Best Stubs Poems
I’m gonna always love you
I’m gonna always be your friend
I’m gonna think ‘bout the times we kissed
In the pond or the tree or the willow mist
I’m gonna always love you…
You’re gonna always haunt me
You’re gonna always haunt my heart
When we slept on the sand, when we tied our hands
When we saw only five minutes of that band
You’re gonna always haunt me…
I wanna always kiss you
I wanna always kiss your lips
Wanna kiss your lips and cry on your hips
And eat all your words with their bones and their pips
I wanna always kiss you…
I wanna always heal you
I wanna always care for you
Wanna kiss all the hurt out of your toe’s stubs
Make hot tea for you in the Holly shrubs
I wanna always pray for you…
I’m gonna always love you
I’m gonna always be your friend
Gonna think ‘bout the time we made love in the morn’
In the crows nest list’ning to sun be born
I’m gonna always love you…
You’re gonna always haunt me
You’re gonna always haunt my heart
When we screamed and swore and fell on the floor
And played those games where we’d talk no more
They’re gonna always haunt me…
I wanna always kiss you
I wanna always kiss your head
Wanna kiss your head ‘til it turns all red
Kiss away all the thoughts about the words I said,
I wanna always kiss you…
I wanna always heal you
I wanna always care for you
Wanna give you cakes for your belly aches
And give you cocoa from the little boy by the lake
I wanna always heal you…
I’m gonna always love you
I’m gonna always be your friend
I’m gonna think ‘bout the times we kissed
In the pond or the tree or the willow mist
I’m gonna always love you…
(Repeat)
Categories:
stubs, beauty, lost love, romance,
Form:
Ballad
The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes. Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.
‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’
Categories:
stubs, abuse, age, art, business,
Form:
Free verse
You don’t know this but
we’re all ISBN’s. At birth,
we’re tattooed across our asses
with barcodes, ID tags, social security numbers.
The only doctors allowed
to perform this surgical move
were trained in suits and sunglasses,
were handcuffed to computer suitcases,
held galas in mansions in the hills
of Virginia, roamed secretly through tunnels
beneath Abe Lincoln’s feet, they infiltrated
every hospital, mandated staff to hand over
the key cards. Don’t be alarmed.
Chocolate brownies can still
hold good dreams, peanuts, and marijuana.
This information should not stop you,
you wondered before about those
seven digits printed across the tops of your pay stubs,
didn’t you? And the 48906 signature on every document
from your university.
Yes, you see now. All along,
that tattoo on your soul numbers destiny:
one of the numbers stands for the birthday
of your child, one for the day your parents will find
cancer sinking its teeth in their osteoperostic bones,
and one lists the street address of the building
you will die in. The hospital’s phone number
is merely a set of numbers. Ask them
what they’ve done to you, and they’ll shrug
their white-collar shoulders.
To view this poem on my blog, visit http://wordsareaneed.blogspot.com/2014/12/lucky-numbers-2-10-24-65-93.html.
Categories:
stubs, conflict, nonsense, pain, scary,
Form:
Concrete
“All men are pricks” she says
“Are you sure about that?” I say
I look deep into her eyes
and she half smiles.
She holds the stare and so do I.
“Whatever a woman says, she means
the opposite” she says with a giggle
and stubs her cigarette.
She leaves to do a chore
inside the café.
I sip my latte and wait
for her to come back.
I love our little chats!
Categories:
stubs, life, giggle,
Form:
Free verse
Cuckoo Dancers
Discarded dusty beer bottle lying dormant on the tracks
Commuters await their carriage
Adorned in business like macks
Trees sway in gentle breeze
Capable of more tension,
Performing their shedding of leaves
Far too many to mention.
Pigeon jumps on pigeon
Mating season for all to see,
Another squirrel scurries across the tracks,
Across leaves and debris.
Solitary heron surveys the scene,
The dance of the platform,
The cuckoo dancers ensue.
