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Best Poems Written by Mickey Grubb

Below are the all-time best Mickey Grubb poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Mickey Grubb Poem

The Prismatic Self

The Prismatic Self Premiere Contest Winner

I meet myself at the edge of mirror glass—
its surface holds me like a verdict;
renders me in symmetry I do not trust.
Do I offer brilliance, or only repetition?

Each submission a blade, each stanza a wound—
I split myself into offerings, waiting for the weight of judgment.
The axe does not ask, only answers.
It falls, sharp with certainty—yes or no, seen or lost.

They say to write without needing the prize.
They say to shape words as though no eyes watch.
But I know the truth,
I know the weight of silence when applause does not come.

When the page returns unmarked, unchosen, does my voice scatter?
Does it find refuge in silence?
Or does it slip between the cracks of forgotten names,
an utterance untethered from the throat that birthed it?

To be seen—
more than light touching skin,
more than voices in empty halls—
to be taken in, held within the breath of another’s knowing.
Yet, when we depart, one half vanishes.
The other remains, staring into the instrument that divides,
where the downward thrust of the unforgiving axe cannot be halted,
where self regards itself and dares—
one more time—to begin again.

But the mirror does not forgive—it only reflects, only repeats.
It does not carry memory, only expectation.
Not the artist, only the artifact.
I exist between—between creation and reception,
between silence and shouts,
between the glass and the ghost it holds.

And in the aching hush of mirrormourn,
where reflection weighs heavier than any word unspoken,
I linger, knowing even my image will not remain.

Footnote: mirrormourn
Definition: (noun) The quiet sorrow felt when one's reflection—whether in a mirror or in the eyes of others—does not fully capture the depth of their being. A mourning of what is seen and what remains unseen.

Details | Mickey Grubb Poem

The Scrutiny of Truth: Erosion of Lies



Amidst the granite, smooth and cold,
In the dark of night, secrets unfold,
Lies are stones, sharp yet brittle,
In the river's course, their power belittled.

Soft undertones of truth, like water they seep,
Through crevices narrow, in silence they creep,
Years cascade by, relentless, unyielding,
Lies wear thin, their facade revealing.

Erosion expurgates with patient might,
Chiseling at dusk, shaping the night,
Truth, the river, in patience flows,
Wearing down falsehoods as time bestows.

In the chasms where deceit once thrived,
Truth emerges, weathered, alive,
For in the river's merciless pace,
Lies erode, bequeathing truth in their place.

Details | Mickey Grubb Poem

My Dad: The Navigational Beacon


It stands where the map dissolves,
at the edge where certainty falters—
a hollow bell against the wind,
a watchman staring through the salt-thick dark.

The mariner knows its miasmic vow:
a pulse amid the blank expanse,
a promise bound in lantern flame
that fractures the silence of the tide.

History sleeps in its iron bones,
the breath of lost voyages pressed into its waiting ribs;
storm-worn, steady,
indifferent to regret.

And yet—
it is more than an artifact of duty,
more than the caution of cautious men.
It is a voice for the adrift,
a tether to shore when the stars are blind,
the certainty that something watches—
even as the waves conspire,
even as the wind conspires,
even as the world turns away—
He does not.

I miss you, Dad…

Details | Mickey Grubb Poem

The Brothers I Carry


I see them still, in the hollow hours,
Familiar images etched against the fading sun,
Their laughter spilled like water over stones,
Now stilled, forever caught in time's cruel snare.

Once we stood, shoulder to shoulder,
Carrying a weight we dared not name.
We believed in the dawn,
Even as the night stretched its fingers,
Pulling them silently into its depths.

I speak their names into the wind,
A litany of sorrow, unanswered.
What claimed them—
The wars outside, or the ones within?
Their silence is thunder,
Rolling through an empty sky.

And I, the living, wear their absence,
A cloak heavy with grief.
Beneath the canopy of memory,
I walk among the breathing,
As though I, too, were unseen,
Searching for the meaning of their fall,
And the purpose of the pain left behind.

Yet, in the quiet, hope takes hold,
Through their loss, a truth unfolds.
To honor the brothers who couldn’t stay,
I hold the pain—live for them—remember and pray.

