Parker L. Dubuque is a student at Bryant University where he studies Finance and International Affairs. The opportunity to be published in any journals or sources has somehow alluded him thus far in his very brief poetry career. Parker is an avid reader and even has a card to his town library. Simply put, Parker is funny, smart, handsome, etc. It may appear to the readers he symbolizes utmost perfection, but ultimately kiwi fruit devastates his existence, as it gives him a bad case of hives.
See Spot Run
Spot and the chronicles relating to his past have been extensively documented.
Over the years, the seemingly happy-go-lucky canine is pictured throughout various locations.
Depictions from numerous sketch artists show the dog in motion, ranging from a green meadow soaked perfectly by Mother Nature’s touch to beaches speckled with the flakes of green bottles shaped by rugged nature of the sea.
The years have piled up like the dirt from Spot’s countless number of holes in the backyard.
Spot has only focused on one sole task: running.
Not even the rummaging from the neighborhood raccoons every Thursday night when the trash was taken to the curb was enough to deter the hound.
It has become his daily routine, his obsession, running had become Spot.
However, the question remains…why?
Rumor has it, the dog got involved with the wrong gang of Chihuahuas.
Leaving behind his stable life filled with vigorous tummy rubs and hefty servings of vegetables snuck underneath the dining table.
Instead, for a life riddled with tequila and lines of coke.
But when the time came for a “favor,” Spot was nowhere to be found.
Even with brains smaller than a peanut, the Chihuahua composed cartel does not forget those who have wronged them.
Word on the street has it that emotions got the best of Spot down at the track.
Given some insider information, his buddy assured him this new greyhound was a sure thing.
Ignoring the insurmountable odds he listened.
Selling all his buried bones and chew toys, Spot invested his life into that race.
With eyes symbolizing pure terror, Spot can only hope.
Hope that one day he will not turn to discover his bookie acting as Spot’s shadow.
“Unpredictable, unstable, and unruly”
These were just some of the words those close to Spot used to paint the subject’s image.
Stories of the dog were gossiped throughout the neighborhood, creating a snowball of devious antics.
Spot’s legend quickly grew, as his story was told to wide-eyed campers the flickering flames mirrored off their face.
With a portrait illuminated by the cliché essence of a flashlight, the nation of dorky dads would lean closer to the children telling Spot’s story:
“Worst of all, Spot doesn’t bother breaking apart Kit-Kat bars,
With utter disrespect to society and its established norms, he simply bites in the bar taking one giant chunk out of it.”
Rags to Riches: A Caterpillar’s Story
Last night I decided it was time to fly.
As the sun began to peer between the spaced foliage of my home,
I saw my cousin fall.
From the refuge of the tree,
To the concept of bitter reality.
The leaves became quiet,
Sun beams halted their path within the clear sky,
Time Froze still.
Her decent was graceful yet spastic,
But I turned my head before the journey’s end.
As the sun was at its peak in the infinity that was the heavens,
I saw my brother try.
Golf carts driven by campus security impeding his destination.
The dire consequences being treated as a game.
Soon he was playing Frogger for his life.
The game won.
As the sun was disappearing below the fading image of the distant fountain,
I said goodbye to safety.
The rain, the wind, and the howl,
These elements all beckoning me down.
I may not be ready,
But my chances slimming like the waning moon above.
Last night I decided it was time to fly.
At times we think of nights like you,
That come and go and brace the dues.
There arise glimpses of seeming peril,
The road in a haze as it may be time to settle.
But in the darkest times you pave the way,
For men like us to find and lay.
An ever present strength and guide,
Seeming eternal through countless tides.
I lay beneath as my heart still sings,
Starry nights more sacred than treasures of kings.
How wondrous your light that radiates still,
Wishing we had endless time to kill.