Long Cubby Poems
Long Cubby Poems. Below are the most popular long Cubby by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cubby poems by poem length and keyword.
12/06/2020 03:41 PM.
Imagine a long and winding line
all the way to Jabip
upon the handle of small grocery cart
envision mine white knuckle grip,
as the misses commandeers
moseying up and down every single aisle,
whereby an electrocardiogram
would indicate spiky sinusoidal blip.
I experience social anxiety
and feel like screaming aloud,
particularly when series
of unfortunate events
finds your truly
within onrushing madding crowd.
Unfortunately courtesy divine comedy
one erstwhile indiscriminately
cast out obsolete player
creator endowed him
with his trademark shaky spear.
One hapless generic garden variety guy
plagued with panic attacks
accursed lifetime providence
hellacious interminable suffering
until permanent escape
quasi vacation deliverance regarding...,
when grim reaper doth
cometh and taketh me away.
Oh savior enshroud impotent mortal man
at long last terminating suffering
welcoming me into portal
I willingly surrender
and welcome release...
beckoning death be not proud.
Impossible mission to describe
how fast paced life in general
generates utter confusion
analogous to floundering trout
besieges mine mental redoubt
mental helter skelter all about
as if mine entire body electric
forced, kickstarted, subjugated...
to perform (yes folks) hokey pokey
mental gears and cogs
snapping, crackling, popping
inside tumbler like noggin
purportedly linkedin hashtagged
with schizoid personality disorder.
Onset of emotional paralysis
stops me dead in my figurative track
metaphorically wishing me to skuttle
back into hermetically sealed manhole
invisible among interleaved bract
where within mine secret cubby hole
I play knick knack paddywhack...
to idle away leisure time
as well as solve crossword puzzles
meditate (on the gift of a watermelon pickle)
while listening to natural soundtrack,
and self hypnotize courtesy biofeedback.
talk
listen
forgiveness
how many times
sin, repetition
who believes this bunk
this self righteous whining on
oligarchies thrive on our sin
sins they have created for just this
to contain the life of us, to feed them
The cubby hole retains its darkness as it should for it contains us and what they see as our blackened souls. The perforated screen between secludes and excluded as it intrudes on the inner workings of our guilt. Our guilt, the guilt they've orchestrated, and mined, since sperm met egg. These men of the cloth castrated by their own hands, cloaked in black and white, bathed in gray: sit and meat out the justice of the Lord in Hail Mary's?
incense burns
masking the scent of sweat --
petals fall
*Etheree & Prose poetry & haiku
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.
Placed strategically close
to suburban hedgerows,
elderly backyard mavens
nourish generations of groundhogs.
Daily the grass is seeded
with 'Puffcorn Delites,'
bought wholesale from Costco,
An elderly lady died last year.
I see her at night,
as I take out the trash;
a small possum-like shadow.
The ladies seem to me
to grow more like the marmots,
and I wonder if I will ‘turn’ any time soon.
I think I could live quite comfortably
as a whistle-pig.
I dreamed that the widowed ladies
had put a spell upon our local critters.
By some manner of black-arts
had married themselves to woodchucks
and other medium sized mammals.
The late bewitched Mr. Mason
has dug a cubby hole
from which he peers
myopically each evening.
Archie Smith stays
amid the shrubbery
where he can read
the odd moonlit almanac.
Fred scratches his head
with a rear claw
contemplating eternal vows.
They show up at mealtimes.
Furred paws in tartan slippers
shuffle at back doors.
Herbal tobacco scents night airs.
A grey whiskered fuzziness
permeates the Autumnal evening.
Do I wake or sleep?
The widows lay their heads near
to this enchanted nether land;
snore in harmony
with their nearby furry loves.
All here snuggle close
to the roots of this
mist conjuring season.
Earth Day April 22nd 2024
I lament bidding Gaia's creatures adieu,
an inner conflict dust brew
within this scribe, who offers ye to chew
(like sweet treats metaphorically) thee do
tee incumbent, when Doomsday clock
counts down minutes few
according Al Gore rhythm
unstoppably ticking,
when life gets turned to global goo
tenderized viz Doctor Zeus
if not Horton Hears Hoo
then most definitely The Lorax
(couching urgent morals underscored
by satellite photographs
showing melting ice caps or igloo,
which planetary sos, sans in extremis
requires joint effort of Gentile and Jew,
plus every other sectarian credo,
dogma, ethos...knew
clear family, and whatnot
to become linkedin with Linda Loo
yes, we moost not forget
Old McDonald's with his moo
moo there bovine creatures
agedly hobbling along, or new
lee born, cuz juiced one day
per three hundred and sixty five
(six with leap year -
imagine dragons festooned leotard
with brand name Oroblu
or poor ole Winnie The Pooh
eternally stuck in Rabbit's
hole sum Hutch as a queue
doth loosely form dreaming up and rue
men ate about the old woman
who lived in a shoe
mien hating solution
(burning the midnight oil) true
lee trying to remedy plight
of said bear character,
hemmed in courtesy
*****sapiens population explosion
whereat their den only
allows, enables, and provides
cubby hole view
perhaps unstated message being woo
king in tandem solutions to resolve
wretched condition of world wide web
possible by bridging differences
between me and you, and you, and you...
essentially everyone
comprising the human zoo.
Books and erasers on pencils
Alphabet and numbered stencils
A plastic chair attached to
A desk reserved just for you
Chalk boards are for taking notes
A cubby for backpacks and coats
Milk and cookies for a snack
Music and stories are fun
Recess in the warm bright sun
Taking naps to get some rest
Learning skills put to the test
Baby dolls--red fire trucks
Show and tell with baby ducks
Time out's by the corner wall
Bandaged boo boo's when you fall
Memories are being made
From this kindergarten grade
Helping you to learn and grow
As each lesson always flows
In your memories and heart
They will never leave or part
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.
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
Do only flesh and blood miss someone?
Not like plastic toys
Once played put back in a cubby
Collecting dust till it’s held again
But I’m made of flesh and blood
Not a toy with hands needing play
A toy that needs a reassuring embrace
I’m made of flesh and blood
Not like a tree adorned with children
Careless of the winter wind
Carrying off its leaves
Take the toy from the cubby
Take the tree out of my mind
Give the toy a portion of my heart
Let it know the beat of anxiety
Give the tree a part of my flesh
Let it know winter’s bareness
Missing makes being harder
Do trees miss leaves set free?
Do toys miss the adventure?
Do only flesh and blood know missing?
Does our sun miss her planets
Or is it mindless like Saturn
Eating its own without reason?
Is it because I’m a mammal
That I know nurture?
That I miss my mother’s teat?
Miss my furry child?
My cherished seedling
Stripped from me by a winter wind
I’m left with words as my brood
Only humans play with words
As if verbs could suckle me
Even words will leave me
Crucified on poetrysoup.com
When your flesh has left me
Nothing compares to you
If only you were with me
Then I won’t play with words
Hoping trees and toys
Will give me a kiss