Friends and trouble go hand in hand.
Legends of the neighborhood.
Like statues and vacant buildings still stand.
A crime in plain view no one ever saw.
Held hostage in fear.
The mouse sturggles to escape from
Blood on the bricks that stains my mind.
Time takes me away.
Yet never leaves the memory far behind.
Summers in the city nights run into days.
We turn are backs to the truth.
But in this game everyone plays.
Heros are villians depending
on who you are.
Stories told bout the other night.
Hidden truths like the bat under the bar.
The players are future tombstones
Men glorified beyond there name.
the citys children caught within her confines.
Forced to play a different game.
< cakes and sausages on hot griddle
uncle Leroy's dam dog just piddled
slipped ~ slide across floor
grabbed shotgun by front door
now dam ole dog just plays an fiddle
bow bow bow bow bow bow bow bow ~ wow
ow ow ow ow ow ow ow bow ~ ow
with tail between own ~ legs
now dog sings ~ and ~ brags
about cousin's daisies's bad bow ~ pows
Entry For John Freeman's
Slapstick Limerick Contest
Poor Ole Dog LOL
An earful of breaks...
in overnight silence,
the ticking clock,
a cat fight,
a siren blares,
a hooting owl,
a plane zooms...
trucks and cars
River City life,
Oh lonely Inevitable Bear,
Padding claws, death in white
Sorrow in recurring nightmare
Instinct’s test; fight or flight?
Camouflage against the fence,
A challenge; my subconscious fear
Ominous slowly moving silence,
“Let me in, there’s a bear out here!”
Two field mice took a walk one day
Then feeling tired, they'd walked a ways
They thought they'd stop and rest a while
For home was further on some miles.
Then they heard the pad of old Toms paws
Which spooked them quite a bit I'm sure
As the cat purred loudly to see the mice
And thought "a meal it would be nice!"
Their whiskers quivered nervously
As, our two mice made haste to flee
So off they scampered for their lives
As old Tom cat for them did strive
That old cat looked he, high and low
And where they were he didn't know
As the two they trembled neath a bush
They could almost touch that mean old puss.
Then Tom gave up and skulked away
And the two mice lived another day
And their lungs filled up with gratitude
They'd foiled that old tom cat, so rude.
Peace, Socrares Dec 2 2003
What of this pregnant white cat?
Her dirty fur a smudge
Against the snow's crisp canvas,
She mews at my door for milk.
A stranger to me, she appeared
Without express invitation,
And now, she lingers like a cold.
This cat is an embarrassment.
Like friends whom I feed
Because I lack strength
To turn them away.
I do not know?
Wider than her wound,
Darker than her opinion of man,
Followed my every move.
I turned my head, slowly,
Read the sign and seethed,
Burned by acid, it said.
My shudder was involuntary,
As careless as an accident
Or a nostril flare.
The red landscape of the mare's side
Mirrored my reaction,
Every bald, pitted inch,
Open to the summer air.
I covered her coat with shame,
Draped her with regret,
And for a shivering moment,
Felt her ribs and mine collide.
This horse exposed me,
Made me see cruelty
Can be defined as a flinch.
A survivor deserves
Admiration not pity,
Applause not disgust.
Across a muddy paddock,
My over-sensitivity proved,
Humanity can't be trusted,
Compassion, too, can scald.
Her image I will never shake,
Yet her name I did forget,
A piece of me still lies on that soggy ground,
For, once again, I've let that poor horse down.
***I visited a local Horse Rescue farm for research for a book and what I saw shook
me to the core. The owner also had a binder carefully labeled, 'NOT FOR CHILDREN'
which documented the horrors a horse faces when killed for its meat. Those images
as well, too graphic and disturbing for me to write in a poem, are cemented in my
***For more information http://www.secondchancefarm.ca/index.html
The light is fading, evening breaks
Between the oaken woods and lake,
It's time to finish with the row
And homeward bound, the trail to take.
With rake in hand I turn to go
To find my pick axe and the hoe,
When from the trail there ran a buck
And right behind him came two doe.
At first I thought, what rotten luck!
I'm here, my rifle's in the truck,
Then, as he stopped to look my way
He gave his tail a flip and tuck.
And then he spun and bounced away
The doe behind him sleek and grey,
Crashing through the brush and vine
Into the woods and welcomed shade.
He must have sported twenty tine
I thought as Shadow starts to whine,
Asking, should he give him chase?
I pat his head in soft decline.
The sun is gone upon my face
To lose the buck is no disgrace,
Although today I've been undone
There'll be another time and place.
Today the buck has rightly won
The hunters gone, the season done,
Perhaps we'll meet again next year
Before the season's had it's run.
The buck was ancient, and I fear
He may not see another year,
But then, another year is seldom clear
For man, or dog, or antlered deer.
Timothy I. Brumley
Let love fly
With ethereal compassion, a soft glow in her eyes,
she picks up the baby eagle, tries to convey words
of eloquent reassurance, sincerely she tries.
Look, June is here this morning; and sun is shining hot;
last night’s storm belongs to last night; it has left an eagle;
a homeless, hurt, upset baby; it feels forlorn, lost, caught.
She takes it home; makes enclosures; feeds it with love, care.
It still feels solo, alone within, fed by love, fed up.
The enclosure of good concern grows smaller with time’s each turn.
The bird’s soul belongs to the sky; in its eyes silent prayer
flares up as it cries; shrill piercing call to its own kind.
Let it fly.
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
neurotic narcotics reared reason in rows,
plucked pith-fully from truth,
agile enough in politick to anesthetise the waste,
languishing amongst the cling-filmed choral-forms
of symbiotic silicone…
the future lay dormant,
adjudicating the agricultural status
of domesticated foreign policy…