Under It Poems | Examples

Did I say Comfort

I wore this blue shirt the last time I saw my friends
And maybe the time before that
And possibly the time before that
I have three comfy shirts
They are appreciated and well loved
More than a whole closet of clothes that never leave their hangers

I like comfort, cozy fuzzy, warm.
Did I say comfort? Comfort? COMFORT.
My favorite pair of pajamas has been around for thirteen years.
The front zipper from neck to crotch is broken.
I do not care; tend to wear a nightie under it.
I could easily become a street person if I could keep my dogs.

i don’t forgive you

your sandpaper hands climbing up the bark
peeling layers away revealing a spark
it wears out as quickly as it came
for you can’t have anyone know your true name

painted over and over until brand new
a veil for each one until you bid adieu 
under it you are melting, an odorous mistake
only you wish it could be a prank

a lonesome world for those who bid harm
treating each woman like they are a farm 
break them down and ravage with an axe
oh that won’t do, there isn’t a pass

Land Locked

Stretched out under the snow
a dead seagull, wings spread.

I must have seen a dead seagull before,
but if I did it was not a snow burial,
not in Kentucky, not in my backyard.

By late afternoon
a weak sun had thawed the carcass,
as I eased a shovel under it,
a sharp wind lifted one stiff wing
as if to fly.

Land locked from any shore.
I dearly wished that both of us
could see the ocean from here.

everywhere

buttery morning
light
licks

there are daintily cupped blooms
small white weeds
that no one can name

the sun has spread its table

green rippled gardens
garner
flecks of gold

an old groundhog
a basket of hedgerow twigs
baby footed clouds
blue dingle
between eggshell
vales

run along

all those that can leap a fence
or skitter under it
go
for the light is everywhere
new arriving

let the rooted behold
even if this domain
stops its clement rolling

even so

The Island Without Greens

The island is rich 
In natural coal minerals
A company begun mining it
People come in to force labor
For national copper
They mined the sea under it
The island turn to a fortress wall
To house the industry and the five thousand workers
They made apartments, schools, courtyards
Stores, gym, and other amenities
And made ten meter wall around the island
They name the island, "island without greens"
The island became famous and well known
Throughout the archipelago for many decades
They produced the country's coal energy
Until, one day, the island is not enough
To sustain the coal country's energy supply
The industry is soon to stop
The people begun to abandoned the island
Surely, the island is now a ghost island
The apartment begun to crumble
The newspaper scattered in the courtyard
The breeze is now freely wafting all over
For years, the island begin to have greens
Finally, the island came back to where it began.

Review It

When a problem clouds each day. 
And all is misty and grey, 
You must review it. 
You can’t get over it, 
You wont get under it, 
You have to go through it.

This Rusted Bed of Nails

I'm feeling judged still by what jury's found cold; in the courts of February
Tried to hide 'til July; warm feelings are just not meant to be temporary
I count my curses on one hand and my blessings on the other
Whichever fills up first; the latter will assuredly smother
The shadows always seem to know that light exposes the darkest holes
You can't get over it or crawl out from under it; within me no angel controls
But I'm willing to watch over you mimicking their heavenly roles
With its gift, I provocatively compose about the most wishful goals
Laying on this rusted bed of nails; made with the hammer of trite
In love, if there wasn't profound real pain, would it ever feel quite right?

Raindrops

Plip, plop,
Pin, tin, pin,
tip, tip, tip,
Spigga, spigga, spigga,
Ssshhhhhuff.

Window closed now
I can think.
No rain on the brain.
No more drink.

Creeaak
Goes the door,
An old friend comes in
Berated and bombarded
By drops as big as grapes that

Slam onto my tin
Trash cans: 
Skiddity-skip,
Skippity-skid skid skip,
Skiddity-skiddity skip skip,
Skip-skip-skip-skip-skips-skip-sk-

"Close the door, please."
Creeaak-shuft.

My friends soaked rain coat 
Slops to the ground,
Puddle leaking out from under it.

"How long have you been dry?"
"7 days."

Fffp, Fffp, Fffp.
Cold, wet drops find
The very top of my head.
I looked straight up at the ceiling.
Mpa. Mpa. 
Right on the tip of my nose.

I open my mouth.
Onk, onk, onk they go
Against the back of my throat.
Onk, onk, onk.

"I can get you a glass of water,"
Says my know-it-all friend.

I have no time for his kind.
These drops are divine.