Discarded shower gel lies half empty on the tracks,
How this could have got there, no one can tell
One person steps forward to check for his train,
Another steps back with woeful refrain
This pattern continues to emphasise my point,
Stemming from this anxiety a new dance I anoint.
Discarded crisp packet bounces gently across the tracks
Reminding me very much of a man on the moon,
Station clock shows the train arrival is now late,
Man grunts, swings his brolly...he is clearly irate.
Discarded cigarette pack fades gradually on the tracks
Whilst woman fixes make up, man kills time by playing with his phone,
Amazes me how people just can't leave them alone!
Man lights his cigarette in a reluctant fashion,
His car has broken down and he hates public transport with a fervent passion.
A multitude of people are gathered here today,
Business attire the name of the day
A brief case, a brolly, a black bowler hat,
And in some extreme cases
A flasher mack and a comedy 'tache!
Suddenly in the distance
A growing light appears,
A communal silent sigh of relief
As the train begrudgingly nears
Man stubs out his cigarette
As the train makes its approach,
In anticipation of his selection of coach.
Discarded Autumn leaf floating lazily across the tracks,
The platform is now empty
Awaiting its latest cuckoo dance!
Copyright
S Rose
Categories:
stubs, fun, imagery,
Form:
Free verse
Today is Sunday and I'm going to the ocean
or maybe not. Definitely not doing the laundry
or maybe I will. Moss and even a small tree
grow in the rotten stubs of the pier pilings.
The city is Seattle and it has a macho airport.
Give me the comfort of a moose knowing its
water supply. The mosquito's acceptance of its position
among a million mosquitoes. The pool of stagnant
water that remains one with the mothering ocean.
I drift on the air, less than a seed, a bacteria.
Or I am human, big dick, big brain containing
universal philosophic affidavit. Pleased by
the churning of my tongue, sexual enlightenment,
devout prayer, gourmet dining. I swear
it is best to be alive and to have loved Mary.
Categories:
stubs, city, love, ocean, philosophy,
Form:
Verse
In a cobwebbed dusty corner in a dark attic void of light. Holds the essence of my being thr menories i hold dear. That's brought me where i am today and still nuture my fear.The dolls and movies and magazines the records scarred with age.The tiny five years diary.My private dreams on every page.Mememtoes from vacations packed full of summer fun.Post cards from distant places of trips not yet begun birthday cards and tickets stubs.Treasures dear to only me of value to non but I.There worth prejudged so long ago cherished till the day i die.Every scrap of paper,every letter packed awayholds a very special memory that's with me everyday.And i'll keep that part of my life with me always.Asmy life goes on and years begin to show strain i'll always have a place i can go to relive my youth again.
Categories:
stubs, death, life, memory, me,
Form:
Blank verse
The Barefoot Days of Summer
By Elton Camp
When I was a child in rural Alabama during the 1940s, going barefoot during the summer months was still a general practice, especially for boys. It was feasible because few roads were paved and sidewalks in the country were virtually nonexistent. The sun on hard, dark surfaces created burn hazards that prevented city kids from going without shoes outside the confines of their own yards.
My father’s childhood had been spent in the more distant rural areas of Marshall County. He and his siblings went shoeless partly by choice and partly because it was the inexpensive thing to do. Shoes for their large family would represent a significant cost. Memory being the fickle thing that it is, he looked back on “going barefoot” as a privilege and source of delight. It was a childhood rite that he wanted me to enjoy.
“You can start going barefoot now,” he announced in June of each year. His tone showed that he considered he was doing something wonderful for me, so I didn’t want to disappoint him by revealing my true feelings. Going shoeless hurts—a lot. Sharp rocks and stubs of plants seemed to be everywhere. After about a month, the soles thicken enough that walking becomes less painful, but it’s mainly a matter of degree. Without a doubt, the sandy, grass-free yards of his youth contained fewer perils.
