"cubby" poems
I can be a sadist
I can be a ****
I enjoy a bit of pain
I'm often filled with lust
I want to be the Top
and to be topped too
I'd love to tie you up
or to be tied by you
Push the right button
and I'll be your subby
or grant to me control
I may lock you in the cubby
Stick me full of needles
or I'll put some in you
zap me with electricity
I may pass the current through
Whip me, flog me, spank me
I too can you impact
I'm happy to do whatever
and that's a ***** fact
I can be anything for anyone
pretty much more or less
it all depends on circumstance
and on what you confess
So let's stop prevaricating
and get on with the fun
let me know where and when
and which way round you run
Cynthia Pauline Jones 25/10/13
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
It's all reet lass I've turned leets out
t'neet is gonna be a neet to remember
yer cowat is in the cubby ol'
hung and forgotten
fer weir yer goin yer w'aint need it
bed awaits our horizontal dancing
mekin the beast with four legs
you get yersen comfy
I need a slash
ill syphon me python an be reet with yer
lay back n think of England
coz nay one but me will hear the scream
when I slip thee a length
and mek the wet
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
Why can't I disrespect her situation and utilize manipulation!!!?
****
(Agitation)
How can I make her lacerate
Leaving him to **********
While her and I gravitate
(Aggravation)
Am I wrong for trying to captivate?
To cause a tragedy
So that I can place her in my cavity
Count on their delinquency
So that I can hit the jackpot like treasury
I must put a result to their destiny
When I see their pictures
My jaws quiver
She needs to be hither
I'm thinking I should be sly
And slither
Or should I be blatant and invite her to dinner?
Right in the face of her mister
Excuse me ma'am
Have you ever seen otters afloat the waters?
When I see it in my studies
I always get cuddly
I have a California king with only blankets to cover me
I have no buddy
I have friends
But no ones lovely
Can we hover the lake
Holding hands so that we won't
Drift away
You will be cute as the otters
I don't know why would I even bother
No groom; I'm all scruffy
I look ok alone
But you gone make me look ugly
Or
Come here
Hug me
Is this your hubby?
That's why his shoulders is shrugging?
And his face is mugging?
He know if you escape his disgrace and come to my cubby
He'll be in the hole
Ain't that right man? (Directed to him)
What's your name?
Stan?
Hey how are you doing Stanley
I'm digging your girl like my last name is Yelnats
And I'm trying not to disrespect
But it's testing
You have the great big book of everything
And a queen who can be on the cover of King because she's ****
But look at you
How'd you do it?
Here you go take my number down and dial whenever he's around so he can know where you're about to go
See you later
Which approach is better?
I like both
Should I be smooth or rude?
I have to make up my mind soon so that I can make my move
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC
The house was perfect
No matter how small.
Forget the broken window,
The stain on the carpet floor.
The explosion of toys over the floor,
The tea parties,
Cubby houses,
And Zombies at the park.
The urgent rush to tidy up
Before mum walked in the door.
Stories with Dad
A run-away lawn mower,
Bruce the shark.
On Christmas mornings,
When we would wake up,
To find map,
Guiding us to the treasure
In this house, I learnt what having a brother was like,
lots of cars
lots of trucks
lots of blocks
Where I learnt to walk
And talk
And laugh
Where I discovered the power of words,
The importance of doing your best
Taking pride in your work.
Treating others with kindness,
Not putting yourself first.
All the memories,
Echoes of laughter
The photos of a happy family
Like trophies on a shelf.
Clocks ticking,
Moving fast
Too fast.
Until one day,
We outgrew the house,
Small was just too small,
Where would we find space,
For the things that needed a place?
So, we packed up and left
Shutting the door
On memories and expired dreams
That weren’t around anymore
But we set off,
To make another house of bricks,
a perfect home.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 3:10 AM UTC
you know what's sad?
you were my first love
before i even knew what love was
i remember you putting pictures in my cubby
and flowers from your mom's garden
i remember you puffing your chest
and asking my dad if you could take me out for ice cream
i remember you offering to push me on the swings
and trying to steal a kiss when i wasn't looking
i remember you leaving me behind
and me promising that i'd write you
but somewhere between the lines
i lied and you followed along
i'm sorry i didn't reciprocate and i guess i'm paying for it
for all of those times i've seen you in places
that you're really not.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
Cotton candy and barbed wire define my world
Pink painted princess walls by day become
A torture chamber by night as I am
Dragged to hell by the gnashing teeth of his demon
Sweet sunlight falls on my face in patterned squares
As I play with dolls on the cloudy carpet
In this bright fantasy Barbie can tell Ken NO!
