‘Cause i can't be bad… never was,
Nor will I be!!
I'm just a cubby ; trying to get by,
With the love he found;
True only for him;
Won't ask for more, won't need no more;
A clear day, when he hears her voice,
An awesome night when she hums,
The next day, both would entice.
------
vol 6, Multiples
Oh my gosh where is the sun
It’s cold as North Pole today
My nose runs this is no fun
They’re calling for sleet they say
I drank myself a peach hot tea
It was warm traveling down
My throat so cold with chilly feet
Abandoning my errands in town
Was gonna go grocery shop
But cancel that today buddy
Venture outside I will not
Slow cooker beans in the cubby
Days like this I feel for kids
Walking to school even if delayed
For Old Man Winter has a trick
Throwing frozen fog in the way
Please watch out for the buses
School kids will be crossing the street
Jack Frost talks and he cusses
If you ever had frost bitten feet
I’m a North Carolina native lady
Deep in the Bible Belt
Hoping that all stay warm and maybe
You can visit after the melt
In the quiet corners of my mind-
A fuzzy friend named Cubby still resides.
Years ago, when I was three,
He tumbled into my life, so warm and free.
His legs once jiggled, full of beads,
Now gently limp, shaped by years and needs.
Stitches faded, fur rubbed thin,
Yet love, not fabric, holds him in.
Psychology whispers: attachment, security,
But Cubby is more than theory-he's memory's purity.
He's comfort on restless nights,
A silent listener to childhood's frights.
One summer day, a suitcase closed-
Cubby missing, my heart exposed.
Tears spilled all the way back home,
I felt so lost, so all alone.
But surprise! My brother's gentle tease:
He'd tucked Cubby away, aimed to please.
The ache of loss became relief so sweet-
Reunion turning sorrow to heartbeat.
Why do we long for what can't speak?
Why do soft things make us weak?
Perhaps in Cubby, I see a part
Of something gentle in my heart.
He's more than cotton, thread, and fur-
He's childhood's echo, comforter.
Psychology says it's just a phase,
But Cubby's love, it never decays.
Scored, stained, painted, washing, squeezing.
Profound fingers duly pleasing.
A perfect sign is not one’s goal.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
Basic colors, silver and gold,
Sprinkles that touch wet paint, behold.
Cathartic stressing’s console.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
A maverick or dependent.
Assured it will be resplendent.
To each his own creed of control.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
The group imparts a tenderness,
Rubbing elbows of cleverness;
And pondering time in fishbowl.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
All eyes on the “perfect” signage.
Does such have a great advantage?
Peculiar go down rabbit hole.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
Still, the simplicity of cream;
And chocolate Easter bunny’s dream,
Won’t be held in one’s cubby hole.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
Scored, stained, painted, washing, squeezing.
Profound fingers duly pleasing.
A perfect sign is not one’s goal.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
witch’s cauldron had bit of a hiccup today
ghosts and goblins laughed about it a bit
Halloween humor lives beyond the fray
Dracula’s ghost appeared with a happy hey
some of the warlocks and wizards had a fit
witch’s cauldron had a bit of a hiccup today
a whisper left my arm hairs straight up in a way
who was this entity? Was I now a half-wit?
Halloween humor lives beyond the fray
My feelings were macabre, peace now at bay
Scared now, I found a cubby into which to flit
witch’s cauldron had a bit of a hiccup today
A low growl left me without anything to say
teeth marks in my arm resolved my grit
Halloween humor lives beyond the fray
my ashen face was probably a mealy gray
this cave like place was dimly drably lit
witch’s cauldron had bit of a hiccup today
Halloween humor lives beyond the fray
When will I not love you
shall there be a distant flame
flickering beyond the warmth of
an Indian summer's sultry breeze
When will I not love you
will the sun rest on top of giant
umbrellas dancing heavenly
about sparkling shores
When will I not love you
shall the roaring tides rise
over broken sea shells
sending the tiny crabs back
inside hidden cubby holes
When will I not love you
will the standing vessels finally
set sail upon the calming Voss seas
cunning seduction banks of marigolds
from ancient good byes as new worlds
collides gleaming about sullen memories
When will i not love you when
Deposited, held in Amazon's Adonis arms
Hidden inhospitably stashed, kite shadow
Curled furtive, stairway stupefied windshield
Hallucinations lag languished in amusement
Monkeys freeze, screech scamper scratch
Egg smooth roof unscathed cubby abode
Jagged gaps hang fur curtain climbing mates
Swung carefree in cramped homecamp humid
Aghast lopped log rest exhales raggedly
Snapped propeller askew salutes defeat
Wing bent lungs transform fortitude into fuel
Crushed accordion bodied anaconda swivels
Lock jaw latch tight to jungle gym frame
Liquid flow flanks scale, giant slug glued
Fork tongue tastes rain drip following day hope
Fangs prong Coconas sour tomato gold codicil
Cluster juice burst berries, bittersweet bulbs
Knobs of Contreu twisted tangerine vitamin
Fibre feeds faith indispensible, thin torsos entwined
Fight against forbode of abandonment, exhausted
Anonymous Minor Survivors
Middle of Jungle June
At the deep shelf of night
a niche
a cubby-hole of stillness
Somewhere a hunt is on
somewhere there is death and feeding
but in this hollow mouth of the cosmos
you can rest
within your eyes
be not stung blind by any blood hungers
Here you can sleep on a bed of starlight
forget yourself
and this lovely savage planet
Everywhere there is a kind of peace
as the mind watches itself
looking
just looking
GRANDMA’S KITCHEN
In her kitchen here,
Grandma’s welcoming cheer,
Embracing kids of kith-n-kin
And engaging with tasty treats pleasing,
From the mixing basin of pudding makings,
With licks of spoon and bowl of creation,
And from the cubby-hole above the stove,
From grandma’s treasure trove of secreted joys
To test the tongue with sugary delights,
And from the ice-box frozen gifts
That stick to tongue and freeze the gizzards way below,
Or plucked from barrel up there on shelf
Home-made from the stove a delightful dip of surprise,
A ginger-breadman or Turkish delight
To caress the tongue beholden to taste,
‘Tis the way of grandma’s showing,
The value of waiting and manners respecting,
That in her kitchen here
Grandma’s sovereign of all tastes and treats,
And that children of kith-n-kin are most welcome here,
And with that comes respect for the queen
Of her castle at this point.
