"hub" poems
you are the center, the sun in the sky
warming, lighting, guiding those below
you are the core, the hub in the wheel
forming, maintaining, strengthening the circle
you are the earth, the bedrock beneath
supporting, stabilizing, reinforcing our lives
you are the reason for our being, our births, our lives
nurturing, nourishing, caring for our hopes, our dreams
you gather, sort the fruits, roots harvested from the land
tending, stoking, reviving embers smothering in the hearth
your strength transcends your body, your mind, your heart
from the first child, to the last, your love, affection is forever
you cradle, caress, kiss, comforting the child
reassuring, protecting, shooing monsters away
you are the strong, tough, steady woman in our lives
fierceness of a lioness, tender as a kitten, loving her child
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 10:10 PM UTC
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Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
Because the thirst wouldn’t simmer; it ruptured cities into boils,
turned cultures into armies, an armageddon of cheeky stubborn Irish Catholics and thick veined Germans couldn’t imagine a world without their stout hearty headed pint.
Because white dry protestant angels thought crime existed in a vacuum, in a filthy saw-dusted saloon, the hub spawn of evil.
Because twice as many of those saloons were ******* by unlicensed blind pigs, not through free swinging doors on the streets, but in the domestic sphere; in the dark crept crevices of household sanctuaries.
Because bootlegging capitalist princes turned the industry into a stenchy liability with their home brewed distilled poisons. Alky cookers wrapped the commodity fetish and dubbed it moonshine.
Moonshine – spirits for the poor and blind.
Because this social reform was a moral reform lost in the oblivion of politics, lost in the timeliness of progressive spring-cleaning referenda’s.
Because the ragged, toothless class had to be scold, striped clean of their traditional barings,
because wisdom is everything and they’re spirits ran vilely wild.
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 6:57 AM UTC
I assume you once danced the Cabaret
By how you strut your Flexi-Form abroad
This I figure on weeks-by-two per se
The Ardent Friend your Fervour can behold
T'was the Charm which every Fruit can discuss
And win many Smiles for a Pint or Ink
Telling us flat, Life can take us that Far,
In a Bus run by Monday's Downey Sink
Was it wrong to know the Inner-Woman-You
That Principle so many Thinkers deny:
"Thrust-Hub! Buck-Forth! Lev, Lev, Lub, Lub, Le, Loo!
Then Drink your Bub-Clouds to Barrels on high!"
Nah, Forgive my Fishes, Sir! I bestate
You're one Sav Foretainer - Dance with me, Mate!
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
The spider Queen, aloofly vain!
She rules a silent ruthless reign,
with black-bead eyes like pearls of rain
that damp the depths of her demesne.
.
.
.
A spider spins, with nimble feet,
a sticky web of grim deceit
that drapes the corners, dark, discreet,
in catacombs of her retreat.
Her jointed legs (in number, eight)
traverse the threads with stilted gait,
but often more she'll lie in wait
within the hub of her estate.
Shy spiders live their lives alone
ensconced within a silky throne;
unless a transient guest comes flown,
their lives bide empty, monotone.
.
.
Well, now and then, a sullen breeze
may twitch the toils, begin to tease –
yet nothing's caught and nothing pleas,
so patience's bid at times like these.
But then again, when stars ignite,
may maunder by a gnat, by night,
be taught a dance, a writhing rite,
within a lace of death, wrapped tight.
Sometimes a spider's in the mood
and waits awhile, whilst being wooed –
and then, to later feed her brood,
the widow slays her mate for food.
In time a spider dies, 'tis true,
bequeathing but a residue
entwined, devoid of retinue,
in fibers decked in silver dew.
.
.
.
One asks "What purpose serves the GNAT –
to feed and make the spider fat?
Well, 'tis perchance just naught but that
within a mindless habitat.
.
.
"Yet, what's the aim?” you may inquire,
“at the heart of MAN's desire.
To which goals should WE aspire
reaching high and reaching higher?"
We've, through the ages, left the mire,
trundling wheels and taming fire,
doing deeds that must inspire,
nursing needy, calming crier, …
Such things as these, most may admire:
- placid dove and war defier
(some are bolder, some are shyer)
- patience (mess-up mollifier);
- humankind (Life's justifier)
- charity (charmed self-denier)
- tolerance (proud pacifier )
- love of Life (folk unifier).
What more could we, as flesh, require?