And shut him away forever in the toy box
At night, in the gloom of reality Ken creeps from
Within the toy box of her mind with his filthy fingers
And beer breath. Light the color of
Sickness forces it's way into my supposed
Safe space as the shadow silently enters the doorway
That's my cue to feign sleep and run
Run so far away into my mind
But there is no escape from grotesque horrors which
Invade even the psyche. Every padded cubby becomes a
Sordid pit of persecution where a demon devours
The savory scraps of a little girl's soul
Every blissful oasis scorched
Into a treacherous wasteland of sewage
Even my dreams, once populated by roller skates
And dolphins, offer no respite from the
Demented dealings with demonic deities.
Blood and Pain and Scars and Lies and Hate
Are all the sandman has to deliver most nights
Underlying it all is Fear, fear of the truth
The truth being it will only end
In death. Mine or his
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
Every morning good Damocles wakes up
And after breakfast from a drive-through bag
Salutes the time-clock with a merry ding
From a little card that records his time
He drives his forklift or his cubby-desk
And sorts each pallet or computer code
Into their places in the secular scheme
The minor chain of being more-or-less
Until a meeting when, and with great sorrow,
A Suit tells all, “we’re shutting down tomorrow.
Oh, the company still exists (and what could be finer?),
But we’re sending all your jobs away to China.”
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 3:09 PM UTC
I lived for twenty-five months, have been dead for five
still obsessed with how dirt in my cuticles
collides with a blood-stream like the train that took me –
my baby was on board and hid in a cubby
because he knew why, why, why I threw off my
conductor hat right then even before I could have guessed
he knew, knew, knew. Choo choo choo
I lived for a week and have been dead for twenty two.
Twenty-two, twenty-two,
twenty-two weeks and pounds in a giraffes’ big heart,
collections of key chains in my baby’s room
I will never see, and wild animals would adore me better
than any man could reach at just under six feet –
choo choo trains keep me dead better than I ever could.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
I Stand firmly with my hands relaxed cause the kid looking down on me just cant FADE me.
His eyes smirk with disdain as he rubs against the grain but my years in the realm keep my hands firm at the helm just smirk him right back and now he's feeling wack cause I slipped his attack and the punk can't fade me.
See...my body is tough and conditioned. Swift still powerfull and lithe.
Six decades see I aint ***** made ....still cool as the shade and makin the grade...I moved in and stayed...aint shaky and the kids cant fade me.
Payed those dues early and often.....not boasting. Just love confounding young ducklings snotty lil fucklings.
My mind is quick I pay my dues...use it or lose it...no aint bout to dodder become cannon fodder for rooks with no stripes... talk that **** if I have to.
Walk that **** too.
Blessed and respectfull.
Man I love checkin chickens who get it wrong.My body is my carriage my spirit an amalgam of knowlege and physicality.
They try to cubby hole.This old dude dont fit mold.
Kick your *** and get witty. Aint fresh of no *****
They shake their heads or feign disdain g
But again and again they misread. Down for the de de.
Aint no play pretty.Energiser bunny. You cant fade me punk.I might spank your *** like your uncle.....Nephew.
Your hands cant hit what your eyes cant see.
You cant chump me off play me no dozens. I aint old cause I'm lucky. Plucky.
Every dog has his day and one day the magic will end ask Houdini ..... ..... but till then my young friends,this old man's gonna play nick nack on your **** And ya don't stop and ya don't quit. FEEL ME ? Cause ya caint fade me.....Yet.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
chalk;
you remind me of letters not sent, languishing in drawers or cubby-holes with no intention of ever being read. glue driven into the cracks of your skin, i held you carefully and shh-murmured it'd be all right. that's okay that your arms aren't strong enough yet, i'll wait for you.
mist;
sometimes i'm afraid you'll simply evaporate. i could see right through you when we met, and nothing's changed. even your words are quiet, as if they had to be dragged out of your throat, but darling, there's nothing to wait for. i'd gather you up into a tiny bundle to care for, but i couldn't bear breaking you.
gloves;
yeah, so i saved the middle place for you, because that's where you belong. there are no edges for you, no edges for me. there are large lies, and small lies, but nothing that doesn't matter anymore. there is no balance, no goodbyes or hellos, there is a funny limbo with no doors, no numbers and i think we'll have to wait here for a while.
glitter;
it's funny how your title is glitter when you wouldn't be caught dead in or around it, but ******* do you remind me of it. there's sparkle in your complaining and a lightness in your proclamations of your plans to run away. there's an ocean between us but i've never known comfort like this.
my kitten;
sure, there are barriers and chasms, but i'd bear more for you. there would be rainbows fastened in your hair and starkisses in your pupils, if i had a say in the world, but i don't and you weep on my shoulder. yes, there's a long way to go, but there would be marathons behind me before i'd stop. don't worry love, we'll get there.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 12:42 PM UTC
.
