CreationEarth Nature Photos
Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Belgian Poems

Below are the all-time best Belgian poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of Belgian poems written by PoetrySoup members

Search for Belgian poems, articles about Belgian poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Belgian poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

Definition & Discussion of Belgian Poems
Read Belgian Poems
New Belgian Poems

See also: Best Famous Poems

New Belgian Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Belgian poems are below this new poems list.

The Belgian Spy by Andre, Tara
Art In Rum And Belgian Beer by Caliri, Matt

View all new Belgian Poems

The Best Belgian Poems

Details | Belgian Poem | |

I Love Horses: A--Z

I Love Horses: A--Z

A is for... Appaloosa. They have 
blankets on their rumps. 
B is for...Belgian. They work 
hard and can pull up stumps. 

C is for...Clydesdale. They're 
BIG bays with white fluffy feet. 
D is for...Dartmoore, a pony 
from the moors--so sweet!

E is for...Egyptian, the finest 
horse on desert sand. 
F is for...Fresian: Big black War 
Horse--a Knight's demand. 

G is for...Gypsy Vanner, a rare 
beauty like fairy tales. 
H is for...Hanoverian. The best 
all-round from England hails. 

I is for...Irish Tinker. A loyal 
horse that's black and white. 
J is for...Java Pony. He's 
Indonesia's working sprite. 

K is for...Knapstrup. He's a 
horse full of leopard spots!
L is for...Lipizzaner: Grey 
leapers known in the Big Tops!

M is for...Mustang. Wild and 
Free--roams America's West. 
N is for...Nonius: Big-headed 
black and drives the best. 

O is for...Oldenburg. Dressage 
ribbons just get bigger. 
P is for...Palomino. Roy Rogers 
named his, Trigger. 

Q is for...Quarter Horse, 
cowboy's fav'rite! Does 
R is for...Racking Horse. His 
ride's so smooth it will make 
you sing. 

S is for...Spotted Saddle Horse, 
Gaited beauty everyone loves. 
T is for...Thoroughbred. Racing, 
"The Sport of Kings", he does. 

U is for...Ukrainian Riding 
Horse: Beautiful born after 
War's end. 
V is for...Vlaamperd: Flemish 
black stallion and true friend. 

W is for...White Horse(Albino). 
The Lone Ranger's 'Silver'--of 
X is for...Xilingol. He's 
Mongolia's riding draft horse. 

Y is for...Yonagui, a chestnut 
pony from Japan. 
Z is for...Zebra: African wild 
but tamed by man. 

A personal therapist long past 
the end,
The love of a the 
love... of a Friend. 

deborah burch

For Cyndi's contest

Copyright © Deborah Burch | Year Posted 2013

Details | Belgian Poem | |

Irresponsibility Day

I wake up to my TV blasting episodes of Woody Woodpecker.

I wipe my encrusted eyes, which had a field day in that dream I had
Involving two Swedish women, a Latin princess
With curvaceous hips that could save me if I ever fell from mountain climbing,
A Sony boom box made in 1984 playing Duran Duran,
And empty boxes of Junior Mints, M&M Peanuts, & Cool Whip.

I walk to my front door to discover hundreds of blood lettered Post-It notes
Slid under by my friendly Mafia neighbors, 
“Turn that crap down or say ‘HOLA’ to my little friend! Woody sucks! ”

So, instead of apologizing, I grabbed my power drill
Which I bought off this Mexican guy named Bob
Standing in front of my local Home Depot,

I thanked each of my neighbors by drilling Wal-Mart smiley faces
Smoking Cuban cigars & holding Shotguns
Into their doors

At this point, I popped in some Belgian waffles & French Toast sticks
Into my Cookie Monster toaster oven and turned on the news.

What was I thinking?!

News reports on Sugar Daddies being harassed by stalking gold-diggers,
Another asinine Final Destination movie,
More teacher-student scandals,
Celebrity break-ups & pregnancies
Oh, how the sheep live vicariously through them

Where’s that damn noose I bought off Bob?!