Needless kneeling neath the spire?
Childish chanting in the choir?
Preaching hell's impending pyre?
No, Death's the only rectifier,
comes the instant we expire,
nothing after, sentience prior.
So, treasure Life and don't deny Her.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
Spell is broken
Magic words were spoken
Gone is the hoping
Transformation in coping
Witchy eyes mesmerize
Truth spoken in lies
Undercover like spies
Today delusion dies
Now I must be mad
To want what's sad
Experiment with the bad
Sparks talent that I have
Who's the spell caster?
What makes one a master?
Some fail faster
Document moment of disaster
Love me cruelly
Intoxicated truly
Cursed..I long foolishly
Venus energy unruly
None can ever have me
Many want me badly
Love I give madly
Doesn't have to end sadly
Must've been broken
Before spell was spoken
Art wide open
Commence with scoping
Its all an understanding
Of what we are commanding
May crash before landing
Done with delicate planning
I'm a vibrational hub
Radiate unconditional love
Same below as above
Wrap souls with this hug
These words of magic blows all away
Deflect Spells of hate every day
Enter the game if you choose to play
We all live our lives in our own way
So light me up..Take this token
Potent I become when I'm smoking
Dive inside my love is open
This Phoenix shall rise when spell is broken
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
Isn’t it amazing how a crowded room can make you feel so alone.
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 12:50 PM UTC
The London*
underground
Shoes Chatterbox
Choo Choo train
Mr. Earl Gray
Greyhound
Doing cartwheels
Head over heels
Milk the Cow
"Going Moo" in her
Jimmy Choo
Yahoos
Kickapoos
The Odd Mom
Cocker Doddle Doo
Goody Two shoes
'Peekapoo"
The women living
in her shoes
All Mighty God
The dog to chew
Her most expensive
shoe
Lasous
The genius
La Cruz
Goody two shoes
That's show biz
Vacation Dr. Seuss
John Hughes
The master of clues
La mousse
Love truce X-File
Instagram, please smile
In her ballet slippers
He's at the Hub
drinking beer
In the London Fog
Her wooden clogs
Ladybird chirper
He's down to his
goulashes?
Got sidetrack hot
fever lovesick
La muse shoes
Cozy at the caboose
Playing golf in the
Gulf of Mexico
You ain't got a thing
if you don't have
the shoes to swing
Kick up your shoes and
start to sing
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 11:53 AM UTC
There The Cafe stood where once it was bare
a new monument in Weston Super Mare.
Why was it not placed in this location before
it would create tourism more.
The Cafe on the promenade not a listed grade
not open for any public trade.
Like it had always been part of local tradition
sitting in that strategic position.
Tourists trying hard to get in there for tea
the menu even looked good to me.
Others were desperate for the fancy loo
it was a TV set they hadn't a clue.
On the long wide seafront it's no real
though has that old Cafe appeal.
With a feel it's been there since the ark
it's Cyril's the place is a lark.
A hub of comical characters as they interact
the central point of fun in fact.
But the series has now been wrapped
evermore will the site be mapped.
Sadly The Cafe will be packed away
knowing it may return one day.
I know it will rise again.
The Foureyed Poet.
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 5:26 AM UTC
innuendo sushi is usher asking Sienese disowns shown plops aside ask dud
NCOs debs downwind UBS mayo Iowa. Laos Nissan seis *** so enemies Sandusky snails used iOS somehow Owen haikus eye owl ensues diss worsens skinned unique.
ushers witted hub woman's newish naval cavity sis wish lend USB
[rage typing doesn't work with auto correct]
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
Coastline, rocky, rugged, proud,
Crumbling cliffs in ozone shroud,
Sun-kissed drifts of desert sand,
Golden frame of a sea cradled land.
Fishing village, atmospheric hub,
Brass band playing, outside quaint old pub,
Boats, all sizes, rest near harbour wall,
Wading birds sift through tide-filled pool.
Foliage explosion of a Cornish hedge,
Country lanes snake, and young birds fledge,
Ruminants, punctuating, quilted hill,
Buzzards soar and wise hares are still.
Tin mine engine house, towering stack,
Roof caved in, gorse and bracken’s back,
White clay peak, geometrical and sleek,
Earth’s riches gouged, canyon deep.