Rolling on the carpets,
In coyest plead for a belly
Rub and groom, little Fae,
Each day a Saturday morning,
Shining as hot coffee, wafting
In cool sun, with blue, mist deep
Eyes, lazily ensconced in a glaze
To the out of doors— I set her free
As a casement window sprung, let,
To roam the grass canopies and hunt
All the lovelorn hours of the cying day.
Sparrows flutter and milky doves gurgle
From on high and leaves rustling pound
As she prowls in motions slow, so much
To pounce upon, when all too sudden,
Fish or fowl are flung in a golden bowl
Mealtime turns in rings from a can to her,
Wilding, famished ear.
In long mood afternoons she returns,
Furriously plays with flicks of shadows
And twine, then a knap on a tick
Of whiskers and cream,
In the garden jungles
Of the drowsy fawn
And mince of mice
Scurries of heed
In the silence—
Of lollIng breeze,
Gentle days, sways
Of terror and yawn,
Tufted cubby roaring,
Wee tiger of the lawn.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
Lost and Found
A labyrinth ever darkening passage man’s impossible journey and quest with the back drop of rich vibrancy of life being expended at
Every turn the steps consume time the natural life cycle is the goal live it up push the boundaries but never stop and really see where
The twist and turns are leading they lead you on but they are not delivering you only bound for the burning now lost yearning.
The soul the great empty store house neglected only holds cobwebs and loose memories this royal holy sacred place
There are drawers where just air exist these were made to hold garments made of spiritual golden thread derived of what he said
Glass cased cabinets were to hold awards and trophies never realized the soul held subject to the body grand deeds it misplaces
Scrolls gather dust just minor writings allowed poking out of a cubby hole the great treatise that marks and maps heaven are lost
Sundry bowls goblets dishes made for feasting on divine meats and delicacies still wrapped there delights never enjoyed
In them would be found nourishment the making of muscle vigorous activating power over powering mans outer appetite
He could store those weighty words that could sway hearts of others by the truth how greatly they should be employed
Only silence answers arguments reason divine instruction missed life’s activity saw no need for quiet mediation soulful empowerment
Slip among the vestiges of lost opportunity they stream out like empty gowns out ward winds only they do fill saddest waste
Contrary beliefs to what are plainly shown the entire fulfillment a wayward life craves to be entertained not instructed in what’s right
The truly dedicated have their soul’s store house abundantly crowded with spiritual food all cataloged ready for any and all taste
Subject to the demands of an orderly disciplined mind and heart you find richness in this walk and in forever’s sublime state
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 3:05 PM UTC
London welcomes visitors.
Vagrancy.
You can't see me but I see you
uncaring
staring at the faces
hiding in the hiding places
the alley ways and short stay cubby holes poor souls in poor condition
welcome to the new perdition.
Down at Millbank
the embankment
a euphoria
we live in Victoria under the droppings of the day where we lay
and you can't see us
but we see the bus
we were bussed in
put our trust in
and now we are here in the heart of the City
with no job or no home
and if you feel alone
think of how we feel.
Can't integrate or get help from the state
and we're stateless and helpless
and guess what,
some of us drink
some of us think it's the answer we seek
until today becomes next week and next year
and on the streets paved with gold we've got old.
We should have stayed at home.
I'll put the NVQ's on a barbecue
that's what I'll do
because it's cold
the only options I'm told are to sink or to swim
I think I'll give in
pack up my stuff
enough is enough
and I'm fed up.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
All this...
O, this shall be his.
He who in well-leaned doorways
And oft-learned corners
Hath resigned any byways
To dream: “A tall order
To rove in the mud
And muck up one's soles”
Says he who would trod
Upon painless goals.
Him safe in his womb,
His wont wooden beams.
Neglect to his comb and
Plume and dusty seeds.
“Who would fret in the rain?”
He asks. “And why suffer venture?”
“I've a cubby! Where's the shame
In my hearth and decanter?”
“I tell you all!” he says
One night, in a fit. “Them's fools!
They that count on the coldness and chance
Of a bleak, backwards world
In despotic hands. Come time,
Come the end- You'll see what I have!”