Details | Mickey Grubb Poem

A Red-Haired Air of Misfortune


A lass with red hair, bright and fair,
Loved Guinness and drank without care,
When she tripped on a stone,
She let out a groan,
Then farted and stunk up the air!

Details | Mickey Grubb Poem

A People's Flame: The Fire of 1789

Charles Dickens said it best,
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,”
a tale born in paroxysm and flame,
where streets cried for liberty beneath the weight of tyranny,
and history turned, restless, in its slumber.

The Bastille fell like the crumbling of old oaths,
its stones heavy with the breaths of the oppressed.
The mob surged, a force of nature,
as Madame Defarge wove threads of vengeance,
each stitch a name, each loop a debt unpaid.
Her fury mirrored the French people’s cry:
“No more chains! No more kings! Only justice shall reign!”

And yet, the light of liberty flashed brightly dim,
where the guillotine rose, sharp and unyielding,
a blade of hope and despair fused.
From the ashes of oppression sprang new life—but at what cost?
Blood red paved the path to freedom,
each step forward, a sacrifice left behind.

Sydney Carton, silent sentinel of redemption,
walked into history with steady grace.
His sacrifice exhaled through the chaos:
“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.”
His spirit soared, a glimmer of mercy in a tempest of wrath.

And then Napoleon came,
a storm wrapped in ambition,
the revolution’s son and its stern master.
His laws gave structure, his roads gave passage,
and yet, in his presence, liberty faltered,
her voice subdued beneath the weight of his crown.
He conquered, he built, and he bled his people—
a tale of glory, and a caution sung in quiet streets.

For revolution is a two-edged sword,
its triumph and tragedy forever bound.
The people’s cry resounded through ages:
“Liberté, égalité, fraternité!”
But every gain bore its price,
and every dream demanded its due.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,
where hope took root amidst despair,
and the human spirit, defiant and enduring,
rose again, and again, and again.

Details | Mickey Grubb Poem

my senryu poetry must suck


silent words cascade
unseen, unheard, fade away—
lonely ink weeps dreams

words fall like dead leaves
no hand stirs to hold their weight—
autumn of the soul

untouched art cries out
silent beauty lost to void—
a poet unseen

Details | Mickey Grubb Poem

Dilemma: Paws or Promises

torn between two hearts—
soft paws, warm smiles interlace
love howls or whispers

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Rain

v2

Hiding, riding in clouds
You come down from Heaven
Kissing leaves and flowers, filling streams
Sometimes merciless…pouring
Other times gentle…misting
Sporadically invited, frequently intruding
Persistently presumptuous

You can be cool or warm
Soft or hard
You may clean our wrath
Soothe our soul
Quench our thirst

Whether you come in showers or seasons
Leaving puddles of sorrow or pools of joy
One thing is consistent, absolute…
You are always falling…

Details | Mickey Grubb Poem

Is it Just a Dream?

The laboratories hum with cold efficiency, believing they command the future, their sterile corridors lit by the relentless glow of progress. A miracle, they called it—stitching together creatures torn from legend and nightmare, two extinct beasts merged into a single entity through genetic alchemy. DNA of long-dead beasts resurrected into new life—their ultimate creation: a dragon’s body, a serpent’s mind. Scales dark as forgotten caverns, wings vast enough to blot out the heavens, eyes that held the emptiness of time itself.

But they had not accounted for the dream.

A child, who had long glimpsed the monster in sleep, whose slumber had conjured this chimera before the scientists ever birthed it, awakens to find the waking world bent to his visions. The serpent-dragon did not rampage—not at first. It slithered through nations, silent, omnipresent, embedding itself into the hearts of those who feared and worshiped alike. Fire did not consume the cities; the people offered them willingly. The child stood at its heart, unmoved, untouched, watching as civilization knelt before him, before the beast that answered only to his will.

No scholar, no leader, no holy man could resist the tide. They did not name him, for names meant power, and they had none. But with voiceless moving lips, beneath shattered temples and burning towers, the fearful called him forerunner. The herald of the end.

the sky burns red
all bow before the dreamer
none rise again

take heed
that no man or thing
deceive you