To remove my early morning frustrations,
I turned on my Xbox 360 and popped in Guitar Hero
In which I jammed out to Stevie Wonder’s Superstitious
While performing Riverdance on my hardwood floor

The neighbors below me added a nice, rhythmic sound with their broomsticks.

After my Pilates workout, I decided to strip off my clothes
So I can feel FREE like a Tree-hugging barn swallow
And fill my bathtub with a bottle of Tickle Me Elmo Bubble Bath liquid,
Which I also bought off Bob

Shortly after, I yelled “THIS IS SPARTA!” and performed a belly flop into the tub…

After waking up from my concussion, I laughed maniacally
With my face underwater
My laughs were heard through the popping bubbles rising to water’s surface

I passed out again with a drumming thud against my porcelain dreams.

Second attempt at recovery, SUCCESS!

I gathered all my utility bills
A filled, plastic gas tank, another purchase from Bob
And a Jerry Garcia branded lighter

As inferno warmed my screaming loins,
Blasting John Lennon’s “Imagine” on my 8-Track,
The local Fire department sliced my front door
With titanium axe and an inscription: “Here’s Johnny”

As hundreds of angry firemen & neighbors stampede into my child-like day


3pm, Day Unknown:
I awaken with lines imprinted on my Latin cheeks
From wooden office desk
Strange stares from coworkers
With “I’m all out of Love” playing on the faded, company radio

And a post-it note, “Come see me in my office”,
From Bob

©Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013

Details | Belgian Poem | |

A Painting of Words

Let the paper be a canvas and the pen, a brush
The words fill  the mind like a young girl’s blush
Every color on the palette of the imagination
Becomes a vibrant idea of luscious creation

Open a door of stained glass with swans of white
Made more brilliant by the glowing sunlight
Surrounded by a pool of sapphire blue
Water lilies afloat with teardrops of dew

Beyond the door a walled brick terrace of burgundy red 
With a gray flagstone floor in which to tread
Terra cotta pots at the edges with mixed colored flowers
Above a dogwood in blooms like a canopy towers

Wide steps lead to a large flowing fountain
Three flowing tiers sparkle like a crystalline mountain
It towers within a large oval pool
A goldfish swimming like a small orange jewel

Beyond the fountain, a cobblestone path
Followed by a fence of latticework lath
An open field on the other side of the fence
Beyond the field is a forest, dark and dense 

Two Belgian horses graze on clover patches of red
Near a large gray stone two-story shed
Nearby a pond of sparkling blue
Reflecting  the clouds of a dusky pink hue

The blue sky fades into pink streaks of sunset
Turning the forest trees to a darker silhouette
And the grass to bright emerald green
All to create  a tranquil pastoral scene

The words fill the mind like young girl’s blush
With the paper as a canvas and the pen, a brush.

Copyright © Jeanne Berger | Year Posted 2007

Details | Belgian Poem | |

Chocolate Indulgences

Chocolate Indulgences  (20150129)

If I really had no choice but to divulge,
In mountains of chocolate I would indulge.
I'm not just taking about Snickers,
Reese's peanut butter cups, Butterfingers,
Or other grocery store sweeties.
I'm talking about the expensive stuff, most from oversea:
Fruit and nut bars from British Cadbury,
Milk molasses chips from local Mrs. See's,
Fudge Easter Eggs from domestic Helen Grace,
Belgian praline Sea Shells from Leonidas,
Belgian Cote D'Or bouche pralines,
And from Germany's Ritter Sport--EVERYTHING!
Wallowing in glorious chocolate, I'd be so pathetic,
If not for the fact, that I'm a diabetic.

Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 2015

Details | Belgian Poem | |

Budweiser-500th poem

From many connoisseurs, it has drawn mighty cheers.
This has earned the title of “The King of Beers”.
Drinkers have enjoyed its tasted for many years.
In numerous places, this beer is number one.
The flavorful brew has been rated second to none.
Where quality is concerned, it has established the benchmark.
A team of Clydesdale horses remains its trademark.