Moor-land, open, untamed, granite strewn,
Wild ponies dance to a skylark’s tune,
Tor and beacon, barrow and mound,
You’re in God’s own country, when you walk this ground.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 5:05 AM UTC
Glimmering lights from the powerful skyline,
reflected like jet flames in the River Thames.
Lights multiplied by the flash of a camera,
capturing beauty in it's searching lens.
I wasn't so sure of here before,
but now I know there will always be
a place in my heart for this great city.
A home, a hub for the bustling race.
Some say mind over matter,
I say heart over mind,
but my heart has learned to love
that which my mind has made a matter.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 4:46 PM UTC
What on Earth
took you? Do we dare land?
A lark of descension. An aborted beginning.
Moon trills.
Captain is dead
at the controls.
Mother gives birth in the airlock.
Trouble in the passageways.
A struggle to name it.
A drink before eclipse.
All that's wrong with the world
sounds like harmonium in the (wishing) well.
First flight over Hölderlin's Archipelago,
creating new and stranger versions
in the sandclouds.
So this is
Tharsis Rise?
Life without a trace.
Non-terrestrial Martian field.
Halcyon flowering seas. A rock with no trees,
no urban hopes.
Yet, the whole universe inside
wants to be touched.
I love you in zero gravity,
pushing tender buttons.
*** as solution.
Moon trills.
A kiss of atmosphere.
This alien womb.
Those android embargoes.
Our children are born echoes of astronauts.
Lunar schedules
their first words.
There's a lightspeed sensibility
to this type of marriage and parenting:
no leaving the hub,
no exit procedure.
The Sol they sing
is a harm hymn,
moon trills,
subject to the ladder and the weight of breath
this outside Earth.
But I love you in the veil of a twilight moon.
We're monuments
burned into moments.
Moments without a beyond.
Jul 2, 2022
Jul 2, 2022 at 6:36 PM UTC
Delicious midnight,
kyanite and citrine crystal bells buzz
& haummm....
Piano notes dance around the room,
some sing silent eurythmy patterns.
An amalgam of pinball gypsy
time travelers colliding--
the timing couldn't have been more perfect
as we rest in the sacred loft
under the metallic ear.
Full Flower Moon
whispers persimmon kisses at 2am.
Here we rest,
a space for the timeless animals,
wounded healers,
soldiers of peace
all seeking a brief respite....
collecting energetic auric heart fire fuel
before we slingshot off in our kaleidoscopic time machines,
candles navigating to the darkest reaches
of outer and inner space.
Here, fear dissolves....
Here, light evolves....
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
im a let that bass set
back to the view you
been checking me at
you be asking me questions like
do you not love yourself?
***** better check yourself
i would have taken my strap
to the back of my right cheek fat
sprayed my old gang with shrap
the blood and my skull by the scrap
so please bare with me
child will you ever see
we on the attack
this country that we born in,
is the enemy to the ones that we once had
turning itself into the biggest group of bang
so now that you are stuck in this whirlwind insane
ready to die, bonnie and clyde , two thousand and nine
when you gonna see that this dynamic duo
dont make the world turn with our voodoo
they dont know whats going on here
they too busy across seas in the world
so what we doing 85 when we ride
they just wiped out a whole **** tribe
two bullets holes instead of their eyes
world dont even take this country seriously
they have us on every angle no peers
just the enemies, spitting prophecies
made in their fears
that we gonna collapse
everyone put money in us by the wraps
too many kids going to bed starved
when other fat *** mother *******
grow too many vegetables in their yard
turn nutrition into trash, so what if they compact
all you old *** troops, still living in the war that we had
were a whole planet of warriors, let alone were the home
to the worst and the best of the wickedly out of the world
celebrate your serial killers, and dead rulers, not even with curls
so even tho it took Jimmy Henchman seven days
the reaper follows me in ever track that i lead
believe that I never write the realest **** i ever spoke
knowing the secrets of the underworld let me bleed
shouldn't have ever seaked out the truth they wrote
setting all the serpents septers after me, black cats
shotty caps, bullet scraps, hub cabs, and shorty tats
Grim Reaper oxyacetylenes in my dreams chrome gleams
Protected by the Prince of Air, setting things right first in my dreams
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
A gob of squash
in a saucer with a hub
let a carrefour marque
with an apple ding
in swirls of romance heading there
a crowd of superfluousness as a hip is king
and a patch through the field
that roll lushly on green for this round mesh
while exquisitness hit so sweet
in a shade of sky
where ablaze in silky attire
with her brazen desire again.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 9:07 AM UTC
Hey you,
Just got back to the flat, not the same without you sat at the top of the stairs typing away.