O, the mites and the mice
And the crumbs and the cracks
And the creaks in the night
And the stock-still plants
And the angles all learned
And the steps all a measure
And every walking turn
And every processed pleasure
And the patterns and ease
With his paper and naps
What is good on the knees
And light on the back
And the age and the greys
And the frustrating lust
And the well-worn ways
And the old codger's fuss
And the twilight come
And the shadows of scythes
And a final look back
Through wondering eyes
And the what-if's and why's
Of the best girl in Eire
And the laughter of kids
In a moistening eye...
And the plain wooden box
And the standard rites
And the empty expanse
Of the graveyard night.
And no crowd and no cries
Just a man and *****
And pile of dirt
Where ol' whats-his-name lays
All this-
O, This shall be his.
-c. c. Condry
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 8:32 PM UTC
Lost and Found
A labyrinth ever darkening passage man’s impossible journey and quest with the back drop of rich vibrancy of life being expended at
Every turn the steps consume time the natural life cycle is the goal live it up push the boundaries but never stop and really see where
The twist and turns are leading they lead you on but they are not delivering you only bound for the burning now lost yearning.
The soul the great empty store house neglected only holds cobwebs and loose memories this royal holy sacred place
There are drawers where just air exist these were made to hold garments made of spiritual golden thread derived of what he said
Glass cased cabinets were to hold awards and trophies never realized the soul held subject to the body grand deeds it misplaces
Scrolls gather dust just minor writings allowed poking out of a cubby hole the great treatise that marks and maps heaven are lost
Sundry bowls goblets dishes made for feasting on divine meats and delicacies still wrapped there delights never enjoyed
In them would be found nourishment the making of muscle vigorous activating power over powering mans outer appetite
He could store those weighty words that could sway hearts of others by the truth how greatly they should be employed
Only silence answers arguments reason divine instruction missed life’s activity saw no need for quiet mediation soulful empowerment
Slip among the vestiges of lost opportunity they stream out like empty gowns out ward winds only they do fill saddest waste
Contrary beliefs to what are plainly shown the entire fulfillment a wayward life craves to be entertained not instructed in what’s right
The truly dedicated have their soul’s store house abundantly crowded with spiritual food all cataloged ready for any and all taste
Subject to the demands of an orderly disciplined mind and heart you find richness in this walk and in forever’s sublime state
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
today
all the little yellow cubbies are full,
and i cannot breathe.
i'm walking
quickly
knees bending
boots scuffing
head down
my throat is closing
constricting
choking.
i can't remember how my face looks
i'm afraid the panic inside me
is creeping out
everyone
is looking
at me.
some kid
is sitting in my cubby
playing a game on his phone
not caring that i
NEED that cubby
i am lost
without it.
i want to pick him up
throw him out
run
away.
i go down one isle of books
up another...
trying to look
like i belong
my chest is a black hole
******* in all the faces
shoes
clothes
hair
multiplying them
until i cannot breathe
i can't ever just be me
i have to be
what they want to see
help.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
Wooden structure that plagues my mind
I sit and watch them tear you down
Rip up your swing set, crush your slide
It's all to much I just want to cry
You were the one my grammy took me too
My cousins And I ran around your grounds
Our laughter now haunts your gravesite
They said you were getting too old
creaking dangerously and giving kids splinters
Parents were yelling at you left and right
But I rememeber you in all your glory
You're tire swing and glimming slides
the "wave" bridge and the little cubby holes
The ones that were perfect for hide and seek games.
But now you are gone,
torn down and thrown away
Crazy colored plastic now resides
where you once stood so tall
Even though you are gone
You will never be forgotten
The joy you brought will forever be treasured
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
Truth and remorse
Will be the
Departure for you
Frightened till an
Explosion reversed
Directly into our hearts
Cubby holes filled
With leftovers of me
High hopes leaping
Over cracks of confusion
Disturbing the ship
Set fire, water down, sleep.
Jan 5, 2011
Jan 5, 2011 at 8:25 PM UTC
A labyrinth ever darkening passage man’s impossible journey and quest with the back drop of rich vibrancy of life being expended at
Every turn the steps consume time the natural life cycle is the goal live it up push the boundaries but never stop and really see where
The twist and turns are leading they lead you on but they are not delivering you only bound for the burning now lost yearning.
