Long Stubbing Poems
Long Stubbing Poems. Below are the most popular long Stubbing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stubbing poems by poem length and keyword.
From within the frost-frozen, bare-boarded, shed
within its loosely hung zee-braced door agape
the spring light peeked.
Warming the woodsheds King’s pine planks
toasting the ten penny nails
popping the planks to a toe-stubbing height.
Door slamming dashes through the obstacle course of cord,
tinder, rake and hoe;
to the semi attached outhouse.
Draws half down,
butt bitten by March’s wind;
the two holer waits, lye bucket at the base.
Curled, yellow-brown, newspaper pages from 1890,
the shade of Uncle George’s pipe stained teeth, wiggle in the wind;
as do I when with a holler as
breeze to bottom freeze dries.
A half flashed mad dash to the kitchen door
is halted; awestruck at the gapping door to the kitchen garden.
Raspberry-red, tit tipped rhubarb buds and stalks,
warmed by the sheltered spring sun;
set my mouth to drool.
A waylaid girl child in transit.
How do you know what you know?
You know by stubbing your toe
Induction principle
Back to the future go
It’s epistemological
Is it all empirical?
Is it all observable?
I’m asking how
Atheist’s count
With numbers being abstractable
The induction rule
Is a Christian tool
By stubbing my toe
Against the bedpost
It comes into view
By stubbing your toe
Extrapolate, tow
The past is not material
In motion, or emotional
It’s not biological
Whose brains do we use
To arrive at truth?
No matter how hard you strive
Atheism’s a lie
Given an internal sleuth
We move from the toe that’s shod
To the toothpaste proof of God
Is insistence matter or motion?
This only causes commotion
To insist that you can live like a god
To persist that is false
It's to stumble instead of waltz
Yeah, there’s a dichotomy
And it’s a lobotomy
Reasoning becomes schmaltz
It’s tautological schism
An unreasonable prison
To assume atheism at all
Isn’t reasonable
He exists and that’s not fideism
Jesus the reason for reason
The fool only causes commotion
In everything you contemplate
Even Pyrrho and Descartes can’t help you escape
Because doubting isn’t matter or in motion
So don't assume like Hume
Or become a skeptic, that's hectic
So how do you know?
Thank God for me stubbing my toe
oh that wretched hand
keeps pulling me to one side
I cannot see, but feel comfortable going
where there is no direction
blinking eyes mean nothing here
things are the same opened or closed
one step after another, the stubbing of toes
for all I know the same dog
has bitten me thrice
everything looks the same
smells the same, taste the same
dammit I’m not even sure what I’m after
but I cannot stop moving
oh there goes another stubbed toe
and this one appears to be bleeding
or is that maple syrup
this way, this way, this way, always this way
where on earth is the exit door
From within the frost frozen bare boarded shed
with its loosely hung zee braced door agape,
the spring light peeked.
Warming the woodsheds King pine planks,
toasting the ten penny nails,
popping the planks to a toe-stubbing height.
Door slamming dashes barefoot
through the obstacle course of cord, tinder, rake and hoe,
to the semi attached outhouse.
Drawers half down, butt bitten by March’s wind,
the two holer waits, lye bucket at the base.
Curled, yellow-brown, newspaper pages from 1890,
the shade of Uncle George’s pipe stained teeth, wiggle in the wind;
as do I when an updraft attempts to speed dry my bottom.
I make a half-assed mad dash to the kitchen door.
Half way there I stop awestruck
at the gapping door to the kitchen garden.
Raspberry red, tit tipped rhubarb buds and stalks,
warmed by the sheltered spring sun set my mouth to drool.
So stands, a waylaid girl child in transit.
I stubbed my toe ...
(I do this a lot since turning fifty-five,
when everything I picked up to read began going to
arm's length in order to be visible,
and "readers" became a permanent style change -
I see things in the lower part of my
vision through wire-rimmed lenses that ride low
on my nose, and the mid-to-upper
views are naked eye, hence my feet are nearer
to objects than they seem,
and my podiatrical digits pay the price)
... and though this particular piggy-pounding
was as intensely painful and bloody as any of the myriad
bashings that preceded it, and while the air around me
reverberated just as rhythmically as it ever had with
streams of well-placed and frustration-relieving profanity,
and though my fists pounded just as relentlessly against
my thighs in anguish as they ever had before, (the purple/
black damage there to be tended to at a later date), and
while my face grew as contorted and red as was humanly
possible, THIS specific stubbing, was entirely different ...
... for when the aforementioned processes had run their
rather ugly (and noisy) courses, THIS time I smiled,
reached for my sublimely-timed Frozen Blue Margarita,
raised it to the direction of the accident itself, offered
a heartfelt blessing to that marvelous twilight air, and
TOASTED the very object I had stubbed it on ... a tree.
