
accrues construes awake quake feats beats
the hour,
Therefore I'd wallowed jousting to free
of peals of laughter trifle trailing spree
feeble villagers thoughtless each share
of riddled backside amidst tabled stare
and counters gossip whispers consume
be their claim graphic God they assume
free spree share stare consume assume
the hour,
Remains of a last supper disrobed hang
amidst bunker migrating seasons pang
yond trained reflect stories trail facials
a negging crowded calls milds a rituals
saved I a memoir cloistered singularity
paved upon silken weaves a familiarity
hang pang facials rituals saved paved
the hour,
Bewitched canons riddled yon the altar
stacking of hymnals liberates Gibraltar
of liquefied gift cascading gratification
love stain pigments of my imagination
hues meld a silencing orchestrate suite
enhance the loyal thunder ne'er retreat
altar Gibraltar of love suite retreat
the hour.
A branch breaks dried by the sun
withers and dies thrown on the fire
burning remains sweet pearls silver sparkling
a terrible sadness enters the window
a willow weeps pitter patter knocking
sins came to visit last night
blowing against the wind
drooping heavy darkness
putting right the wrongs
was more than one could bare
grey clouds rains burning
trails of hurt shadows of reality
a dream snatched away
by judgement
scratches on chamber walls
weeps the willow entwines in limbs
an inescapable embrace
in one's own heart
a sanctum darkened
by wrong's lament
mind's rumblings tells tales
clouded thoughts chase the wind
shadows shifting dark and light
reality pays a visit
in moon's grey glow
seeking soul's atonement
for what was done
a heavy price reaped
for burnt ashes and dusty remains
impossible sleep
rain's lullaby hush
pitter patters against the pane
a calming rage gives way
to sweet nightmares of relief
Written by: Liam McDaid & Kelly Deschler
The room’s dimly lit by the holiday lights.
The games we play no longer end in fights.
Santa doesn’t come anymore, the elf doesn’t move
And we don’t make an effort to set the christmas mood.
But we still put up the tree, making sure it’s not too tall
Not blocking the view of the photos on the wall
By now, we’ve stopped noticing, when we sit down to eat
That at the head of the table, there’s an empty seat.
He’s not the one gone, no, he just switched his place.
Because somebody had to fill that gaping, silent space.
Just a few years ago, there were no chairs left at all
Just the cluttered dishes and smiles in the photos on the wall.
“Happy Holidays” we send out, with photos on cards
Choosing the perfect picture to send out afar
But there’s an extra letter we keep from past years
Preserved in glass, like some breakable souvenir.
In it, the wrinkles are still there and the children are still small
“Merry Christmas,” It reads, that photo on the wall.
You reach out to your friends, maybe shoot a quick text
Two words and an emoji, then move on to the next
But your family does more, they want to hear your voice
So you pick up the phone, only slightly annoyed.
Yet now you’ve learned not to take things for granted
And you should’ve cherished those conversations, every minute they lasted
Because now one person is missing, there’s no incoming call
Just leftover voicemails and their photos on the wall.
The morning finally comes, only after the longest night ended
Where you tossed and turned, your heart about shredded
Clouded with memories that haunt you, yet you need them to survive
The joy that you should feel is stamped out by the part of you that died.
You open the presents full of expensive clothes from the mall.
Yet you wear the same ratty sweatshirt that’s in the photos on the wall.
When the party starts, and everyone comes over
There’s no place to be sad, your new role is the joker.
So you smile and give hugs and shake everyone’s hand
Make your way through the crowd that’s got the whole house crammed.
When you finally escape, you pause in the hall.
“Merry Christmas,” you whisper, to the photos on the wall.
Dedicated to George Stinney Jr
The mind of a child
Is one supposed to be filled with innocence
But his was clouded with fear
Barely out of the womb
And already he would be buried in a tomb
He barely had time to start life
Barely had time to love and be loved
He barely had time to be a son
He would make history
Just not how he would've imagined
He would become the youngest person on death row
Youngest person to be executed on death row
A black boy who never got to be a boy
His last thoughts were a prayer
To be saved, to be seen, to be given a chance
'Are you there God, its me george'
Unfortunately God's grace doesn't extend to his black 'children'
Unfortunately his life was cut short
Unfortunately he wouldn't get to grow old
Apparently he wasn't deemed worthy enough for 'God's love'
Justice was never served
Even after 81 years
Muffled voices in clouded corridors,
where legends mold the unseen,
drifting through thoughts like specters
bestowing authority upon the mysterious.
In politics, a performance:
marionettes on a dream-filled platform,
ballots cast for favor
lies woven with words
strands of optimism and dread
woven in imperceptible restraints.
Religion, with its narratives,
deities and monsters depicted in faith
comfort sought in fables
significance discovered in customs,
fleeting peace in their presence
prayers ascending, vapors in thin air.
Daily rituals of superstition
a black cat crosses the path, a broken mirror
navigating through symbols
interpreting with outdated understandings,
guided by obscure beliefs
apprehensive of uncertainties.
What if we dared to look behind the curtain
to view the myths we hold;
What secrets lie beyond?
The cold winter day he left us behind
A last spark of light would fade from his eyes
Now he can have back his body and mind
To sit on the sidelines, never the kind
But fog clouded up his where’s, who’s and why’s
The cold winter day he left us behind
Fixing cars til he couldn’t, nose to the grind
Missing the days of a brew with the guys
Now he can have back his body and mind
Glimpses of self fewer as he declined
Letting go before he said his goodbyes
The cold winter day he left us behind
Now he can finally relax and unwind
Now his young soul free of ailing disguise
Now he can have back his body and mind
Bittersweet, a loss but peace he will find
Maybe he’s dancing somewhere in the skies
The cold winter day he left us behind
Now he can have back his body and mind