Curbside Poems | Examples

Heavenly Crush

Lord, please put summer on pause...
everything is bathed in jade and bronzed.
Queen Ann's lac and curbside weeds, 
beatified in the sweet, sautéed sunshine.
Everything is sheened in overabundance-
the aspen leaves are jiving on the breeze.
A cardinal is as plump as an uncut ruby...
for two weeks on- when the sun comes up
it weaves a song with lemon drops
is it taunting me or thanking the good lord

Lord, please put summer on pause
While I'm still enmeshed in bone and flesh
within the golden foothills of a heavenly crush.

Decrepit Heirloom Lives Again

“Restoring beauty from decrepitness
 fulfills the heart with treasured happiness.”
                                           _by Poet
Decrepit was a table we once owned,
part of our living room so long ago,
left in the home, my Dad, in time, had sold.
After my Mom had passed, he let it go

with other matching pieces, later sold
by the new owners, barring this one piece
left at the curbside, mixed with other trash.
I saw this, and my heart could find no peace.

Dilapidated, shabby, and decayed
our antique table, which my Mom adored,
was left unguarded in a leaky shed-
abandoned and exposed- so poorly stored.

I placed it in my trunk and drove away
to meet a friend with fine restoring apt.
I knew he'd make it look as good as new;
decrepit to a polished look, adapt.

It soon appeared as I remembered it;
restored into a lovely work of art.
I do embrace it as my mother's gift.
This heirloom has returned to never part.

Angels

"Be An Angel and Be Kind" By Poet

"A" Angel factory come inside.
"N" Naughty need not apply, your kicked to the curbside.
"G" God is the boss here my dear.
"E" Eternal life is waiting for you with cheer.
"L" Love flows everywhere.
"S" Serving the one and only King is in the air.

The touch of her soft flowing hair

I don’t think she’s really aware
That the touch of her soft flowing hair
Takes me drifting through time
To that evening at nine
When she stole my heart without care

I had just held the door
Nothing less – nothing more
A flash of eyes blue
A whispered “thank you”
Made me wish to perform an encore

The hook had been set
Though she wasn’t fishing
I sat alone at the bar
Silently wishing
She’d said just a little bit more

Thus, fate intervened
As we left in the rain
Draped beneath our old coats
Leaping o’er curbside moats
Setting sail on an endless affair

All our secrets abide
Even those that we “hide”
In those quizzical grins
That mask all or our sins
‘neath the touch of her soft flowing hair

Jane-By-Pebble-Beach: -2-

Clint's an iffy fellow, tis prestige vs the ordinaire, my dear plain Jane--hmm, partially accommodating. 

Methinks you're a drop-off, my dear, picture a car dropping you off curbside while he goes looking for a fictitious parking space, but a gentleman he is uses the factual context of the 11th hour--OPS you to HAIL me.

I gather Mr. Eastwood was gifted said ticket, ... that I am guessing you so happened to be in pysical possession.

How did you know that? That would pleasure him of not being a CAD!

I forgot that you're like some madda carrie.

Mother who? You mean that Mother Teresa (rising popularity 1979).

No, that German one.

A German Mother Teresa? Was she young Adolph's school teacher.

Oh forget it! [LATER: she reveals "Mata Hari']" 

Did he you call you and tell you, or are you playing Holmes?

Doc--tor 'tis Clint's gift?

Yes, but-- ... --wait ... it must be somebody of importance ... yes, but who?

 Hehehe! It would be very rich for me, if I saw a glimpse of your face at this relevant juncture-------was I your suggested choice? 


 ... Yes, Oh my? You're scary!

End of Haviland

 end of Haviland
stilled kickstands & spokes of Schwinn
our teen shapely thighs
after school books are returned
and mind wanders down the road

chill in Summer heat
orange & vanilla twist
creamsicle in cone
the yield of sweet and tincture
melting on curbside tongues

A Halloween Nonet

a spider the size of a small cat 
came crawling round the curbside bend 
wondering what he could eat 
worms ? snails ? frogs? lizards ? bats? 
perhaps even cat 
Trick or treat mate 
your squashed, 
Bye !

Stop Wait Go

traffic lights
amber moon
heart ticking over

here the head teeters
breathy fumes
flood the face of the road

there are other wheeled minds
in this static world
other's waiting
to go

and the gone
are gone forever

curbside
cats stare
going nowhere

A Wider View

Night roads widen,
dream paths spread their branches.

The Sandman is hobbled
and can only watch.

A tethered mind has spread
fledgling wings.

What appears to happen
behind sleepwalking eyes
is viewed from a fish-eyed drone -
a stretched panoramic overview.