In the forties, our yard had what passed for grass, but it actually was a mixture of grass, clover, and general weeds. When the clover bloomed, it created a hazard that no amount of tough skin could prevent—bee stings. The pain was intense and lasted a couple of days. The only treatment my parents knew was to moisten the head of a kitchen match to make a paste to apply to the sting. Despite their assurance that the folk treatment would help, I felt no better beyond the fact that something was being done. In later years, I took a perverse comfort when I learned that the sting tears out the internal organs of the bee so that it dies shortly. The mere fact that I was crushing the insect with my foot gave it no right to retaliate.
Apart from the beach, I haven’t seen a barefoot child over a year old in a long time. Viewpoints and circumstances change and that childhood ritual has vanished. Good riddance to it.
Categories:
stubs, childhood, childhood, child, childhood,
Form:
Narrative
Time To Let Go
A handful of paper and worn ticket stubs
So many downed trees and rainforest shrubs
Shredded and mashed into paper pulp
The waste o'er the world is enough to make one gulp
Each of these stubs carries a very true tale
Of flights overseas way beyond any pale
Collected and stored for he knew not why
They became an obsession yet in a drawer they did lie
Perhaps when I am old with grandchild on my knee
Stubs strewn 'cross the floor haphazard to see
"Pick one up child and pass it to me
And I'll tell you of that flight and tell the story"
And with the paper in hand I'll smile and I'll start
And bewilder the child with an orator's art
And embellish the truth where I may not recall
And watch the child's face enraptured in thrall.
And bring each worthless stub a life of its own
Enrich the flat card by making each child moan
As they shriek and they clap and they clamour for more
As I return the collection once more to the drawer.
But this is just dreaming -just romantic notion
That wastes idle time and causes commotion.
For there is no grandchild,nor prospect that I see
From my kids who lost interest in my stories and me.
Perhaps one day all this might just change
Then my stories I'll make and history rearrange
Until then I admit and ponder and mutter
That these stubs are old paper and unwanted clutter.
So I emptied the drawer and the stubs will be tossed
If the time comes then I will count the cost.
By then more adventures will have been and gone
I don't think that those grandchildren will ever receive none.
For if that time comes I am sure there'll be more
Flight ticket stubs filling the bottom drawer....
Categories:
stubs, feelings, introspection, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme
pain is
a mind thing
blue skys
Each day I awake and kiss the stubs on my hand - - - now, five of them. I never broke! Remembering each day, I thankfully kiss the feet of God in my mind. I thank him for the fact that they have only cut off another joint. All night they threatened - - - and had finally cut it off. I recoup while they get some sleep. I never broke, but I cried. I begged, pleaded and cussed, because they wanted a show more than the information. I had learned self-hypnosis as a kid. Little did I think then of how I would use it.
So, here I sit today. No fingers, no toes. I need about fifty skin grafts but you know?- - - I’m all right !!. I’m all right. I have loved and felt love. I have had the joy of being a son, a brother, a husband and a father. I don’t owe anyone an apology.
Now, I pray to be able to look deep within myself. I want to retreat far enough into my mind to find that bridge. I want the path to the other side.
So, sleepy, so much blooo ......... . . . !
Categories:
stubs, death,
Form:
Prose
All my lovers have gone
The midday sun beats down upon my head
I order one more whiskey, straight up
My guitar is missing one string
We both make a good pair
Broken
The waitress asks me if I want anything
I told her I want my heart back
Bewildered she smiled and walked away
Seems they all walk away
Maybe I should fly somewhere, if only I had
Wings
Suddenly, my thirst bites me
Feeling sorry for myself seems to require
That I drown whatever life I once had
I gaze over the terrace at an old couple hand in hand
I see in them what shall be for me
Never
I rise up; pay the bill with the little money left
I pawn my guitar, sell my heart, and
Purchase a ticket to Nowhere
Maybe when I get there, my jacket I shall
Mend
Now in the middle of Nowhere, I stand
No heart, no money, and one torn jacket
A small town by any measure
To my wonderment, I saw in the thousands
Lonely poets with used bus ticket stubs
Broken poets do live in Nowhere
Categories:
stubs, philosophy, poetry, poets, symbolism,
Form:
Light Verse
As I sat in my room on a stormy night,
something startled me with such a fright!
