Best Stubble Poems
Shifting haze, so slowly trailing
Through wood and field, now veiling
Melancholy skies, holding back the tears
With wild geese flying to meet other years.
Flames of crimson torches come flinging
Leaves on knarled branch swinging;
Desolate winds rush leaping
Taking flowers to their final sleeping.
In the groaning of the atmosphere
Unfolding sorrows weep with the fading year;
Fields of cluttered stubble are tangled
With rampant weeds, dew drop spangled.
Flocks of birds leave like flying missiles
Over fields of corn and drying thistles;
Then my dream of autumn fades, paling
Through a grandeur all prevailing
When sunset fires light sky and sea
And sink in the breath of serenity.
Categories:
stubble, nostalgia, autumn, flying,
Form:
Rhyme
Daylight is greeted with the horrific stench of food chunks
swimming in stomach acid, dribbling onto bed sheets.
Accompanied with the embarrassment of
brown syrup puddle stains.
Head is pounding
like a hammer - hammering nails into the skull.
Cumbersome movements drag drowsy flesh to the mirror,
as bloodshot eyes with yellow hue, glare in reflection.
Exhausted hands rub dense stubble,
as heavy eye lids struggle to stay open.
A cocktail of coffee and a cold shower
comfort this somber slumber.
Mouthwash and mints help disguise
the fragrance of yesterday's session with Bourbon.
Continuous sips of water, attempt to quench sultry thirst,
but the blandness cannot douse untamed flames.
Especially as days consist of sitting
surrounded by monotonous blank walls,
and staring at cracks on a vase -
silently watching wilted flowers crumble.
Struggling to defeat temptation from fermented demons,
summoned by cravings for that burning sensation,
the tongue cries for mercy.
Infiltrates the mind luring it to
lust for sour liquid passion
that infuses the bloodstreams.
Hands trembling, parched lips quivering -
only golden nectar can ease the pain.
No need for a glass, as bottle is devoured,
with momentary pauses of 'aaahhhhh.'
So begins the daily quest,
to suffocate every sorrow.
To feel numb upon request,
with no care for tomorrow.
Favouring fantasy over reality,
each drop kills the pain.
The bitter sweet taste is a lethal injection,
but the numbness helps to feel perfection.
In a place where nobody notices -
alcoholic symphonies lead to intoxicated sympathy.
To deal with being alone, to forget the world,
to forget the name.
Envious eyes can be a crime,
leading to jealous tendencies.
Hiding secrets can lead to becoming a victim
to a self inflicted demise.
An empty bottle leads to remorse.
Bitter sweet tears roll with shameful giggles.
Now the cracked vase looks perfect with flowers blooming.
Inebriant melodies mock the mind.
Attempting to dance, legs stumble and crash to the ground.
Laying there on the floor - laughing.
Then crying hysterically.
The heart has no desire to be sober,
only to remain intoxicated until death.
The Silent One
20 October 2017
Categories:
stubble, addiction, angst, dark,
Form:
Free verse
Keys rattle,
door slowly closes ...
An echo of footsteps walk upstairs..
You can hear his bedroom door close,
a little bump as he sits on his bed,
then there is just nothing..
They think he is angry,
raging at the world,
anti social, but at work he smiles,
jokes and shows a jovial side,
like a 'Pirate of the Caribbean'
but in his home he seems lost,
like a hollow house.
Nobody notices the scruffy hair,
nor the unshaved grisly stubble -
of a once debonair gentleman.
He once illuminated like a lighthouse,
but now seems invisible,
with faint tears,
hidden behind 'Johnny Depp' eyes -
in shallow depths his spirit drowns.
His room is dark with a somber hue,
with misty windows and fading walls.
A scent of suffering like 'Edward Scissorhands.'
His mirror reflects agony of an unspoken soul,
resembling a faded photograph - he is a ghost.
He feels he is a 'dead man from hell,'
but paying for the sins of others -
when in reality his pride is crucifying
his conscious into realms of future regret.
In his theatre of solitude,
he is an anti-hero in his own mute madness,
where he feels safe - forgotten.
A place to breathe his last breath,
which was reserved for his '
abandoned' butterfly beloved -
now lost in a storm.
Locked in the observatory of loneliness.
His glory is to remain a secret puzzle
in his silent story of suffering -
to decompose like an ageing painting -
forever abstract leaving the viewer pondering.