This is for all grandmothers great and small,
May God bless you one and all.
Francis Cooper – Mac © 07-Jul-20
The human mind,
great organizer of endless data.
Creating cubby holes of information.
The human mind
is not designed to allow freedom to the pieces,
not designed to let go of form and preconceived notions.
The human mind is frail.
When first I tried to challenge my presumptions,
to loosen my hold on my opinions and views,
My mind was gripped in a tornado of fear.
To no longer know the answer to every question,
to place my feet on an untraveled land.
It’s so much easier to cling unconsciously
to the traditions and rituals, we take for granted as truth.
When I admit you belong in this world as well,
My icy heart melts to mush and my spirit lightens.
So much easier
To live in the crafted reality of convention.
But how many ships have sailed without me
that could have taken me to distant shores.
Organ grinder
Meat grinder
Bump-and-grind
The workday grind
Get up, get out of bed
Drag a comb across my head
Yeah, Yeah, Paul: You knew that was coming --
Go to work
Pour the coffee
Water the plants
Sharpen some pencils
Head for the water cooler
Trade some stories...gossip a bit
Stall...stall...stall...and stall some more...
Get to the meeting on time
Look engaged
Back to my cubby
And then:
What's this? A poem?
A what? A poem!
A poem appears
comes flying from my fingers
onto the keyboard
up on the screen
read... saved... printed …
posted on social media... 'liked'
All over the internet
Gone viral
I'm a thing
a downright event!
Yeah, sure I got canned
Of course...
Know anyone looking for a new poet?
December 03, 2019
Predictable Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
The youngest Mouseketeers, they were
The ones who sang goodbye.
If you watched “Mickey Mouse Club,”
You’d remember if you try.
Her long blond curls and winsome smile
Had cross-the-board appeal
And pairing them together
Really seemed to seal the deal.
Though Cubby lives, I just found out
That Karen’s, sadly, gone,
So “now it’s time to say goodbye;”
Her memory lives on.
Karen Pendleton (8/1/46 – 10/6/19)
Cubby O’Brien (7/14/46 -)
A hole in the darkness
Perfectly still
Coiled and waiting
Ready to kill
Silent black velvet
Watchful and scary
Spots its next victim
Passing unwary
A leap and a pounce
Claws and fangs flashing
No chance for the victim
There comes a cruel slashing
A meal for just one
Not for the other
Its short life is done
There’ll be no tomorrow
But the beast will continue
Its wicked desire
To hunt and cause murder
As nature requires
A gruesome ritual
Carried out every night
The only defense
Is mornings new light
Sun slowly rising
Continuing its passage
Soft light devours
The monsters advantage
Some creatures survived
Were they just lucky?
Best scurry back
To their safe little cubby
And for the assassin
There starts a new day
To find a warm sunbeam
Dismissing foul play
As its green eyes grow heavy
And sleep pulls it under
The little black kitty
Dreams of its plunder
They plotted long, that winter’s night
Beneath the Christmas star so bright
Three tiny mice in elf like suits
Could smell the pie of many fruits
And as it baked, their hunger grew
So they decided what to do
They knew that cook would, as a rule
Set pies on window sill to cool
They would appear as Christmas elves
Instead of their most scary selves
And then the cook, they would acquaint,
Remove their clothes and she would faint
Just then, with super mouse like strength
They’d slide that pie the needed length
Into their cubby hole nearby
Like that!, they’d be gone with the pie
12/12/18
The clues are there.
The notes.
The writing.
The phone numbers.
The calendar.
Especially the calendar
holding all the secrets
of what was done and will be done.
He is bent over the cubby-holed desk,
slippers, flannel bathrobe,
searching through the familiar
and seeing only the hidden,
the missing,
the opaque.
The crime?
Something stolen, precious
and worse,
it is just out of sight,
next to the words,
the notes, the writing,
the calendar.
Especially the calendar.
So obvious the number,
the day,
yet not now the season.
He finds her worried face again
and continues.
All those around him
keep it from him-
the secret is-
nothing is gone,
nothing was done.
The detective searches
for himself in the clues
of unravelling time.
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