But you see, THIS tree was surrounded by cool, white
quartz sand, was near a lagoon that shimmered with the
colors of a peacock, and was festooned quite wonderfully
and perfectly and tropically, with PALMS ...
... battered toes ... be damned! ;-)
Stubbing a toe hurts like hell
Count to ten or curse and yell
Never to learn, walking in bare feet
When suddenly brick pillar my foot did meet.
Limping, near crying I hobble indoors
My stupidity again put me in the wars
Elevating my foot hoping pain quickly ease
Controlling each breath as I slowly deep breathe.
Scrapes of skin and beginning to bruise
My little toe, shades of red and blue hues
Swollen, still swelling and when I think back
I'm sure I did hear the sound of a crack.
Pain killers inside me, indoors I did stay
The bruising and toe was bigger next day
My tiny toe like a mini fat sausage
Shoes always wear - my imprinted self message.
12.08.21
Little pebbles of broken glass, litter the streets, but the children run barefoot anyway.
Stubbing toes, contracting disease, playing with cigarette butts and discarded syringes.
The teens hide by the dumpsters, and quickly pump a vein.
A homeless man, jealous of the teen; instead, clenches his timeless drug of choice, a good ole' fashioned beer.
The sun still shines on the dust covered signs.
The streets crumble under the weight of America's ever increasing obese population.
Nothing has really changed, besides new acceptance of tried and true vices.
There’s always little kids causing trouble, teens using drugs, depressed old men drinking away their shame.
America is still the same great country,
Far superior than all the rest!
Despite their reduction in crime, lowered drug addiction rates, drop in homelessness, and constant upkeep of their buildings and streets.
Well besides all that... America is still Superior in Every way….
I have found in time that change rarely comes easy, and almost never when you want it to.
Much like a house lit by a single bulb,
there are only so many corners one can light.
You cannot bid the light to shine brighter,
nor bend its glow toward the place you’d rather see.
It takes wandering through a few dim
rooms,
stubbing your toes on forgotten shapes,
before the next room can be lit.
Some people are wary of the dark;
few have the privilege of walking through it with no fear at all.
Whether you step into the unlit hallway
where your father once slammed his doors,
or remain unmoving in the dining room
where your mother hurled her dishes—
it changes nothing but where you shed your light.
The unknown is frightening,
both in not knowing what could happen
and not knowing what would’ve happened
had you dared to move rooms.
And the next room will be just as shadowed,
just as sharp and startling as the last.
The only constant afforded to you
is the changing of the bulb—
the only constant, in truth, is change itself.
It may wound you,
but to burn out in the same room wounds you more.
Because the truth is this:
the bulb was never meant to last you forever—
only long enough to lead you
into somewhere new.
Last weekend was “Parent’s” weekend at Yale. A time when parents are formally invited to visit. They have receptions and other events - but no potato-sack races (which is disappointing). My parents couldn’t come, they’ve never come to parent’s weekend, but Leong’s parents came again, from Macao, China, a 16,060-mile round trip.
There was a time when boys could tank my self-confidence with a word. When the male gaze seemed overpowering. I’d felt constantly evaluated - but I’ve evolved - somewhat. We’re going to a party. Lisa, Leong, Sunny, Anna and I - we’ve got our shine on and we’re drawing looks. Well, ok, Lisa’s drawing looks and I’m in the general frame.
Lisa sneezed, “The air quality’s bad tonight,” she announced, wiping her nose with a Kleenex.
“I don’t have any allergies,” I bragged. “Me neither,” Leong added.
“If you can breathe the air in China,” I said, “You’re golden.”
Leong laughed “Tài zhenshí liao,” (Too true!) She agreed.
As we left the more street-lit part of the path, the moon, wandering in and out of the clouds, created moving shadows that peopled the darkness with phantoms. Was that impression the paranoia of fatigue? I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. Or maybe it’s October and Halloween’s just around the corner.
I was walking in the rear, nestled in the mingled scents of my roommates' perfumes that, like rare blossoms, enchanted and excited the child in me. I wasn’t paying attention, and I stubbed my toe on a misaligned sidewalk tile. Don’t you hate the gap between stubbing your toe and feeling the pain?
Fast asleep in a reclining chair, woke from slumber, by crashing thunder
Suddenly the lights go out and the TV flickers in and out
Darkness comes about, silence of the TV seems to just shout
Dazed and confused, looking for a source of light to use
Stumbling all about stubbing my toe, ouch!
Whipping winds and heavy rain broke out a window pain
Wind and rain come gusting threw
Blowing over a lamp that can't be used
Frighten dog and a scaredy cat whimper and cried
All the while looking for a place to hide
Shoring up the window blocking out wind and rain
Out of hiding comes the cat and Great Dane
Freezing weather out of doors, inside the fireplace roars
Cuddled up with my cat and Great Dane, here I'll stay until
the storm is contained