Short Cloy Poems

Each day breathes new joy 
In the nightingale’s cloy song 
Warbling freedom...

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Nonce, twaffling and outgrabbish trolls,
pilgriffed and trumbled threen by doggerel.

All did amphigorous cleem to shwangle the shweeng,
and shming the shmengle without shmee.

Alas! Alack! Alloy! 
Jimble! Jingle! Twimble! Twoy! 
Jabberwocks and jumblies;
Trinkles and troys,
With toves and raths
In joves did cloy....

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Am i speaking with a girl coy
And not sensible Billy Roy
Just cramming much sugar in soy?

Up appetite sucrose could cloy,
Sweetened meals hearts hardly buoy,
Much sugar and less joy,
Yes, time bomb treating as toy;
Not better than Rum for Ahoy!

I could swear a food demon's ploy
To their finishing hands employ

"Now Diabetes here we come:
Billy Roy and I show the sum"...

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Sweet things don't always cloy.  
The rainbow comes and goes 
and lovely is the rose.  
But few drinks bring me joy 

and the taste I favor, 
that Splenda in the glass,
that dance of bubbly gas.  
Ahhh...Diet Coke; savour.  


* Credit Wm Wordsworth's 'Intimations of Immortality' 
   and Andrea Dietrich's 'A Favorite Soda.'  
   Yes, I know; there's no Splenda in Diet Coke.  
   So, poetic license I invoke....

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Reason bare of structure like a storm
Ovulating in an angry sea
Stir sedition and juxtaposes its norm
Ego-wise against a season's glee
Latent turbulence primed with insecurity
Drizzled from a tempestuous sun
Altar of a sadist's alternating history

Gulp your blustering track to the mark
Rendered as God's boundary
Exert not your vain effort to spark
Excitement of lightening in the air
Never more your rage shall cloy my heart with fear....

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My life was far from cloy
'til I was sixteen; just a boy
or something similar,
but poised and contorted.

Then I was twenty-one.
I kissed the barrel of a gun, 
and for it sputtered
symphonies of feral noises.

Since, I've not spoken at all; 
I framed my brains upon the wall, 
and left my mouth moving 
alone beneath the pillow.

Soon, I'm turning twenty-two,
November cold and midnight blue,
into a grave when my neck 
snaps beneath the willow....

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rainfall
hoot call

warm sheets
slush streets

All day
Kids play

Some sled
They spread

Some ski
With glee

Some skate
The slate

Snowballs
Catch balls

much fun
quick run

dream youth
tight truth

play smooth
talk soothe

room floor
dance more

plain lore
loud roar

pack joy
dear boy

real toy
feel cloy

Written: January 25, 2023

Brian Strand No 1175 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand...

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was not of folly, but of choice,
for saccharine safety on the higher ground
inside the wall
would cloy his sulpherous soul
and beating down his moble sacrifice
install a glutenous presumption 
of a unity unworthy of him.

No, there must be cataclysm
in  the leap, dragoons enlisted,
and a lamentation worthy of the feast...
the sighing tempered not by hominid
nor beast, but by a stubborn memory 
of infant sleep,
beguiled by nothing more
than fragments in the grass.
           ~...

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