Reminders all over, showing me of your recent presence.
First sight at pile of dishes that you washed,
Empty grissini breadstick's box,
Still some tzatziki and houmous left though.
Need a **** can't deal with this already.
Ahh, that's better. A tooth-brush is missing,
Spa Covent Garden Sanctuary, Irish Meadow?
Will upstairs be any better?
Must pause, plug in interent hub. ****
Back to old self so soon.
Duvet squashed up to the back wall,
Can almost make out your imprint.
I'm reluctant to throw out the remaining *** butts,
Seems as if you're still here.
Half drunken mugs of tea, finished quiche,
Can't believe I was so sick on the last night.
Bad dreams yesterday, two in fact.
Both being hung over ridiculous heights.
No good with that, big fear.
A sign of pressure bearing down?
Held council to rights, no joy.
Start the whole drawn out claim again,
Lot's of boxes to tick and fill.
Toss pots, must bite tongue and get on.
Doctor’s waiting room has mags for women only,
Nothing to chill my nervous mind.
'But are you going to faint on me?'
I made it through allright, lost some blood.
ECG scan on Thursday, for what though?
Chest or heart? Probably heart.
Mid-life wake-up call come early.
Do I really want to know? I suppose.
Where's my lovely? I need her so.
A cuddle, a smile, all better.
Action time- phoned all bills, extra time.
C'mere money, pretty please?
What thong then? Suspicious...
I was right (kinda)! ***
So excited, so touched, wow!
We will work it out Dee.
Thoughts of wild horses scare me not,
Something feeling very right, not at all wrong.
Hardest thing ever has already been done-
Finding that special little someone.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 2:52 AM UTC
There is something about this
House in Hackensack...
It attracts people...like a magnet.
They often gather here, and
They are welcomed any time.
Eyes and souls surround,
Even strangers are drawn to it,
Like bees attracted to the flowers.
Reunions are looked forward to...
Even short chats and visits
For some coffee or wine
Are always welcome.
This house....
It makes people want to come back...
It's not just the food,
Or the help it offers...
The comeliness of the place,
The people that live within...
The noise... ever-present,
The shaking of the stairs, when the boys
Chase, tease each other...
The squabbles, replete with tears...
Cabinets are real heavy,
With weight-y stories to tell...
The bedrooms, so inviting, where jokes
And giggles underneath the covers
Could be heard till late hours of the night...
All gather in the kitchen,
The hub in this house...
Family, friends...even new guests
Do not go to the living room...
They walk straight to the kitchen.
There, where the home scents
Exude warmth,
Fragrant with home-cooking.
The long dining table says it all...
A different kind of music
Plays every time
And invites everyone
To stay for a while and relax...
It beckons each time...
It whispers...
"Go, find your corner...do your thing,
You'll be okay..."
And so, the cozy sun room became
A favorite spot in that house,
Where beautiful poetry bloomed
At any hour during that whole month.
From out front, along the street,
Circling around to the backyard,
Then back inside...
It has now finally dawned on this clouded mind,
What that "something" is...
This house, metamorphosed
From an old, kind of cold Victorian, to a homier,
More comfortable modernized domicile...
Now radiates with love, warmth and kindness,
The energy emitted by the family living within...
The people are the crown and the charm...
They are the smoke coming out of the chimney...
The A U R A of this house, standing proud
Along Catalpa Avenue.........
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
Let's Begin,
Join the circle,
Show a grin,
Laugh hysterical,
Then you're in.
Take a knife,
And here we go,
**** their wife,
And let everyone know,
Don't leave a life.
Play in blood,
A whole **** tub,
Bodies buried in mud,
Or throw em in an abandoned hearse hub,
Then smoke some bud.
.........................................
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
.........................................
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
I lay here, like a fish long dead
Limp, lifeless
Glazed,
Gaping mouth tilted up towards the ceiling
Misted with the dew of sweat
And starting to smell
Fresh out of the pan
The vigor of my youth long
Departed
Regarded not as equal
But cannon fodder
For the masses
Infesting the grease smeared
Hub of hunger
Beta in a sea of sharks
Gilling a slow sluggish
Slop
Thank god, this bed is where I have longed to be all night long.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 1:35 AM UTC
I am a female.
