Stubble Poems | Examples

Weighing Up Bittersweet Goodbyes

Goodbye cuts the air
with an odd, misshapen lance-
too sharp to swallow
it lingers on ragged breath
it's aftertaste scalds the soul

It feeds like a beast
clawing at the heart's locked gate
demanding more tears
its anger never subsides
its hunger never sated

Yet inside the wound
a new dawn begins to break
away from parting
sweetening bitter sorrows
with a palatable sauce

Goodbye has a seed,
to be cast in barren fields
fragile and daring
when given a chance to grow
now the stubble has been cleared

Kneading the old clay,
we shape what remains behind,
sculpting mementos
into what can not be done
before the goodbyes are said

Each farewell when made
to echo in memories,
fierce, bitter, and sad
can welcome what's to follow
by seeing sorrow as sweet

Sincerely You

Your color-bled cloth
Just rips at my stitches
I’m monotone; a moth
Calling out to you
With my heavy, little wishes
Fed a steady diet of tweed coat pockets
Bleached in forever stains
And tie dye kisses
In whole, I find a part of me
Your heart sorely misses

Amends for all the faint mistakes
Unearthed while I was bluffing
I perch upon your buttons now
Whispering sweet nothings

Your pettiness is soaking through
Neglected, I’m in love with you
In debt to all your gems
Ugly-headed beauty kills the demons
Yet you’re dressed in them
Another thread of fabric
Slipping from your hem
At least that’s where it seems to me
Your problems mostly stem

Floating and receding
Through the headwinds I’m receiving
Tossed into a better time
Where all your soapy bubbles
Stung my eyes and pierced my stubble
Left me weak and kneeling
Between the lines, my soul would cry
But moths were never known for feeling

I’d crawl to find a warmer spot
Deep inside your shell
Ferocious in its absence
There was solace in your smell
Now my hunger softens
If only for a spell
Who you wished for me to be
Oh, I could never tell

What Are We?

When winter winds have withered stubble,
Mother Mary maddens me,
whispering words of wonder:
what are we?

I find the farm a fraction futile,
loving life in Larame:
take the truck to Tucson, Tina
or Tracy, Tennessee.

Aardvarks are mere armadillos,
such as subtle souls can see:
pecans suck for plumping pillows:
chambermaids are chowder-free.

Santa Clara’s not a state,
a splurge is not a spree:
Grindr Graham isn’t straight:
Superior ain’t no sea.

An Abandoned Rural Station

A former place this, a patch where roots rattle,
where stubble has a ferrous frizzle.
A long-truncated railroad stop
humming still with a faded reality.

As dry voices on the wind, they return
- the homesteaders and journeymen,
the harnessed horses.
Pants' cuffs carry kernels
long planted elsewhere.

Caps, coats, and carts
Sweat, rustle and creak,
an invisible locomotion of leaving and arrival.
employed upon an iron labor.

The tall dry weeds are talkative.
Brown boots seem to shuffle
as they wait here or idle.
A hollow clock clacks,
its innards now
are a nest for ticking birds.

Dandelions anticipate twirling flight
under a corn fed sun.
A mid-day heat thrums fragmented rails.
The station seems almost ready
to receive

as if its bygone world
had not forever disembarked.

It's Spelled Spelt, Split and Wholesome

We wanted to break bread
that was pure, clean, pristine, 
stark white and wholesome,
with a crisp, but soft, 
light brown crust.

The field was prepared with
thrice washed and cleaned machinery,
and spread with N, P,  K fertilizer
applied overhead.

The soils was filtered to remove
all weeds, sticks and stones,
stubble and rubble,
so it was homogeneous,
with a uniform grain size,

The wheat seed was a proven, 
ancient old world genotype,
with its genome still intact.

The seed was milled to remove
all traces of wheat germ and bran,
then twice bleached to stark white.

The dough was leavened with soda
and baked well-timed, 
in a clean fan-draft oven,
at just the right temperature,
for just the right time.

Behold! There we have it!
Our pure white bread,
wholesome and perfect,
in every way, that we break
for breakfast at break of day.

Gold Tried In The Fire

Every work we have
Is measured in gold in heaven.
Everything we do here,
Is tried by fire to know what material we are made of
Is your material built by gold, hay or stubble.
Everything that is gold will be saved. 
Everything that eaten by fire is justice from God discretion if save.
The soul is the business of God for salvation.
A wise always look at the end of life,
The fool is a lazy fortune seeker.
Train yourself to be industrious in everything that you do,
Here or hereafter in life.

