Cupboards Poems | Examples

but, at least

The air is ordinary,
flat as the ceiling.
I am not dissolved, not broken,
just waiting—
she's slipping into the woods,
a small vanishing act of trees and smoke.
I stay behind,
a houseplant without a window.

London is a name I repeat
like a charm I can’t afford,
a place I am supposed to belong to
but do not step into.
I am still here,
checking my pulse against
the dull clock of the day.

I say I am not okay—
but the walls do not echo back.
When I count it all,
the bones line up straight,
the cupboards hold food,
the phone rings,
and no one has died.

My worries are real enough
to feel like teeth grazing skin,
but when I press harder,
they dissolve into smoke.
Not tragedy. Not the black lake.
Only the unease of living,
the itch of wanting more.

I hold it close anyway—
this almost-pain,
this not-quite-sorrow.
Because at least it is mine.
Because at least it is not worse.

And yet,
so I say: but, at least—
the worst thing in my hands
is time,
and not death.

I Am The Blueprint of My Own Quiet Ruin

The door swells in its frame each winter,
paint curling like old tongues —
still you press it open with a finger,
leaving soft dents in the wood.

Inside, the walls hum from hidden wires;
plaster sighs under your barefoot weight.
Every step — a loosened nail,
a whisper of dust sliding down beams.

The windows breathe in drafts,
their single panes shivering;
no storm need rage —
your shadow is enough to rattle them.

In the hallway, wallpaper blisters;
your sleeve grazes it,
and flakes of me snow to the floor.

The ceiling, swollen with damp,
droops lower each night you sleep here —
timbers ache above your breathing.

Downstairs, the kitchen faucet drips
like a clock without courage;
your laugh sends the pipes ringing,
and the cupboards cough up ghosts.

Upstairs, in the attic, silence nests —
you climb no ladder,
yet I feel your warmth seep into rafters
where rot waits, patient.

When you close the door behind you,
its frame leans inward, yearning.
The house is always colder after.

Your hands

Your hands would bleed from endless days,
Scrubbing floors to hide the stains.
Three kids hungry, three kids cold —
You broke yourself to keep us whole.

The cupboards echoed, barely fed,
But somehow we still had a bed.
He drank the money, smashed the walls,
Turned our nights to drunken brawls.

I heard you cry, I heard him yell,
I lived with you inside that hell.
You stood between his fists and me —
A shield I never thought I’d see.

No medals hang, no one applauds,
For nights you faced down all his flaws.
You took the blows so we’d survive,
The quiet war that saved our lives.

We’re grown now, Mum — and we are good,
Just like you prayed we always would.
Your hands still shake from what they’ve known —
But Mum, you never fought alone.

who could live there

immaculate house
white carpeting
clean cupboards
spotless flooring
who could live there?
Not me

I'm That House

I'm that house who has been on the block for years
Who have seen many parties and lots of tears
I'm hearing rumors that I might be put up for sell
Different types of notices coming in through the mail
If only I can make the decision or be given an option
I don't want people fighting over me at an auction
I'm getting too old and my paint is starting to peel
By looking at me you can only imagine how I feel
Broken cupboards, run down sinks and crooked tile
There's hardly anyone who looks at me with a smile
Who could possibly want me when I'm so run down
You can't open a door without a screeching sound
True I do have a big yard but my grass isn't green
I also have the biggest bedrooms you've ever seen
There are good things about me that's still the same
My roof is still strong and doesn't leak when it rains
Screws and a new paint job would give me that shine
Give it some thought before signing that dotted line

Unripe

There's a terrible smell in the kitchen
like rotting fruit
or a dead mouse
high and lonesome, eye-watering
thin and whispering, fuzzy with grief

Whenever I think I've located it
it goes into hiding

You can bleach the sink
and empty the bins
look under the table and behind
the cupboards, but
you won't find it any of those places

Thyroid Storms

She started crying in the middle of rages—
not the soft kind, but sharp,
like she’d cut herself on something
I couldn’t see.
She slammed drawers.
Shouted at a spoon.
Broke a plate and sobbed
as if the world had cracked with it.

Before she left,
my mother filled the kitchen with notes
written on paper towels—
taped to the cupboards,
the countertops, the fridge.
I couldn’t read,
but I knew they were important—
squares of paper whispering rules
for someone to follow.

And then she was gone.
We went to see her
in a hospital that smelled
like bleach and stillness.
She didn’t get up—
just sat in a wheelchair
with a white bandage 
wrapped around her throat
like she’d tried to swallow something
that wouldn’t go down.

After that,
she came home quiet.
No more yelling.
No more crying jags.
She took down the notes,
made my lunch
and folded the laundry
like nothing had happened—
like maybe I dreamed it.
I didn’t ask why, and she didn’t say.
But I tried not to spill things.
I tried not to be loud.