I am in my early twenties.
I have naturally brown hair smudged in fake red and vibrant green eyes.
I am short with a baby deer walk.
I am a student.
I am a worker and a dreamer.
I am an advancer and an experience glutton.
I am a caffeine rush with a brush of sarcasm coated in a smile.
I am a music enthusiast with notes flowing through my bones and measures lifting my every step.
I am a note aspiration draped in wrong tunes and character.
I am a musician unborn.
I am a glutton for the melodies and rhythm of the world.
I am of a shadow generation desperately seeking themselves in each passing fad.
I am a product of the public and society, but am of the discarded bunch, tossed to crowded shelves for less potential.
I am a generation pent up in a box and I am making my break through.
I am of a generation with the potential greater than the last and the means for a voice louder then the rest.
I am a decade of pain and tribulations and of hope and progress.
I am a cynic and I am hope, I am a technological hub and a mirror of all that is to come.
I am the future, the present and the past.
I am representative of those left behind and those who ran full speed.
I am a dancer in the air around me, I am a writer of the languages I cannot speak.
I am an open book with blank pages. I am a magic observer and a culture absorber.
I am a student of the world and the land and the people.
I am a prophet of language.
I am a reader of words sealed in paper.
I am all that I could ever hope to be and I am all that I never wanted to see.
I am my mother, my father, my friends, and my peers.
I am you as he is he and we is me.
I am the product of my mother.
I am the lick at the end of your tongue.
I am the bite in your spite.
I am the twinkle in the glitter you spread.
I am the pocket sized rowdy mouse running about a world too big.
I am the offspring of my father.
I am the peace that was given a chance.
I am the notes dancing from the end of a bell.
I am the back that never turns and I am the last shirt to give for warmth.
I am love and I am hope.
I am the looking glass of perseverance.
I am that nature that will not give up, until dreams are met.
I am radical and quiet all in the same.
I am me.
I am everything and I am nothing.
I am whatever I hatch for the sun's breaking day.
I am a product of the universe and I am molecules unspoken.
I am a voice and I am impact.
I am the change and I am the cause of the need for change.
I will be the dream, I will be all I hoped to be.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
Great professions
Great foundations of thy nation
To them we look up
A brainwave for every aspirant.
Beggars, unemployed
Criminals and those who are sick
Bed-ridden and with counted lives
They, who are in need.
If we look up to people
Do we also look down to others?
If we are great contenders,
Are we also great in making others feel low ?
We choose to upgrade lives
While in the stairs, our views are on pinnacle
The hub was to escalate
At times, forgetting to where we came from.
What's the point of attaining positions ?
Or even being the crest in the nation's list ?
We indeed are people with the same blood
The same dreams , yet with mixtures of line ups.
To be great , one must serve
Great leaders starts from being great servants
For He who saved us became a servant first
He didn't boast His power and authority
He didn't look down to others
Instead, He lived with them
To those who are oppressed ,
Abused and neglected
By the ever-judging society,
You are the God's centre .
We must have the eye
To see things the way He sees them
The heart that feels
With compassion and sympathy* to others.
Love God
Love others
Show mercy and care.
7/9/14 (@xirlleelang)
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
The hub bub of the local pub,
The endless chitter chatter of pointless conversations,
The no point small talk of weather and how do yous do's,
The noise of comfort and solace,
The shield of silence,
The comfort of anonymity,
This is England,
This is the pub.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
Your face is grainy
over computer screens.
I can hear the girls
in the next room.
Their voices rattling
like lost hub caps on the highway.
You say you miss me.
Ask how the high school
is holding on without you.
If I’ve lost it yet.
Its only the second week
and I want to tell you
how I still look for you in the halls,
mope like the crevice
of half a moon lacking light.
I know its light where you are.
College parties suckling
your childhood like catfish,
till the high school on your skin is mouthed clean.
Till you forget.
How long will it be before
the catfish come for me?
Before my face is too grainy
for you to remember?
Before the moon turns black.
©DelaneyMiller
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
She delivers
guacamole
from an old
beater cop
car daily.
Dead head-
lamps and
missing
hub caps.
Spinning
from café
to deli to
restaurant
with tubs
of her dip.
Recently split,
her old man
left her for a
road worker—
one of the
ones who
flag you.
Now she’s
alone with
just her
avocados
and this
old B&W
prowler.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 8:49 AM UTC