The company’s history is long and glorious.
The corporate headquarters is located in St. Louis.
Even during the brief period of prohibition,
the firm had never relinquished its top position.
Its status as an American beer is now in doubt.
To a Belgian company, they sold themselves out.

Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2012

Details | Belgian Poem | |

1943 Steel Cents

Copper metal is a valuable wartime commodity.
Something new was needed for the cent in 1943.
A strange composition the United States Mint would reveal.
Lincoln’s profile appeared on a coin made of steel.
It was plated with zinc to reduce oxidation.
They were struck at all three mints in the nation.
The three cities were ones that most people would know.
They were Philadelphia, Denver, and San Francisco.
Here is an interesting little trivia tidbit:
This coin is the only one that can be drawn to a magnet.
However, zinc-coated cents were made for just one year.
Afterward, familiar bronze cents would reappear.

The mint made a move two years before that was similar.
They replaced the nickel in five-cent pieces with silver.
A large “P”, “D”, or “S”, appeared above Monticello.
This indicated a silver five-cent piece so you would know.

The following year, production of steel cents would cease.
The mint used the metal to make the Belgian two-franc piece.
Therefore, this is what the United States Mint did for the war.
After 1945, we did not have to worry about it anymore.

Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2010

Details | Belgian Poem | |

A Gun in Every Home

Two fine films: The Lost City and Blood Diamond.
I joined Blood Diamond during a village massacre
and said to my wife A gun in every home.
Those devils would think twice
before razing the village and seizing the boys.

A well-regulated militia.
The local militia the most interesting moment
in a strong film with motive (economic, emotional), action (chases, fights)
      and a sexy, sexless love story.
Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose: protect the
      community, the young
from the janjaweed. The crop from the weed.
Limited scope and defensive posture
but armed and coordinated, cooperative, the men (and the women) side
      by side.
Warriors at the gate, you will not run, you will not bargain.
Just violence = limited scope, defensive posture.

Great music. Cuba, Africa.
The Lost City, when the communists tell the club owner under threat of
No saxophones in the band. The saxophone!
Invented by a Belgian -- Look what the Belgians are doing in the Congo!
When the state's violence is turned against the citizenry
for non-violent acts.

This quiet neighborhood, July,
undergirded by violence, force. That's a given --
any farmer, custodian, EMT will tell you that.
Without just violence
Gandhi's scope, and King's, might be vanishingly limited,
negligible (but not non-existent)?
                                              Regarding King
the matter is simple -- he was non-violent but dependent upon
federal force to counter the South's violence.
No doubt without the larger force, the non-violent would be
      overwhelmed by southern violence.
Here, non-violence was a tactic, not an ethic.
Gandhi, however, had no violent partner to protect him from the British.
      Or did he?
1. There was the potential violence of the population, which Gandhi
     restrained but could release which the British feared, and
2. It was the restrained (limited scope) violence of the British that
     allowed Gandhi to exist rather than be extinguished -- this restraint
     was a (British) cultural imperative (limited scope) as well as emanating
     from Britain's view of India as a protectorate and valued citizen of the
     United Kingdom (defensive posture).

What about violence or threat of violence to compel compliance with
as in mortgage foreclosure, driving without license, drug possession.
Perhaps it is necessary violence to maintain orderly commerce, the
      common space, and preempt bad behaviors associated with
      otherwise neutral, private acts.
The defensive posture is the common good; the limited scope is forgoing
      deadly force.
But the citizen, too, must maintain a disciplined, armed non-violence,
in case the state (the janjaweed) engages in an unjust, autoimmune
Hence, a gun in every home.

Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015

Details | Belgian Poem | |

bastogne 1944

                   Bastogne 1944
It was cold, so cold because they hadn’t given
 us warm clothes for the  winter, or to die in:
Germans and SS surrounded us and
 the aroma of their hot food and Heil Hitler!
warm fur coats drifted by us 

 as the freezer closed in, my Thompson was
 a cold block of ash and black metal but
 working well, so well, so very well 
and the  drum magazine (music to my ears )had
 a hundred rounds  and I started  naming each

 bullet Fritz, or Franz, or Helmut, or Adolf
then  stopped at eight when I ran out of names
and when they attacked we took them away,
 from their mothers and lovers and their pastors
 and brothers, made widows of their wives and 
 whores of their sisters

 but all this was a long time ago and I remember 
the cold and the wind  as they charged at us screaming  
“ AAAGGGHH!”  which sounds the same in Hindi or 

 Belgian or Yiddish or Scottish, as their warm chests exploded 
and bearded faces imploded and their meat and their teeth
 spread like confetti in the loud Thompson  flashes ,
 (like a party strobe)
which was kind of unsettling to see them die like men
 for what they believed in: 

and the SS came out and shot  all the wounded so they 
danced like  devils  to the tune of my Thompson gun
 (oh what fun) 

we caught one  in braces with Lieber standarte  
sewn on his arm  and we kicked him in rage and in pain
 then spat in his eye, until the Captain said,
” information!...enough, we don’t want him to die!”
and the SS man let out a sigh as long as the sky

then the morning came and I blew up my nose and blew up a tank 
then collected the dog tags from the blood soaked soil 
(watches from their dead and a dagger or two)

then it hit me, the cold, like a spike in the dawn,
so I put on a German coat of leather and fur
not caring if the owner was dead or alive, 
(I had become a monster)

but now I’m old with hands  of paper and veins,
 when it’s warm in the womb of my den, I hold
 the things, I filched from the dead and remember 
 the flash of the warm Thompson gun:
and I’m cold inside ( will it ever be gone?)


Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015

Details | Belgian Poem | |


Sadie went to a dating agency,
And told them of her plight,
They took down all her details,
So they could get it right.

Sadie wanted a new love,	
To share her lonely life,
She’d sent the last one packing
When she found he had a wife.

‘It’s not about the money,
Doesn’t matter if they’re poor’,
Yet the first was nice, but on 
the dole,
So he got shown the door.

The fisherman was a real good 
He smelled of the sea and salt,
But he never once, took her out 
to eat,
They only ate the fish he’d caught.

The electrician was a bright spark,
His knowledge she could use,
A real live wire to say the least,
But then he’d blow a fuse.

The clergyman wanted to altar her,
And was much too well – behaved,
He just wanted to save her soul,
But she didn’t want it saved.

The banker, nice by all accounts,
Bought her an expensive gown,
But she lost interest straight away,
And he moved out of town.

When she nailed the carpenter,
She thought she had it made,
But he was only interested
In getting the new floor laid!

The magician was a tricky guy,
And Sadie lived in fear,
That he would wave his magic 
And make her disappear.

She liked the earthy gardener
Whose turnips won first prize,
And whe she saw the size of his 
Brussels  sprouts,
She couldn’t believe her eyes.

But the baker, was the icing on 
the cake,
Although an ugly so and so,
Not only did she like his Belgian 
But he also had lots of dough!


Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2014

Details | Belgian Poem | |

The Belgian Spy

I once met a man at the local church,
Strangely enough in the children's ministry.
He was an older gentleman of sixty, perhaps,
And after I introduced myself, I thought him kindly.

When I asked him his name, he said something odd
To the ears, that I could not repeat. Smiling, he said
To call him "G.R.", which I assumed were his initials.
But I silently vowed to learn to pronounce his name.

We were good friends, G.R. and I, despite our different ages.
Together we watched over little children in Sunday school.
How fondly I remember those days;
We would talk as the children played.

He once told me that he came from very far away.
He hailed from the land of Belgium, he said,
And he added, a bit mysteriously, that he was a spy.
I didn't believe him then, of course, but now I think I might.

Because one fateful day, my family moved away,
And of course they took me with them.
I lost touch with many friends, including G.R.
I didn't even get to say goodbye.