Museum of my Mind

I would make a museum of my mind
Fill these musty halls with all my people
Every girl who has walked my corridors 
To write her piece and paste it on the walls. 

Every plaque together, a mosaic
Of all personas, memories, and thoughts 
Together an image, reflected back 
Informative of me, an auto-school.

Blowing out the dust of unused ballrooms
Broom cupboards and and the back stairs, each its own
Room for machinations, revelations, 
Fed by all those who reside within me

My lonely people, aimless wanderers
Floating through the corridors room by room 
Their homes are these clustered, open cloisters.
Endless is my palace of passages. 

I am dissected in a thousand cuts
Each slice a living, pulsating breather
Warm and soft against my cobblestone floors
Balance of life and rock, they people me.

Voices low and laughter cheerful, I hear
My population all internally
All beings that are me, graduated
Notches on a scale, all playing their part, 

Like cogs and wheels they move in tandem drifts
Here in this exhibit they gave me, of
Balustrades adorned and turrets revived 
I transformed: a museum of my mind.

A wicked Twist Hansel And Gretel

The cupboards were bare.
The stepmother said,
“There’s not enough.
Leave them instead.”

Into the woods
with crusts of bread,
they were left to starve
or end up dead.

The world was cruel,
the fire cold.
But children learn
to grow up bold.

The witch was hunger
in disguise.
They saw the truth
behind her eyes.

They lit the fire.
They found a way.
Two kids came back—
but not the same.

Picky Eater Hugh

I do not like peanut butter, potatoes, cheese or chocolate said Hugh
To other foods I suggested, he rapidly replied “ooooh”.
I could tell by face, they were not a favorite in any way.
This was an eye-opener for me, his grandma, this day.

He was supposed to stay with us a week what could I do?
No foods in my cupboards would appeal to young Hugh
What is in your refrigerator? My cousin Louise asked me.
Brownies, cake mixes, potatoes, cheeses and a large cooky.

Unbreakable bond

UNBREAKABLE BOND.
Whether I scored more or I scored less 
You’ve always had my back in all my mess.

You taught me as a child to cross the road bravely
But today too while crossing it, you hold my hand tightly.

My school ID and test papers I don’t even remember 
Are still kept at a special place in your cupboards locker.

Your existence is so important, I just can’t tell
I still need you beside me when I am unwell.

For my joy and sorrow you are always there
To give your support, warmth and care

For more than my needs you always give
It’s because of you that I happily live

Unbothered by anyone are people of this race 
But you know how I feel just by looking at my face.

I have to convey my thoughts to people in prior
But without me even telling you, you know what I desire.

And even if the whole world hates me
In your eyes love I will always see.

This bond that is unbreakable and transparent
Is the one that comes from a “parent”.

Awkward

I could see him awkward,
As he tried to walk her space,
Give suggestions
And results.
After all it had always been her home,
Even she did get confused on drawers,
And cupboards sometimes.
Imagine then him:
Yet!
I could see him…
Useless!
Out of touch!
Claim to know something he had never touched…

Rivers Jumps Our Banks

Households unhitch, clapperboard hulls creaking -
the sound of storm-lashed rigging, as washing lines
and telephone wires twist
netting loosening foundations.

Where we once believed roots gripped bedrock,
planks bob in the swell, chests and their drawers
billow and fill.

Bed-springs gape, cupboards
turn inside out, what surfaces
is the face-up exposure
of our everyday innards.

Even as mailboxes are torn away,
we refuse to believe that a river and some wind
could move our lives so a far afield,

or that this world was really in fact,
just this shipwreck on a shore
that is always moving.

What we once thought of
as an address,
has turned out to be only a buoy
on an ever-moving wave.

MOTHERS DAY CARD

Poetry Soup Premiere Contest winner
MOTHER'S DAY poetry contest sponsored by Benjamin Bartley, April 2025

Morning starts early, before it gets light
Opening cupboards, to see what’s in store
Teachable moments, with wrong versus right
Hope grabs the car keys, then heads through the door
Early bird children, are making their way
Ready to take on, another school week
So many hurdles, to climb day-by-day
Destiny journeys, down these terraced streets 
Another story, of work’s imbalance
Young hungry children, get so tall, so fast
Confidence takes it's fences and chances 
Armed with new shoes but, how long will they last?
Roses or chocolates, say life can be hard
Demanding much more, than words on a card.

Due

It's due...
So what am I going to do?

The funds have gotten low
And the flow has been slow
And I just don't know...

But I got to keep the lights on
I got to keep the water running
Nothing in the fridge or the cupboards, c'mon
Lord, please keep me from jumping

This darn phone keeps ringing
But no good news its bringing

It's due...
And I just don't know what to do.

• Short Cupboards Poems
• Famous Cupboards Poems
• Best Cupboards Poems
• Read Cupboards Poems
• Long Cupboards Poems
• Cupboards Quotes