Categories:
stubble, emotions, loneliness, missing,
Form:
Free verse
Forest fairies changing colors,
autumn's patchwork pattern weaving
in the foggy morning stillness
before winter's barren grieving,
up the river on the damp air,
up hollows through the shadowed vales
sounds the mournful, sobbing whistle:
once more memory rides the rails.
Childhood song for railroad watchers -
a tinge of hobo in my veins,
longing for the lonesome whistle
like a lost child for his name.
Life began beside the railway,
an open door to fantasy;
my dreamer's soul soaked in the flavor
hearing that whistle witchery.
Hungry tramps in search of breakfast
found our doorstep every time;
hobo network communication
marked mama's eggs and bacon "fine."
Bleary eyes and beards all stubble
made child imaginations fly
and the tales with which we clothed them
were wilder still than hobo lies.
Oh, for the days when trains were magic:
iron dragons breathing smoke and fire,
lashing long tails through the valleys
with monstrous strength that never tired.
Oh, the secrets that were hidden
behind the doors of plain boxcars;
feel the untamed urge to mount them
and plunder treasure from afar.
Delight was ours beyond measure
to waken on those special days,
finding, in the night, the dragon
had brought the circus train our way.
See the bearded lady waving
and catch the fat man's twinkling eye,
smell the coal smoke's pungent flavor
beneath our magic big top sky.
Grown up am I; steam train magic
comes swirling by once in a while
to view autumn's fleeting pageant
and make train lovers like me smile.
Nostalgic, rhythmic beating,
staccato yelps and sobbing wails
make my soul a mental hobo;
once more memory rides the rails.
Copyright, 2000
Faye Lanham Gibson
Categories:
stubble, america, childhood, memory, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme
The roller coaster leans
into a sky the color death.
Alongside pines, it winds its broken way,
gripping earth’s gray stubble.
In the moan of the wind,
I conjure up the screams of children’s glee.
For the Sijo Contest of Deborah Guenther Beachboard
Now for Brian Strand's 'IMAGIST any form' Poetry Contest
Categories:
stubble, beautiful, death,
Form:
Sijo
The ruination of the mighty earth
Was started when explosions rocked the sky.
Ten years of darkness followed. . . then a heat,
And that is when the world began to fry!
Soon the oceans crept upon the coastlines.
Stubble lay in fields and great trees died.
No more was there order to the seasons.
Hopelessness prevailed. All nature cried.
But two superior (when darkness reigned)
Were born, a legacy to wizardry,
And 50 years kept hidden from Earth’s blight,
They’d grown alone contained beneath the sea.
Their under-water habitat released
And floated to the surface. What was seen
When they emerged and stepped onto dry land:
Were luscious fruits among lush splendid green!
With altered genes, they’d live perhaps forever.
But not in sin, for they could not perceive
A right from wrong. The garden’s jaded snake
Was stupefied to see Beth-Ann with Eve!
Categories:
stubble, fantasy,
Form:
Quatrain
Perhaps I was half asleep.
I always felt drowsy at night.
I sensed her warm body snuggling near me.
She put her head on my shoulders.
Her cuddles sent me to seventh heaven.
I only hoped she did not mind
The stubble on my unshaven face.
Still I was elated when as I felt
Her smooth downy face next to mine.
How fragrant was her exquisite hair,
I guessed it resembled a Soleil Neige,
An elegant and mesmerising perfume.
I took a deep breath, indulging
In its fruity nectar…so I opened my eyes.
Only to see an empty bed and a lumpy pillow.
Categories:
stubble, love,
Form:
Free verse
He trails the scent of sweat as he walks in,
his booted footsteps loud upon the floor.
A light kiss on his face gives salty taste.
The feel of stubble on his chin I so adore.
The lingering vanilla from his bath I next inhale
as sweetly from our bed he calls to me.
Salt taste is gone. Now honey is his mouth.
I brush against him. . . we start leisurely.
Dec. 10, 2019
for Sheri Fresonke Harper's Smell Sound Taste Touch Repeat Sense Contest
Categories:
stubble, sensual,
Form:
Rhyme
A Matt Calliri Contest: Are You A Mouse or A Mountain
18 June 24
--------
Comes the morning fog
sprawling on my territory where northern glens dry from rotten stubble and mess of debris... damp damp.