Old Man

Old Man

his weatherbeaten face, lined
with the hills and valleys of age
watery blue eyes set against a
backdrop of bloodshot white
his cheeks reddened from
sun and alcohol, his aquiline
nose has lost its nobility
his once full lips now just
scowling lines covering remnants
of jagged teeth
his stubble covered chin now
a dirty gray bristle
life has not been kind to him

Better Tomorrow

Burning sun departing
ember of its fire 
graying
as autumn leaves
spent 
and blown by wind 
of confusion
obscuring clarity of truth
opacifying colors
muting sounds
masking fragrance
boredom of night
broken
by lumens
on windowsill of sky
waning moonlight
flickering of stars
as tremor of aging
before darkness of soul
without life
angels of night
raising gaze to Light
beyond the lights
inviting a return
to the Sun fire
burning stubble of fear
with peace and
hope
of a better tomorrow
coloring soul
with graces
dancing with joy
at the music
of daylight
Love

Second Place Winner-Brian Strand: Only Feb 2025 Posted-2/13

What Dreams May Come

I wake up in a film noir bedroom—
streetlamp shadows on my ceiling.

I dreamt not of being chased 
but of chasing, of attacking—
of taking primitive pleasure
from the feel of a face
under my fist, the taste
of someone else's blood
on my knuckles,
the satisfying slish of a knife
penetrating a plump belly,
the recoil of a rifle
against my shoulder 
and the head of a stranger
in my sights exploding.

I stumble to the bathroom, 
flip the light, 
splash water on my face 
in the dirty mirror, 
hair estranged, 
stubble like tombstones,
I look guilty as hell 
and wonder out of which circle
that nightmare slouched.

(first published by Dark Sire in 2020)

Battles

Its cold and lonely this place no windows no doors to escape just gated locked in separeted Not yet rated in sane lots of pain past and present lots of years of fallen tears know one can Hear see a broken vessel shatterd crystal clear near our far pieces scattered every where Trailing back to younger years past down genaration to genaration fighting to brake a curse Set by those before me precipalties in vaid my sleep evil dores attack my peace comeing After The ones i hold dear to my heart puppet master string attached coming after me its Getting real full armor in place brake my shackles set me free past and present let me be its Close and to persanal face to face i fight my battles on my knees i plead my case as i run This race day and night arrows fly staying safe by angles all around me sent by the only one Who truely knows me deep down my soul crys too be set free from the lies and decit only One who holds me down has my back who never frowns and always dusts my crown who Always says i am not alone who lifts me up so i dont stubble and fall yes its cold and Lonely But never ever alone my heavneally father keeps me warm on my knees he helps me fight my battles

A Vanishing Sight

On a winter evening,
along a lonely country road
I rode my bicycle and saw,
far ahead, a young couple
dressed in traditional 
ceremonial clothes. 

The setting sun cast it's light
as they crossed the wide paddy field,
brown with stubble,
quiet and still 

May be they were returning home
from a religious ceremony,
a beautiful moment
I know will never happen again
in my life 

Today, the paddy field
by the roadside is disappearing
and the road has started to buzz
with the noise of change

- Forgive Me -

Echo thronging in the mountains
living elements that haunt close
Capture the inner turmoil in the humid fog
Tie together with Antarctic hair grass
You have three minutes

A chorus of cries from the stubble plains
You catch your share when the hunters moon burns
The sand in the hourglass is about to run out
The platform edge is closer than you realize
and yet you cannot act

Express your remorse
nobody can rewind the minutes
A choice that is valuable to win
with head raised

Want Too

I just want to write i want to stop my tears from drowning clouding my vision quietly 
so that no one can hear the ecos of my crys paper and pen are my best friend a day by day re encounter emotions fealt deep to the core down on my knees i pray 
lift my spirit bring me to a peaceful state of mind reap the blinds from my eyes let your sight be my guide in the dark that tugs and pulls scratches and scream hear me see me i fear not for the dark will not last in the morning new day make it make sense the fight is far from over the strongest will previel the weak will stubble and fall i shall not let fear invade my peace will be still in the strom warm wispers in the wind causes my spirit to be free  as i take a knee my soul is at peace 
i just want to write my wrongs be strong while wiping my tears away 
i just want to

After a harvest of queensland cane

I was awed by the noise..As breath indrawn.? Of mighty
Giants in unseen form..' immediatly after grew the
Vivid lemon walls..towering ramparts a firestorm! fissures
Of red, glints of blue..With a marching noise a crecendo
That grew..Then the road before us began to move as
All types of creatures; as if in a torrent flew.' Snakes and goannas rats and mice, wallabys you name it? All in a trice! no
Animal lingered! or fought with another' they were escaping
From the powerfull flames that smotherd..The octane roar drowned
Your senses alright..!! Sugar cane fields ablaze at night.!!
I'll always remember the workers nearby with machtes at their
Smoko's and that lurid sky.'

A Pirate in Retirement

He’s late-stage Charles Bukowski,
Hunching gnome-like over the bar,
With weary eyes, and scruffy stubble.
It’s sure he must have seen some trouble. 
But he’s got plenty of cash in his pockets,
Along with the keys to a stolen car.
He smells of sea air, wet cement, and whiskey.
His tattoos could be urban graffiti,
Just random tags on ghetto limbs,
An ancient, coded treasure map
Charting landmarks through the route of his career.
He eyes a buxom tavern wench, 
Who looks wholesome as a menthol cigarette,
And orders up another round for them all.
The Buccaneers’ Union provides him a generous pension.
He’s living his best life ever on a bounty of plundered loot.
Avast ye! Let’s drink to the golden years.

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