Through a crack in the door of my private domain,
came a screech as high-pitched as brakes on a train.
I caught a glimpse of a reflection in my closet door mirror,
I saw it approaching as my spine tingled with fear!
My mind started to race...
WHO or WHAT has invaded my space?
In the reflection I dare to see-
a clump of hair like the hive of a bee.
Then, oh no, nails...
followed by scales!
Footsteps were approaching as I let out a scream,
I wanted to run, hoping it was all a dream.
My door creaked open, I chewed my nails down to stubs.
Fingers wrapped around the edge of my door like wriggling grubs!
The door flew open, and who should appear...?
My SISTER in a Hannah Montana costume, headphone in ear.
With her puffy blind wig, pointed heels and gloved hands,
I don't know what's scarier- a monster or a Hannah Montana fan.
Categories:
stubs, funny
Form:
THEATRE OF THE ABSURD
Puppets, all parts, perpetually working.
Tense strings, plucked, with novice fingers.
Ruby sawdust sparkles with the warm sun.
Puppets on strings, such silly things!
A play set nearby, a seesaw, those twins –
Hansel and Gretel, balancing between life and death.
The wretched sound of falling trees, pulled
from resistant roots - ground shakes violently.
The buzzing of saws, like bees in a honey hive.
Splinters of puppet bone, praying for relief.
The lies that Pinocchio told - stubs compared to this.
The darkening of the witch’s wood, with terrible treats.
Wooden toes, stumble and tiptoe, over windswept limbs,
sending shivers through their gnawing cold bones,
as twigs fly and snap, popping of puppet props.
Leading the way, Ali Baba whispers “open sesame” -
They hide in a craven cave, whilst the forest implodes.
Perpetual motion, like watches, ticking of time-bombs.
Pinocchio cracks jokes, like he’s done this all before.
Treasures glisten in candlelight, “what have we done…”
Whispers of a forest saved, puppets clamorous in mine -
Their eyes like multicolored jewels, hideous in the gloom.
Redwoods run with stilt-like legs, banging at their door -
Begging for one last kindness, followed by sudden silence.
They arise at dawn, the parade of puppets on strings.
Silly things, characters performed by naïve children –
playing at war. They hear a cackle, as she, lures them inside.
Guard down, until the urchins ears bleed, with screams of kindling.
2/6/2017
Categories:
stubs, anxiety, dark, fear, tree,
Form:
Alliteration
like sparrows on the streets and in caves
consider how they swoop and dive
and fatten on dusty pizza crumbs
consider the raccoons how they squawk and squalor
peck and fight for space to grow fat gray hairs
and live as a family in the wild consider them
consider the homeless man on East Euclid dragging
Giant-Eagle cart on the sidewalk every hour
with rags searching through litterbins for a meal
consider the hare the rabbit the crow and ants
with no pay stubs yet with no long days of boredom
and they lie in cleanest beds and smile at dinner times
then consider me after the gavel and the long sentence
living with cancelled checks crying over lost purpose
scarred of sirens and hunting shelters for meals
consider me sleeping in fields with dead numbers
consider me whose far-distant ancestors never crashed
in any trash but drank coffee with Carnegie on his birthday
consider me coming out of institutions that mark me forever
with a bindi that blocks my name from the list of humans
and to live I have to peep through thorn bushes and grunt
Categories:
stubs, abuse, courage, dark, depression,
Form:
Didactic
Early this morning, I found, much to my chagrin,
the flowers in my garden were as if they’d never been.
Bitten off above the soil, green stubs left aground.
Mad enough to spit nails, I fussed and stomped around.
It was easy to discover who the culprits were.
They left telling evidence indented in the dirt there.
Their hoof prints tracked all around the flowerbed;
no blossoms for my soul today, food in their stomachs instead.
Categories:
stubs, animal, flower, garden,
Form:
Couplet