Above, waterfalls tumble with litter,
splinters of broken glass flushing
ashed moisture 'round lakes: how truant seasons' passages rip this my velvety robe...
I recoil to whisper Am I growing older than I should?
Along my tired arms, maples which once stood guard now unbutton pistil and stamen of flowers, pillaged by unwanted ravens.
Sunray breaks... these dim eyes watch how moss of layered mist covers my earthen soil wasted along paths of disheveled rocks.
Under my keep,
wrestling with predators bear wounds, scars this
body tries to heal.
My voice trembles to speak, Men-holes, do you come from a heritage of thieves, of beasts?
No one answers : like so, I trace my own life-stretch , reflecting on the snuff of earth's glory.
Down my mottled chest, I fondle the awakening of infant grass --all plump and fertile --
A promise within the cavity of time...that an intercepted light of next interlude could rise,
where man and my nature- self greet,
not until not until...
Categories:
stubble, feelings, mountains,
Form:
Narrative
I learnt a lesson well today on how good hygiene works,
and how sometimes it doesn’t pay, to gain professional perks.
It was Mick the barber’s little lurk that put up this dreadful case …
I’ll never trust another soul when shaving whiskers off me face.
The local footy club had organized a social ‘do’,
on this Friday night that I had bought some tickets too,
where me wife and I will manage, to get half full and skite,
but I had to get a haircut to look half decent for the night.
So I knocked off picking apples at around a half past four,
and drove off to Mick the barber where I sat and waited for,
my turn to sit down in his chair and that could be a while,
as there are two ahead of me, and the first has little style.
His hair was long and rank and by his whiskers it appeared,
he hadn’t shaved for quite a while, so had a stubble beard.
Mick clipped his scissors through the hair; saying as it gently fell,
“Once I’ve finished with your hair would you like a shave as well?”
This fella gave his face a gentle rub and then he quietly speaks,
“My razor can’t get close enough and leaves a shadow on me cheeks,
Would I be wasting all me money here?” Mick gave a cheeky grin,
“No, not at all, for I’ll fix that” then reached inside a bin.
Mick picked up this wooden ball and fingers rolled it with his thumb,
“Just place this in your mouth between your left cheek and your gum,
I’ll pass the razor ‘round the contours and when yer feel yer cheek,
yer won’t even feel the stubble if yer don’t shave fer a week”.
I watched Mick do his business and by gee you know he’s right,
the skin is looking more like silk and not a shadow is in sight,
then I saw a frown come on the face of the fella in the chair,
and in a garbled voice he sort of spoke with some despair.
“This bloody ball keeps rolling ‘round, and I can’t follow it,
what happen’s Mick if just by chance that I swallow it?”
Mick wiped his razor on a towel, then filled the bloke with ‘horrer’,
“Just do what all the others do - and bring it back tomorrer!”
Categories:
stubble, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
Drip drip dribble dribble
google harps- here's a fiddle
How does fuzz evolve to stubble
Here's Fred Flinstone- Barney Rubble
WON 5 DOLLARS!- now I'm even
Online poker- guy named steven
Shop for blankets- buy throw pillows
Google hammock- weeping willows
Go to restroom- better lock it
Here's the key- brains your pocket
Keyboard's pencil- screen's your pad
Don't be a stranger- email dad
SEND to stepmom- SEND to cousin
Be specific- there's a dozen
SEND to grandma in the grave
SEND to bastard uncle - Dave
Where's Japan and where's Korea
Google maps is glad to see ya
Chat with Bennett- bash Obama
Poke your next door neighbors momma
Friend Dee Snyder- Twisted Sister
like a miss - poke your sister
Like a sir - unfriend a mam
Search Hulk Hogan- Uncle Sam
Write your daughters third grade teacher
Bash a priest- praise a preacher
Write your mom a prison letter
You know momma!- probably better
When your hand gets tired of typing Log on Youtube- watch some fighting
UFC- sometimes delightful
This guys girlfreinds being spiteful
Cat's in mirrors- fight their face
See some guy get sprayed with mace
Watch that clip from Tropic Thunder
Rock the Casba- Land down under
Fight the system- Fight the power
Search for bloopers- Austin Powers
Play online and fight for glory
Man this game is too damned gory
Watch the packers play the Bears
COME ON SLACKER!-PASSING WHERE?!!