When we returned, perhaps a year later,
I revisited my old church haunts.
I inquired of G.R. expectantly,
Only to find that he had died.

I was told by his family that he had taken
A gunshout wound to the head.
They said it was suicide,
But they couldn't quite explain why.

I still remember the days we talked,
The times we laughed, the paths we walked.
G.R. was like an uncle or grandfather to me.
I was greatly grieved when I was told of his demise.

Remember, I never got to say goodbye.
Now I never will. unless...that was just a cover story.
I can still pretend that G.R. is still out there,
 My kindly Belgian spy.

And now I can pronounce his name.

Copyright © Tara Andre | Year Posted 2012

Details | Belgian Poem | |

The Deepest Ocean....

Walking along the warm sands of the shoreline

My black Belgian shepherd by my side

Sea lions barking, sea gulls flying, towards the sailboats beyond the inlet

Pondering the solipsism, amid soliloquy divisions....

While the winter sun, shines down its solace

As I glance toward the southeast, and beyond its distant horizon

Knowing, within my pulsing raspberry heart, which pounds for her, these melodies

For it is somewhere there, beneath the whispering wooded trees

Where she wakes, she creates, she believes, and, she breathes....

In this maya of a moment I can see her

White silken dress, atop her golden pristine flesh

Blowing gently in this breeze, like an Angel within a dream....

Her rubious red lips, and her glistening strawberry auburn hair, flowing

Within this deja vu premonition she smiles, this certain, glowing gleam

As her endless chocolate eyes, blink, beneath her heavenly painted lashes

While bluebirds and red breasted robins gather, with all of nature, roundabout her side....

Solomons-seal upon my palm, holding the infloressence, as the Parus bicolor begins to sing, 
its lullaby

Tinnitus sounds that twinkle in time, calling, as Tinkerbell, slowly fades away ~

Beyond these tangerine skies so close, inside, these blueberry wanting scenes

Where her words chime, to a longing heart that beats, resounding, from this rising sea....

I bleed, as I fight this space which lies between us

For in my soul, today, she is all that I can see!

Dare I tell her that I love her? 

Dare I ask her to join me, within my own world?

Walking along the shoreline, my shepherd by my side, boats beyond the inlet, sea gulls in 

Pondering the solipsism, amid soliloquy divisions....

While the winter sun, shines down its solace

And I smile, within this deja vu premonition, of what dreams, may someday be?

Tinkerbell dancing, dressed, in blueberries tangerine


Within, the deepest ocean....

Copyright © John Rhinem | Year Posted 2009

Details | Belgian Poem | |



And man will fight with murder and destruction
When peace and negotiation can go no further
Heaven shed many tears; to see that man
Does not even try to find peace if he can

For man has turned against each other
Heaven is full of sadness; and brother against brother
Humanity await his greatest fall
While heaven pray for us all

In the midst of this madness and pain
Everyone should remember Abel and Cain
Save six thousand;one man, General De Lare
Risk his life, has love to share

As Belgium rules Rwanda, the child
The sibling rebels, revolts and runs wild
The Rwandan president is dead; his plane is shot
All hell breaks loose and the temperature gets hot

The Hutus,supporters of the foreign government
Decide to bring genocide on the peaceful Tutsis without armament
Men women and children,are mowed down with machete and guns
And so instead of helping, the Belgian army runs

France, Italy, Belgium and the Vatican see the massacre of a peaceful people 
The catholic church loses its steeple
They turn their backs,  turn up their noses
The people die and their families are forced to smell the roses

To take their ex patriots, the French, Italian and Belgian appear
And after they leave, hardly a Tutsi is found standing there
The United Nations Pull out, no diplomacy, no oil, no solution
Things turn seriously grave, the Tutsis are swallowed up in this revolution

When eight hundred thousand Africans dead
All across the world, not a tear is shed
In every nation, love leaves, and enters hate
Atlantis  revisit, as man does not see his terrible fate

