Suburban Poems - Poems about Suburban

I've learnt of you, To be. Chasing X and Y axis along the lines you've traced. But they don't work for me: Who, of sense-full beings can say I've been taught: By he, the Holy Ghost, and Mother Mary, when none but martyrs has claimed to be the such? And so I sit untaught. Unknown to paths other than those tossed...

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In raw dawn I emerge crow-thoughts pecking skull-bone black as plowed earth. Farm-stench floods – dung, hay and blood – primal musk of life and death intertwined. Yet in this first breath of day there’s a peace and so stillness rising from the land like a satin prayer. Twin mountains loom granite-toothed giants gnawing at the pale sky’s underbelly. I but a mere-minuscule mote of flesh and bone am dwarfed by their ancient scarred faces. The...

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Something about the new Stage behind the red swagger Green TVs, living that luxury Almost getting lost with the sullen Eagles lifted to heaven level Gray in the garden bed I’m painted yellow and Glowing like a scarecrow Angel among the dead heads Smoked up across America Smoked up in back yards, kitchens Bedrooms, smoked to heaven And hell and found a way...

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Suburban resident pretense, a bleak uniformity. I grew up among the repetitious homes, isolated alienated, I wandered the conformity, the endless square yards, the dull feckless syndrome. Repugnant yet intriguing, a redundant singularity, fabrications of fortified, fraudulent self-deception, blocks and blocks of suffocating, vapid vanity, I endured the bland boredom like an endless inquisition. All history, all memory was recklessly...

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In the grass, I lay my head, a pillow soft, a verdant bed, blades of fingers gently wrap around my limbs, a loving trap. Leaves rustle up their lullaby as buzzing bees go buzzing by a symphony of sight and sound out of the grass life lives unbound—...

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Suburban waste stretches beyond and far away Languishes under the hot hazy sun Seasons reap Memories run Remembering things better left unseen Memories reel in the theater on the mind Things fragmented in frame Of mental photographs Faded edges frail brittle fluttering Summer rainstorm run the horizons Lightning lances the rain Fall is coming, frost is in the eves Pumpkins gleaming a thrilling sight Images crystalize...

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See the girls on the corner In tight tanks And micro minis Popping gum Locking eyes Driving boys wild See the sunlight Outline their curls in gold Memories of youth In the Suburban wastes Walking the streets at night Running with the summer moon...

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Oh, from what demented mind was born A thing so pointless as a lawn? Surely some old eccentric lord In a mansion, born both rich and barmy, Who could so lavishly afford A mighty artful minion army Of sowers of seed and pullers of weed Of mowers of grass and spreaders of feed That could do for him each filthy deed And meet the...

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The sweet bird songs heard at the break of dawn Mixed with the sound of sprinklers on the lawn Neighbors readied boats for bobs in the bay Morning papers landed in each driveway Boxy air units were wedged into sills A mailman in shorts delivered the bills I rode my bike downhill to feel the breeze Getting vitamin D was done with...

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While gold-laced suburban skies shine, it is wasted on the child. As he pouts behind a picket fence, vanilla ice cream melts. Watching the manicured lawns grow, I long to loosen the green. Written 5/25/20 for Jenish Somadas’ Let the Pens Flow Sijo Contest...

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In A Suburban Paradise I was to spend hours on my bed writing short stories in 1967; with my left leg dangling over the left side, I sat on the right leg, like I was some nosy bird nesting on a log, watching life and its endless intrigues, concerning a sad lonely woman in a suburban paradise. I would stare...

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Once was I a teen, That's when Mum got mean, Dragged us off on long drives, Her whinging did give me hives, Maybe she could not hack us growing, Autonomy we wanted knowing, We tried not to be like our mother, Turned each into totally another, Nag, nag, nag and moan, Not again! I'd sit at home, With music and a fur pal, A book, a...

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His oars (mind, arms, and legs) were insufficient as propellers to earn a living. In the underground´s nasty passageway; or was in his life´s nasty passageway? Anyway! There, he, like an imbecile, sat, another torn mendicant, holding up his hand to indifferent passers-by, asking for a gaze or just a word of hope. Hope! What hope? - The hope that...

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Suburban Pastorale (I walk in nature still alone. Thoreau) Among purchased trees he seeks repose and bruised by civic alienation forgets that Eden's cleft has led to all that's made. But surely he knows Man and Nature bound only by cultivation are not the same. For he, like most, prefers his nature tame....

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Suburban Mindmelt You and I know what it takes to make the sky turn around. We still know when to stop in our tracks, To look and smell and pause; we must, if we can, For we are sad souls in a suburban mindmelt; We know the numbers but not the rules of return. We must daily...

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