POKE from brother- INBOX sister
called your phone- you must've missed'er
Supposed to work - be there at eight
It's almost nine- you're pretty late
Get to work- just tell them something
Man what happened?...It was nothing
Categories:
stubble, funny, hilarious,
Form:
On the gurgling remains of Winter
as she seeps back into the earth
on a path around a lake
flanked by the casualties of winter's breath
cattails...
brown and bent with broken heads
backs turned to the pale yellow corn stock stubble
standing in mud clad fields
that lie beneath scattered hints of green
where a red barn and silo stand in wait
A gentle breeze... a ripple on the lake
cattail fluff floating in the air
a symphony composed by songbirds and frogs
drifts across the land and bubbling streams
that cut across the path
Moss lies abreast the thin skin of winter
still remaining in places
where the sun never shines
A blanket of burnt amber needles
and prickly cones
lie beneath a dark green canopy of pines
impaled by glinting spears of sunlight
where the path...for a momeent...is lost
Thump...thump...thump.. the beat of leather souls
on wooden planks over the marshlands...
The lake erupts in torrents of water tendrils
falling from the wings
slapping the face of the lake
as geese take to the sky...
And beyond the forest of pines...
the oaks and maples
display their new burgundy buds
and the few remaining
leaves of Autumn...
all crinkled and curled
still clinging to the past
on a well-worn path
that circles around a lake
with no beginning and no end
where the seasons come and go...
as do... I.
Written: April 30, 2018
Author: Elaine Cecelia George
Categories:
stubble, nature,
Form:
Free verse
The tangled sadness of souls lost
Between Heaven and Earth,
Eternally on their way,
Lifting upwards,
Soaring,
Climbing.
Only to feel the ground’s pull,
The unseen ropes.
Trapped in intermediation.
They have left us without leaving,
Departed without arriving,
No sweet Lethe for them,
No afterlife among ethereal
Beauties bathed in eternal light,
No rest in a perfect balance,
Outside the toss of seasons.
So this is purgatory,
This hell of a half-way house.
Stretched out in an
Agony of elongation,
We can sometimes see them
In the wriggle of smoke
In striated clouds.
They are the larks, perhaps,
That dive into the sky and climb
Climb
Climb
Until their frightened tiny frantic panic
Sends them spiralling down
Down
Down
To the thin air over the cruel stubble
Of dead wheat.
Categories:
stubble, death, devotion, imagination, life,
Form:
Free verse
Those BURMA SHAVE signs used to give us kids something to do,
As down the highways and byways in our 1935 Dodge we flew!
The chef-d'oeuvre from the quills of very creative poets flowed,
Nailed to fence posts for our cultural enlightenment along the road!
Take note of this sign young reader as you pass this way!
In just a little while you too will be hoary and gray!
And like your Pa with steady hand be true and brave,
As you wield that straight razor usin' BURMA SHAVE!
She told her beau, "You remind me of a thug,
With that scraggly stubble sproutin' on yer mug!
If its my hugs and kisses that you crave,
Best ya start usin' BURMA SHAVE!"
The feller tried over and over to get a job,
But potential bosses thought him a slob!
Never apply for work looking like a knave!
Use gobs of BURMA SHAVE when you shave!
With her feller Mabel had a beef.
Claude's stubble caused her grief!
Said she, "Yer wreckin' our romance!
Ever thought of usin' BURMA SHAVE by chance?"
If on your mug you are well endowed
With stubble of which you're not proud
In the mornin' after yer kisser you scrub,
Liberally slather with BURMA SHAVE, old Bub!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Categories:
stubble, humorous, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme
A former place this, a patch where roots rattle,
where stubble has a ferrous frizzle.
A long truncated railroad stop
humming still within a surrogate reality.
As dry voices on the wind, they return
- the homesteaders and journeymen,
the harnessed horses.
Pants' cuffs carry kernels
long planted elsewhere.
Caps, coats, and carts
employed again by the magnetic
echos of an iron labor.
The brown weeds are talkative.
Brown boots seem to shuffle.
A hollow clock clacks,
its guts a nest for ticking birds.
Dandelions anticipate
a faraway flight,
A mid-day heat
thrums fragmented rails.
The station seems almost ready
to receive
as if its world
had not disembarked forever.
Categories:
stubble, poetry,
Form:
Blank verse