.William Morrissey 1/28/07

Copyright © William Morrissey | Year Posted 2012

Details | Belgian Poem | |

Ekphrasis CoBrA

day a
made an
impression on

cobra=COopenhagen;BRussels;Amersterdam namely 
expressionist artists..Appel/Corneille/Jorn

Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2011

Details | Belgian Poem | |

Burial by Beer

Even in the world of flies
wealth and rank and influence
procure luxuries that otherwise
are denied those without affluence.
Thus many a fly born to privilege 
can afford to be interred in
a vial of finest Belgian beer,
while the common fly, from sheer
circumstance and envy,
can only hope for a clumsy 
accident in a glass of stale beer.

Copyright © Maurice Rigoler | Year Posted 2015

Details | Belgian Poem | |

The Menin Gate at Ypres

My Father Took me to the Menin Gate
lest I should not know that lives were lost
to make me free.
Then at the cemetery I fell asleep
while he walked along the rows on soft grass between the crosses

Then I heard the tanks roll around
a heavy grinding hell raising sound
that crunched the gravel.
Before the echo died came boots of soldiers.
I seemed to see them travel
along the road ahead all brown
and swinging trouser legs

Above the sound of boots
and breathless gasps of marching men
were wheels and wheels
and rumbling trucks
the swish of lighted flares
gunshot glow and bombard shoots

I could not wake myself, I had to hear
those boots upon the gravel
Then as I woke myself it seemed like blood red rain
was falling down. But through the mist
those white crosses rose, arms out, began to fly
above the cemetery up into the blue sky.

Like flocks of swans they rose
with strange gladsome sound
and disappeared into the blue-grey sky
time passing as so many joined
the upwards wave of spirits
above my exhausted self.

Soldiers of the Commonwealth lie here
black and brown and grey and white
in peace, I hope, not hearing what I heard,
the rosary of sorrow, Passchendales site
that kept off foreign troops from Belgian Soil
until another night.

Copyright © terry vannecksurplice | Year Posted 2014

Details | Belgian Poem | |


In this land remote from the rest of the earth, a man can live for centuries after his birth. Mallinson, it is without a trace of a doubt I know that the High Lama himself is really Father Perrault. The Belgian monk found his way into the valley. The lamasery he founded is this place we see. How can you explain the exquisite beauty all around? The pristine weather and fertility of the ground? Where else could a place like this be found? Mallinson, I’m convinced everything is not a lie. If you and Lo Tsen leave here, you will die. Based on the 1933 novel "Lost Horizon" by the late James Hilton

Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2012

Details | Belgian Poem | |

Art In Rum And Belgian Beer

It's impossible to step outside of alcohol.
It's like finding a new road map, curious and invigorating,
Until you wake up to the old, brighter consciousness.
The binging of drink is Life Immobile.
The non-creative dream-state of 
Fools and heart-ache.

I write such a thing in such a state. 
Art in rum and Belgian beer.
Art with chamomile and wounded cheer.
Art underground and minted and cold.
Art in heaven with cellulose toes.
Art in art with hearts and charts.
You get the picture. Of a car.
It's just a bunch of parts. On the ground.

You make your shape and I'll make mine.
You stay sober, I'll get the wine.
We're all swimming together anyway,
Some just smile as they drown.
Others breathe, wearing a frown.

Copyright © Matt Caliri | Year Posted 2008

Details | Belgian Poem | |

The Menin Gate at Ypres

My Father took me to the Menin Gate
lest I should not knot that lives were lost
to make me free.
Then at the cemetery I fell asleep
while he walked along the rows
on soft grass between the crosses.
Then I heard the tanks roll round
a heavy grinding hell-raising sound
that crunched the gravel.
Before the echo died came boots of soldiers.
I seemed to see them travel
along the road ahead all brown
and swinging trouser legs.

Above the
sound of boots
and breathless gasps of marching men
were wheels and wheels
and rumbling trucks
the swish of lighted flares
gunshot glow and bombard shoots

I could not wake myself, I had to hear
those boots upon the gravel.
Then as I woke myself it seemed like blood red rain
was falling down. But through the mist 
those white crosses rose, arms out, began to fly
above the cemetery up into the blue sky.

