Short Stubs Poems

I'm here,
sitting all alone
with cigarette stubs 
and whiskey bottles
hoping to let go 
of my pain through
the crevices of the scar
you left me with....

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Earth's trees are pruned; men came and left
upon their branches burning scars;
now their arms are piteous stubs
no longer reaching for the stars.
My heart is wounded watching them,
so public is their grief and loss,
their shame exposed, yet mute they stand:
I think of Jesus on the cross.

© 1987, Faye Lanham Gibson...

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THE RUDIMENTS OF WINGS

Barely stubs,
these soul nodules, 
not yet protruding the surface,
still part of the wormlike me.
The force of metamorphosis 
thrusts hard against filmy chrysalis;
meconium pulses, dilating miniscule veins.
The terror of change soon will cease,
bring release,
to the rudiments of wings.

February 24, 2022...

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They've trimmed the tops off trees outside,
Where will the black crows now reside?
Perch upon the remaining stubs up high
To view the cold but clear January sky?

They've trimmed the tops off trees outside,
There's nowhere left for the crows to hide.
Perhaps they'll pepper the park trees left behind
And contemplate why humans are unkind....

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INTRUDERS



She brought with her a bus queue of troubles,
All waiting for a place in the warm dry seats of my ears:
They trampled my quiet like Mexican spurs,
Insistently prodding me to respond to her fears,
Ringing my stop bell, dropping ticket stubs 
Under the seats where a brush won’t sweep
And a mop never rubs.



9   April  2021...

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dressed in a feather
on a fur cap
and an oil skin coat
the medicine man
sits by
a grave of old wisdom

wearing whisker stubs of
light and mystery
he sits there like a stone
in a dream wthout mirrors

his hands circle my sleep
and in the center
coyotes and bears pad
around the rim of darkness

his arms rise
we see him dimly
then not at all...

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The 60's are long gone
    Some people still have ticket stubs
    some just songs 
    in their heads 
    The 60's are long gone 
    Memories of highs and 
    freak - outs persist 
   Think I'll relax 
   as the future plays itself out
   Lost lovers and friends 
   pass into shadow 
   the millenium has come, friends 
   AND WE ARE STLL HERE!...

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“All men are pricks” she says
“Are you sure about that?” I say
I look deep into her eyes 
and she half smiles.
She holds the stare and so do I.
“Whatever a woman says, she means 
the opposite” she says with a giggle 
and stubs her cigarette.
She leaves to do a chore
inside the café.
I sip my latte and wait 
for her to come back.

I love our little chats!...

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Mornings
My five-year-old son
Wheaties on his cheeks
Draws yellow flowers on my paycheck stubs.
When a grey cloud blocks the sun
He shakes his spoon at it, threatening extinction
And casts a fierce accusation my way.
Through holes of dreams
I maneuver escapes in the old Ford
Pick up hitchhikers who wear glasses.
Then summer takes a wet turn.
Dandelions, top-heavy, stagger
In the grass that needs cutting....

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her honeycomb hair was dripping with saccharine.
The most liquid hair in all of Ohio, especially Ackron.
I laughed myself sick when it was sliding down her neck
And her back, down her legs onto the outside deck.

Tell me again why she replaced all her hair?
It was a dare, someone said. A silly innocent dare.
But will it grow back? Are there stubs under there?
Don't know, yes, maybe, who cares, said a gossiping bear....

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Early this morning, I found, much to my chagrin,
the flowers in my garden were as if they’d never been.

Bitten off above the soil, green stubs left aground.
Mad enough to spit nails, I fussed and stomped around.

It was easy to discover who the culprits were.
They left telling evidence indented in the dirt there.

Their hoof prints tracked all around the flowerbed;
no blossoms for my soul today, food in their stomachs instead....

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The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes.  Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.

‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’...

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Early this morning, I found,
much to my chagrin,
the flowers in my garden
were as if they’d never been.

Bitten off above the soil,
green stubs left aground.
Mad enough to spit nails,
I fussed and stomped around.

It was easy to discover,
who the culprits were.
They left telling evidence
indented in the dirt there.

Their hoof prints tracked
all around the flowerbed;
no blossoms for my soul today,
food in their stomachs instead....

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Silken green
in hues of piquancy- 
sheltered moss, 
under fringes of fungus;
separated by nature's vibe,
spores lace the Earth,  
and thrum against
the open sores 
that gape at midnight moil.
 
Treacherous stubs, 
clung to by the hands 
of fifteen near six,
crisping the ruffles, 
by her sweat and poise.  

Barley silenced breath, 
fermented in a heat of the kettle, 
bulbs of silken green
in hues of piquancy, 
remind me that I should leave....

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