Finding My Voice In Neverland - A Musicians Letter From Woodstock

“I'm ready to go anywhere
I'm ready for to fade
Into my own parade
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it”.....Quote by Bob Dylan


I AM A STRANGER HERE without you
I CAN'T EXPLAIN why
I walk through this RING OF FIRE
WHERE THE NIGHTIME IS THE RIGHT TIME-
when out of the darkness I SHALL BE RELEASED
from the uncertainty of my struggle

There are 500,000 souls here
with one voice of peace and love, and I…
am finding my voice in Neverland-
intensely running in the circles of my irreverence
to create the chords within the tunes…
my music - my rhythm – my soul
my words to change the world

Looking to my orator of this brotherhood
MR. TAMBOURINE MAN,
the designated ghost of my hope
hammering the jingling beat
that shackled my feet to follow
this haunting melody inside me
where I am the master of my freedom

But…
You are my song of songs,
YOU ARE AS GOOD AS YOU'VE BEEN TO THIS WORLD,
the hand I hold to walk in this light
lingering sweetly in the HIGH TIME
of my experimental chaos
that I so fiercely hold onto
within the bosom of my art
that rages ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER
of my soul

MY DARLING BE HOME SOON

my favorite soup has no name

My favorite soup is my own invention
It has no name, but it is a combination
Navy beans and ham, sliced potatoes,
Onions with lots of salt and pepper.
Cornbread is a necessiity, to go under it.
If you have honey and horseradish, add it.
To the soup or the cornbread?
I do not care, both. Corn must be added too.
I almost forgot that part. It is my favorite soup, but it has no name.

LOOK AROUND YOU

There is new life everyway in the skies, trees and both in the earth and under it
Lambs skipping chasing each other then running to their mothers to suckle
Eggs cracking open in the nest chicks fighting their way out of shell mum tidy's up and beaks ever ready for food  brought by dad as mum keeps them warm 
Mammals barrel deep inside the warm earth born blind and often hairless.
Insects hide under bark, tunnel into holes while skin split and new forms appear

Eggs cracking wide open
lambs frolic skipping at play
split skin reveal moths

Lost Muse

I've misplaced one's muse.
It resembles a colourful cloud,
with ink pouring under it.

Normally responds to
'Lets write'

If you see it please be gentle with it
Put it in a jar and return it to me.

Thanks in advance.

They Only Come Out At Night

They Only come out at Night
Like Smoke throught the Forest
Floating in the Air
not a Sound to be heard 

Over Hills They go
Down into Valley's They Flow
Creeping slowly down a Road
Up into Your Driveway

onto Your Porch it Comes
into a Crack it flows
Black as Pitch
Cold as Ice

Looking for the One
Up out of a Slit in the Floor
it Creeps to a Door
Under it goes

Slow and steady
it is always ready
under a Bed
Ready to Grab Your Head

and take You away
where You will NEVER see the Light of Day

From the Sidelines

I'm going to sit this one out,
find a cave,
on a hill to watch from,
maybe a big old oak tree,
just sit under it
lean on its broad trunk,
watch the freak show.

The battle can rage in the valley below.
I don't care who wins,
it will be some rat bastard,
some pimp of a politician.
The White House lawn
will be littered with slain goblins
and elves

Of course, I will honor the memory
of this grim ballyhoo
with a patriotic poem,
I will read it from the balcony
with all the other assholes.

For now though
it seems more important
and more pressing
to shat in the woods.

A Choral Arrangement

I live in this house next to the crick
that I built up on some stilts
and my hounds sleep up under it
When it gets so hot you wilts
Yeah they sleep all day under the porch
And we hunt coons at night by a cattail torch


And we really love our life


When the spring rains followed the snow melt
that fell really heavy up north
I load the boys into the boat
And we all sallies forth

To hunt for the hogs that too are displaced
with water all around
I guarantee If one they see 
Them dogs will start to sound


We always manage to get one or two
As I shoot from the stern of the boat
and you ain't tasted nothin finer
than the newly weaned flesh of a shoat

We really love our life,We really love our life

At the house we arrive and all thats alive I sweep
off of the porch thats come seaking higher ground
I bust out a jug and cut me a rug
With no-one to watch but my hounds


We eat high on the hog till we're stuffed like ticks
Really love our house in the sticks

Yeah we really love our life ,we really love it
          Don't we boys ?

    Non stop baying!!!!!!!!!!

• Short Under It Poems
• Famous Under It Poems
• Best Under It Poems
• Read Under It Poems
• Long Under It Poems
• Under It Quotes