Am I travelling or unrolling
a future map?
Major arteries become sea-lanes
a melting landscape
for the soul of the soul of the soul.

In a distant radio speaker
a voice recites the Koran
in perfect Yiddish.

I may have to awaken
as a more concrete curbside
if these night journeys
keep mushrooming,

enlarging these itinerate routes of reality.

The Story Untold

The Untold Story

The flashing headlights intensely illuminated the gloomy faces of the sweetgum tree
The tears fell from the sky like God's Shower , constant and cleansing
The troubled night shrouded the steady strolling figures like an unfulfilled corpse 
The Killer parked his hesitant vehicle upon the eroded curbside

The indifferent priest discharged his shallow yet nessacery words upon the silhouetted congregation
"We are gathered today to mourn the death of Linda Whittington..."
The words were unclear due to the remorseful rain
Buffering the consolation like a badly tuned radio
 Suddenly, an irrelevant relative broke out :
"She didn't deserve to die ...a moment of silence please"
The Killer smirked to himself

As the theatrical tears of distant relatives who arrived for the free food Conjoined with the Shower droplets
Headed towards the drainage
The Killer picked up a pair of sodden dandelions from the moist ground 
And heard, staggeringly clearly , through the rain
 
"Thank you Magnus"

Magnus placed the now blood-stained
dandelions in the grave
And allowed himself to be encapsulated by the determined Darkness 


~Whoever

Old Santa

 

Poor Santa could no longer stand with pride,
I am just too old for Christmas he cried;
but, what about Christmas eve,
and all the toys I should leave ...
Amazon can deliver them curbside !

A Tiny Little Mouse

Observed while on my morning walk – 
A tiny little mouse
Went scampering out in the street,
A plan I’d not espouse.

For he ran willy-nilly
With no destination set,
Approaching several buildings
But no access could he get.

He darted back to whence he came,
A pile of curbside trash,
Then turned around and to
Another building he did dash.

A fellow walker witnessed this
When I said, “Look at that!”
He laughed and answered, New York style,
“At least it’s not a rat!”

Pecos Bill

Pecos Bill rode herd in the vast forlorn.
His quiet Paint gobbled buttered popcorn.
A tornado, in a fit, 
Came for a whirlwind visit. 
“Paint, meet Curley. His back I will adorn.”

Bill grabbed his rope and threw a loop with hope
And saddled the whirlwind so Paint could lope,
Leisurely grazing along
While Bill sang a peaceful song
Though the twister used top spin, Bill could cope.

Whirly raced north swift as antelope might. 
Picking up barns, tossing them left and right,
Heaving a freight train five miles. 
Bill hung on with joyful smiles,
“Almost beats chasing roadrunners at night.”

Bill rode that twister into a broke nag, 
That lay city curbside limp as a rag,
A sadder, but wiser storm. 
Where his horse Paint, true to form, 
Whinnied by the nag, wanting to play tag.

A jolly sheriff saw Bill ride in view,
He chose at least three tickets to issue:
Parking in a tow away;
No emissions valve that day;
Driving a twister with no license too.

Tale Tales 1 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Jeff Kyser
Date Written: 3/14/2022
Used Poetry Soup Syllable Counter

Recycling Bins

In the suburbs, once a week, 
Recycling bins go out
And wait there, curbside, for the trucks
To pass by on their route.

A glance inside can give a hint
About the different things
The neighbors choose to purchase
And the refuse that it brings.

The water bottles, magazines,
The papers, boxes, cans,
Perhaps the same as yours or ones
Of which you aren’t fans.

The bins provide a service
All communities do seek
While also giving people
Into others’ lives a peek.

Roadside

Curbside are snapshots of revelation
they invoice the passing 
as stations upon a cross, or rosary beads
from the corners of hard driven eyes.
We count the faces of onlookers like cars
for they count us not,
or may enter our speeding vehicles
as flashes of sunlight upon glass.

Roadside, is a rotting log
sporting small dainty flowers
amid exhaust fumes.
Roadside, both the living and killed
turn in a part glimpsed mobile 
reflecting our own brief leaving.
We move too fast to see it all,
layers return as later onlookers
when the car ticks warm and parked.

There is a strange abashment in speed,
a tomorrow-ness in the momentary watch
of those we pass.
The world becomes a known stranger
met on the tip of hastily thrown spear.
We distracted tourists
drive into the heart of questions.
Mind intones our place in time,
a fresh moment we have yet to arrive at,
one in which
we did not crash and burn in - just yet,
and tomorrow waits
to begin another new odyssey.

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