Short Suburbia Poems
Short Suburbia Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Suburbia by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Suburbia by length and keyword.
Stymied suburbia,
modern disquiet lingers.
(Strange harbinger.)
Sun rises
hovers radiantly just -
over the skyline,
Third Eye opens wide.
We won't ever be anybody's red
caped tin horned hero.
We seem local and suburban.
All pleased.
Published in Poetry Almanac - Summer 1974
Born in a small town,
Rain never let us down,
A pub, lots of churches,
Narrow minds did not disturb us,
Now it is busy suburbia, you see,
Come a long way, since its infancy!
Yes, it was an incredible aroma,
I walked past a shop called, "Pizza from Roma",
In our little Oz suburbia,
I'm having pizza, won't disturb ya!
Tantalizing scent is this,
Yah, pizza, total bliss,
Ah, aroma incredibilis!
So...
I Intended To Feed
The Squirrels...
But I Feed The
SKUNKS!
All Night Long.
***
Nature In Suburbia.
Artificially Natural.
I Love Them, Anyway.
Shhhh...
-Gray Squirrel
04-14-2026
Trust is the thought's
Face to face
We dare not say
For fear to pay the repercussions
Our relationship's
Are not up to
Built on marshmallow foundation's
We bare no relation
To the people we seek
To cover from the world
In suburbia
the sky is a thousand hues
of the same colour, one painting /\
splayed twice, yielding /\/\
an invisible dissonance
between the pointed rooves
of suburbia [/\/\]
natural/unnatural
On a painting of two black triangles by Agnes Martin
Through the jungles of sick suburbia
He lustfully stalked his prey.
She was only young, a child of just ten
That he took and brutally feasted on.
Savage desires within compelled him
To befriend the pretty Grace;
She so died by his hand, cannibalistic
Urges he boasted were his thrill.
I long for you
like a hot day
longs for a breeze
like parched gardenias
thirst for rain
an orphan yearns
for a mother
a somber wardrobe
fancies a white dress
a city dweller
dreams of suburbia
heavy traffic wishes
for a clear road
open curtains
desire privacy
the yin aches
for the yang
the circle incomplete
without you
Recreating the mid seventies
With the Delfonics
Alive and Kicking
Snafu and String Driven Thing
Bedsitter land imagined
on the suburbia lengthwise
red duvets changed frequently
It seems so damn unfair
to live in the past
and today
the songs don't have rhythm
tattooed bards
by the wayside
so waif like
sing out their DNA
Lawn furniture flavored ice cream
served in moxa cups
Candied eyes of freshwater bream
pickled bushdog pups.
Pig pizzle wrapped around a stick
grilled upon the deck
Woven rope with cat head and brick
hung about your neck.
Marzipan violin bowed by a stoat
badminton played widdershins
A toast of poison without antidote
barefoot on needles and pins.
clock hanging pendulous
fealty
realty
sitting stoned on the ride to work
dazed and bedazzled by the shining
working, heavy engine roar.
sitting stoned on the way home
waiting
debating
wishing you had
avoided the trappings of middle-class
two-car garage
inflatable
single-serving
trophy wife
life.
Mary Celeste
When I came to my brother’s house,
In the sweet suburbia, the house was empty.
But the table was set four and dinner
In the kitchen the food was warm.
My brother has a lush garden and it was a hot day
so I switched on the sprinklers before leaving.
I heard muffled screams but thought it was
children in the neighbouring garden playing
hide and seek.
Can we talk over dinner?
I’ll be composed,
Salad a middleman
On orange china.
I won’t stare daggers
I’ll only look gently
You won’t upset me
You won’t cry
Tablecloth a barrier
Of polite normalities
No last words.
No hard feeling.
You’ll drift atop
Jello molds,
An angel in suburban hell.
You won’t tell me
You quit your job,
And our haven
Will remain bubble wrapped.
Trim prim lawns
Glistening dew drops
In the summer sun
Trim slim blades
Evaporating raindrops
In the summer sun
I hail you suburbia!
You who can neatly replace nature's disorder
And transform it into a methodical scheme
Of meterical dwellings and measurable property
You who is prepared for the chopping of unruly grass so green
And the bagging of it all in a plastic sack
Electric Bleeps and bloops
Powerlines buzzing as the
Sunset going behind the roofs
O’lovely neighborhood lost
Facades of families
And degeneration
Of cultural paradigm
No crime
Just a hollow
husk town
Consuming the lives o’the poor folks
Sigh sigh
but alas
The community
dies
slowly
highway burning over the hill
and man I’ve got way too much
time
to kill
Form:
Your love is real
the love you feel.
Your love is great
the love you make.
Your records are on fire
its your desire.
Take me out tonight
and go wild and crazy,
or be fat and lazy.
So I played some Doors
and saw some whores.
So I said goodbye
and they all must die, fool.
So dig my guts
and eat my brain
and then go insane.
I don't
Care I love it
so forget it, Punk!
the least of us
look down
and are frozen in time
nothing ahead is possible
everything behind is gone
there is not a box to live in a blanket to warm
a cup of tea to calm
the least of us
live in suburbia
desperate and afraid to live out loud
rote repeat rote repeat
downcast eyes and vacant stares
do not love us
do not heal us
do not make us neighbors
or even friends
look away
look away
Form:
Been landscaping crew cuts
Mowing down yards constant
Gravel in its place, hedges and drapes
All for you to live accordingly
In the right scheme
Where wildness is tamed down
Where citizenship, not so profound
So we can go on our way
Planting seeds for the future
Seeding children with identity
Posing God on marble balconies
Any upset to the balance
Police find the scent
Guard dogs and lawn gnomes
Our plastic surreal american lives
Is your God
rich poor
uptown downtown
is he a she
is she a he
is your God
of suburbia
does your God
reward you
make promises
is your God
jealous, compassionate
true, in your image
you in his image
is your God
animal, plant, alien
is your God a car
is your God in books
the Bible, the Torah
the Bhagdavid Gitta
is your God Zen
Ruach, Extremist
or Evil
Is your God
unicorn, uniform
underground or
leprechaun
Who Is Your God?
I don't live near the ocean,
But I long to hear the waves.
I don't live near the mountains,
It'd be cool to see the caves.
To far from the city lights,
To be considered hipster.
To far from a working farm,
To get a working blister.
Dwelling in suburbia,
Sounds of mowers fill the air.
The only lights are porches,
No farms or caves anywhere.
Ode to suburbia,
The land of human cages.
Friendly waves may fill the air,
But inside everyone rages.
Suzy Baker was genuine white trash
Scorning fiercely, her teeth ready to flash.
Fending her homemade trailer park jungle
Dodging her dark and imminent funeral!
Lucy Walker was a pretty lady
Smiling friendly her lips always ready,
Living quiet in lovely suburbia
Meeting non-whites with xenophobia.
Why did the potter create them this way?
Was it because there were two types of clay?
One forged as a Cistern the next as an Urn
And exactly whom should this mess concern?