The soul the great empty store house neglected only holds cobwebs and loose memories this royal holy sacred place
There are drawers where just air exist these were made to hold garments made of spiritual golden thread derived of what he said
Glass cased cabinets were to hold awards and trophies never realized the soul held subject to the body grand deeds it misplaces
Scrolls gather dust just minor writings allowed poking out of a cubby hole the great treatise that marks and maps heaven are lost
Sundry bowls goblets dishes made for feasting on divine meats and delicacies still wrapped there delights never enjoyed
In them would be found nourishment the making of muscle vigorous activating power over powering mans outer appetite
He could store those weighty words that could sway hearts of others by the truth how greatly they should be employed
Only silence answers arguments reason divine instruction missed life’s activity saw no need for quiet mediation soulful empowerment
Slip among the vestiges of lost opportunity they stream out like empty gowns out ward winds only they do fill saddest waste
Contrary beliefs to what are plainly shown the entire fulfillment a wayward life craves to be entertained not instructed in what’s right
The truly dedicated have their soul’s store house abundantly crowded with spiritual food all cataloged ready for any and all taste
Subject to the demands of an orderly disciplined mind and heart you find richness in this walk and in forever’s sublime state
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 1:54 AM UTC
This doesn’t mean anything
The words aren’t for you to understand
Or smile. Or enjoy
It’s for me
I
Selfish words
Spilling
Because I cant fully spill my heart
Typing so it’s even less personal
Than the greats before me
In ***** sneakers next to Emily
Oh and those old guys sipping tea
Porcelain saucers, and lace
Clash with a hoodie and hidden liquor
Nothing to talk about
Because they are real
And I’m just a poser
I need to be forced into submission
To leave the lazy route
But the words typed flow
Trickle down like a spring in the spring
how repetitive
Eloquent?- I think not
Skills- lacking
But no one is criticizing or critiquing
Just me- alone in a cubby
Hey Emily, wanna come over?
I got an empty seat and a pen with your name
Or would you rather just type?
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 3:31 PM UTC
Why do people think
That being cubby
Is ugly?
Thick thighs
Rounded stomach
Flabby waist
I’ve never thought it mattered
Because if someone
Thinks you’re ugly
Because of the amount of skin
You have or don’t have
Then they don’t know
What true beauty is
Because in my opinion
If they care for you
They’ll love all of you
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 10:53 PM UTC
sometimes my heart was so happy it hurt
it pained and ached
under its own warm glow,
flickering like candle light.
and the earthworms,
tucked into their cubby holes
they sang songs of home,
and family,
and they drank sweet wine,
laughing and singing,
until the sun rose above the clouds
and sent them all to bed.
In the days of the moon king,
the night was a sacred place,
dangerous, mysterious and inviting
a veil of stars to light up the living
and he called upon his subjects
he called for that bitter wine and sad song
as we waltzed, danced and sang
making love under that gentle veil
the moon king was a winter prince
the short days getting shorter as he laughed
and we'd waltz with him,
all the night long
we danced through thunder so loud
it reverberated through my rib cage
playing me like percussion, 3, 4, 3, 4
playing the tune on the strings of my heart.
and the lightning struck so brightly
that it blew up the sky
our own firework display
to celebrate the reign of the dark.
his reign it comes and goes
a constant battle with the sun
whose glare burns holes through the darkest nights
and whose heat warms even the coldest of hearts.
the earthworms remained underground in the summers
while we danced along the beaches
feet entrenched in the soft, white sand
and sang songs of the future, of beauty, of the sea.
my heart was once so happy it hurt, it ached,
and melted under its own warm glow
but now it longs, it yearns for the freedom it once had
aching only for sweet release.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
The places we hide under
For sanctimonious pleasure
If it fits, it sits, little sisters
So don’t get cold hands on me
For our feet will burn elsewhere
Pious, but intuitive sensations
Receieved for all of us
Here in our makeshift cubby
Underground
The faces we hide from
For sacrilegious fervor
From one scene to another
We’ll be the last ones left
Here in our makeshift cubby
Under the ground
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 7:17 AM UTC
It is on the open Midwest roads
the names of the states fade away,
as it really does all look the same.
Sunlight seems to be pouring in
from every window of our worn out Honda minivan.
The electric doors never stop rattling,
as the tires beat across these soft grey roads.
Inside this vessel I lay horizontal across the last row of seats;
all to myself, it was my cubby hole of the world,
that encased so many memories.
It is now just a place in my mind,
but at palace at that.
I am 14 years old and have "borrowed" my sisters iPod.
I shuffle through old Jason Mraz songs,
and stare at my bare feet pressed flat against the window above me.
I watch the clouds as they seem to be going in between my toes,
and once again feel the openness of this place,
my home, sink into my bones.
I think back to that last family road trip,
And I know I never left.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC