Stubbing Poems | Examples

Lerking Storm

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

Its Own Chosen Parts

Sort of like
stubbing one's toe,
if you dare to love
a bruise can form~
a deep rosy shadow
in response to your
amorous sunning – 

love burns
both inside
and out

take lots of lotion
if you have such notion

exposing the heart to elements
like, who can really predict the 
weather, an educated guess
at best?

so, who can predict 
whether with love one is
or not to be blessed? 
Though God, the starter 
and stopper of human
hearts – when it comes to
romance, in the theater of
love~ pray, as you may
but Love seems to insist
on writing and performing
only its own chosen parts....

Imprinted Self Message

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

One Night

It was a cold night,
I didn’t want to fight.
All through the day.
I was afraid to say
That I wasn’t feeling good.
Looking at all the food
made me feel sick. 
Only if I knew a magic trick!
Yes, it was a birthday treat
But I just didn’t want to eat.
My friends forced me to
Somehow I felt like I had the flu
I couldn’t wait any longer, so
I ran all the way home, stubbing my toe
To the lamp post, yet glad
For I had finally escaped from being sad
As I wasn’t in the party mood 
I wanted to get a good nap and some food
Guess happiness is different for all of us
What some might enjoy, makes others throw a fuss:(

Cerebral Peace

STOP!!!!
The person at this address has moved

He went to find his mind
it left a while ago

For a year he's been fumbling around
aimlessly without a brain

bumping into walls and stubbing his toe
walking blindly through cities with nowhere to go

Now he's left, 
in search of cerebral peace

I'll let you know if he finds it.

Plot

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

The Greatest Nation of Them All

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….

Agony

Hitting your thumb with a hammer
Is liable to make you curse
But stubbing your unprotected toes
Is likely to make you swear even worse

You feel such a bloody idiot
For being so stupidly clumsy
As you moan and writhe on the floor
In unimagined agony

Until the pain has abated
To a level more tolerable
You are little more than a baby
Gibbering like a fool

When you’re feeling better
You examine each injured toe
Imagining the worst case scenario:
To hospital you’ll need to go

But there’s nothing wrong that a sock 
Won’t conveniently hide
All that’s really hurting now
Is your bruised and battered pride!

A Winters Tale

A Winter`s Tale

It was clearing up in the afternoon
fingers of sunlight lit up the olive grove
a slight mist and a bizarre story 
I saw him the old man dressed
in a soil dark suit, with a jute sack over his shoulder
 picking up lost souls.
This time, of the year there is many. 
The clouds in the sky have many hues some are black 
others rosy 
and ephemeral shifting colours with the light, 
pushed by the wind
Church bell tolls before noon.
This miasma of ages, 
stubbing a toe on the exposed root of an olive tree
when trying to follow the track of yesterday.
It has no future 
What was it all for?
Is there a god?
The end is silence

What Makes Me Angry Is

Stubbing my toe on the corner of the bed
Hitting my thumb with a hammer
Someone misquoting something I said
Can really fill me with anger

Paying through the nose for cable TV
Thousands of channels they say
Only to find there is nothing to watch
Day after day after day

Walking into to the kids bedroom
To find it all a mess
People who pretend to be listening to you
When they really couldn’t care less

People who walk right in front of you
And then just suddenly stop
Now that can really irritate me
And get me blowing my top

I must admit that in the past
To punching the odd hole in the wall
But anger is a negative emotion
And it can take its toll

Because now I am almost  bald
I think that most unfair
But that is what you get
After years of pulling out ones hair

Lots of things still make me angry
I could go on and on
But now I just take a deep breath
Count up to ten. the anger soon has gone.

A Few of My Suckiest Things With Apologies To Julie Andrews

Stubbing my toeses and whiskers on women
Stepping on nettles and by a swarm of bees bitten
Bounded like hostages tied up with strings
These are a few of my suckiest things

White collared phonies and bills piled in oodles
Bad smells and poop felled from schnauzers and poodles
Old geezers who cry when the old swooner sings 
These are a few of my suckiest things

News from the presses with more stock value slashes
Cornflakes that grow soggy when in the milk splashes
Little wood splinters that felt like a sting
These are a few of my suckiest things

When the moon lights
When the glee sings
When I’m feeling glad
I stumble upon one of my suckiest things
And everything turns bad

>

Spring Sours

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.

The Loop (The Tale of Turtle Soup)

Once a little harmless turtle went a- walking ‘round the loop, 
caught his little baby toe and ended up in turtle soup.

While the doves mourned his misfortune, sun set down behind the hills,
all the turtles gathered in their shells to guard against such spills.

On the morrow, signs were posted there before the deadly loop-
this prevented harmless turtles ending up in yucky soup.

As the days stretched into weeks, the peace in turtledom was great:
not a single little shell-back ended up in bowl or plate.

Came along one day a snakey- past the sign and ‘round the loop,
caught his little snakey belly and, you guessed it- snakey soup!

For he hadn’t read the sign, so neatly scribed in turtle scratch,
(in a slip’ry snakey brain that sort of thing is hard to catch).

Since the turtle signs are meant for little turtle eyes to see,
makes them not so clear to others, like a snake or you and me.

If, by chance, your toes go walking, don’t get caught around the loop-
stubbing one and then another, you’ll end up as poet soup!


(for the Turtle Soup contest)

Returning To Work

Returning to Work


After the others had welcomed him back, 
had shaken his hand and returned to their desks,
another as ancient pulled over his chair
to inquire of him who six months before
had been taken away 
on a pallet of interlocked arms 
and parallel faces:
“What happened that day? 
No one would say.”

Both men talked softly, 
held cigarette rites:
the delights of the tapping,
the lighting, the stubbing,
the one man explaining, 
the other one listening,
both of them knowing 
a matter of months.


Donal Mahoney

Rouge Barb / Spring Sours

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.

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