Like flocks of swans they rose 
with strange gladsome sound
and disappeared into the blue-grey sky,
time passing as so many joined
the upwards wave of spirits
above my exhausted self.

Soldiers of the Commonwealth lie here,
black and brown and grey and white
in peace, I hope, not hearing what I heard,
the rosary of sorrow, Passchendaele's site
that kept off foreign troops from Belgian soil
until another night.

Copyright © terry vannecksurplice | Year Posted 2014

Details | Belgian Poem | |


Oh pretty snowflake
Gentle on my face
Oh delicate beauty
Like Belgian lace 
Oh pretty snowflake
Thing of grace
You were here
Now not a trace

Copyright © Paul Curtis | Year Posted 2010

Details | Belgian Poem | |

Endearing prey

Perturbed in sleep the beast is awaken
Old blood’s scent brings forth a raised cunning brow
Commenced search of unwake prey, the Belgian
With eyes closed entering her dreams somehow 

The tip of a whip nips a bleeding slit
Now three days gone, the flower’s inviting 
Rose hip’s a ship, nectar drips from those lips 
It’s accepted in exchange for biting 

Once a blossom, then ripe fruit now rotten
Ascension denied in dismal darkness
The harvest taken tossed and forgotten 
Base, Rank and gross becomes natures starkness

Rip out her heart and pierce into it thorns
So that she may mount upon the beast’s horns

Copyright © Seeyam Brjmohun | Year Posted 2010

Details | Belgian Poem | |

Seven Dog Lives

It is easy to forget that in the main we die only seven times more slowly than our dogs.
Jim Harrison (1937 - 2016) - The Road Home

First Bobo, a cocker spaniel, 
I remember only from pictures.
He ran way before we moved 
to Canada when I was four.

Second Kizzie, a cockapoo, Mom got
when the family  moved to Texas. 
I only saw her on holidays and such
as I stayed in Canada. She lived 
long and was with the folks when they 
retired to British Columbia and was 
into her teens before they put her down.

Third Sadie, 3/4 Newfie - 1/4 Bernese,
a big black dog, with a big appetite
for apples from a special tree and 
the socks our daughter, a toddler
cast off around the house. 
I still chuckle remembering 
the scattered remnants lining
the farm lane that spring. 
She was over ten, and in pain 
when we put her down.
Her ashes remain in an urn in the garage.

Fourth Rizzo, a fencejump cross of 
Gordon Setter and Belgian Shepherd,
my wife and daughter got him from
a friend, while I was off on a canoe trip.
A headstrong dog who would take off after 
a scent or car to return when he pleased.
On leash, he'd almost pull you off your feet.
With age, he grew territorial and
after the third biting incident, I took
him to the vet to be put down.
But she gave him to an older lady 
with a fenced yard who put thirty
pounds on him and he lived to
fourteen or fifteen.

Fifth Hailey, who was five when 
we got her from the shelter.
A Border Collie - Shepherd cross 
and definitely our daughter's dog. 
She'd bounce foxlike through the fields
and on evening beach walks, loved
to fetch sticks we'd toss into the waves.
She was over fifteen and failing when
we put her down, days before
our daughter's wedding.
No urn this time.

Sixth Xena, a Shepherd-Collie cross 
and beyond doubt a  princess 
but more sweetheart than warrior. 
She has the canine equivalent 
of ADD and a bark first policy
when something new appears 
and will retrieve sticks or balls 
until your arm falls off .
At over eight, she's running strong.

Seventh, Sam, a mostly Shepherd mix, 
she's  our most 'rescue' rescue dog,
smart, loyal and obedient 
a wantobe lap dog with a feral streak.
She responds in kind to aggressive 
dogs and we muzzle her on walks.
Now five she'll be with us for a 
good while to continue the tally.

Copyright © Dave Will | Year Posted 2016