Long poem by
Mary Oliver Rotman | Details |
Randomling 1: Matthew Macfadyen
I believe I'm in love with Matthew Macfadyen
He inspires in me a terribly bad yen
But as poetry goes
His name 'spires woes
Cause nothing rhymes with "Macfadyen”.
Randomling 2: Birthday Wishes
For my birthday, I would like a man.
I wonder---can you get one from a can?
Or maybe from a catalog?
Maybe I'll just get a dog.
Randomling 3: Yet Another Cat Poem
toddlers in fur
senior citizens with retractable claws
lions in their own minds
lunch in the minds of dogs.
Randomling 4: Desert Woes
A sage river in a field of sand:
so flows hope in a barren land;
the crippled heart in prosthetic steel,
hacked and scarred, a vulture’s meal.
Randomling 5: Dark Poetry
Follow poetry to its source;
There find heartbreak and remorse.
Follow poetry to the bitter end,
And there find death, its bosom friend.
Randomling 6: Ode to Bananas
an underappreciated fruit
sentenced to banananality
because yellow is their long suit.
Randomling 7: Untitled
this heart is closed to deposits.
There's no more room for pain.
Randomling 8: Untitled
My heart is sealed in a cold steel vault,
and I’ve lost the combination.
Randomling 9: Joyce Kilmer 2015
I think that I shall never see
A man as useful as a tree.
One has uses by the score;
The other one is apt to snore.
Randomling 10: Bedtime Prayers
Now I lay me down to sleep,
A leaden heart is mine to keep.
If I should die before I wake--
Now there’s an offer I’d gladly take.
Randomling 11: The Devil Wind
Fury with a smoky tail
Eddies of destruction
Deceitful beauty, enchanting danger
Death sporting a makeover
DON'T READ #12 IF YOU DON'T WANT TO HEAR ME TALK TO MY SON ABOUT CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE BIRDS AND BEES_________________________
Randomling 12: A Boy's Best Friend
Your penis—it is not a toy
I told my little son.
O yes it is, he parried me
It's quite my favorite one.
Randomling 13: Fault Lines
I have a bathroom mirror
that's grown faulty over time.
My reflection is no longer true;
it's developed little lines!
Randomling 14: Shakespeare 101
“To be or not to be. That is the question.”
--Whaddya mean, THE question?
Randomling 15: Christmas?
Peace on earth to men of good credit
Who give the gift of corporate profit
in the holy name of commercialism.
Randomling 16: Musical Believer
Though my conscience sleeps,
wrapped in the Valium of
agnosticism, it awakens to
the music of Mozart--
once more knowing God
by the sound of His voice.
Randomling 17: Vacuum
I didn't write a poem when you died.
The words would not come.
Perhaps I felt too deeply,
perhaps not enough;
maybe I died too. 10/06/01
Randomling 18: Insanity
Insanity is underrated
Its drawbacks,much overstated.
How else to do what you darn well please
And accomplish it with so much ease?
Randomling 19: Dog Day Afternoon
WATER! BALL! CHASE!
salt, waves, undertow
I don't know what's going
on here, but I'm HAPPY!
Randomling 20: Opposites Attract
i am matter---love, antimatter
never to meet save to explode
i am space, love is time
parallel dimensions never to meet
Randomling 21: Puppy Love
I ride a leaky newspaper raft
Adrift on the linoleum
Anxiously awaiting an
An attack of smelly
covered in fuzz:
Randomling 22: Newton's Poultice
Apple falls from tree
Newton (ouch!) takes notice
Comes up with law of gravity
while wearing a poultice
on the solstice
Randomling 23: Ticking
And the clock on the wall kept on ticking
while my life fell apart all around me.
Sweet memories faded to shadow
as my heart fell to pieces inside me.
And the clock on the wall kept on ticking
Relentlessly ticking, ticking
While my life fell apart all around me.
Randomling 24: Untitled
a mosaic assembled from
tiles of delight and
black-glazed stones of despair
in seamless beauty
Randomling 25: Seasonal Lament
end at both end
as summer falls into the
arm of winter. arm
Randomling 26: Untitled
I didn't want
to love you.
Randomling 27: Pills
Depression is days and nights curled fetal-like
in a dark room, no interest in the world outside,
idly wondering if there are enough
pills in the bottle to kill you,
then thinking it's not worth the effort
to find out because you're dead inside already.
Randomling 28: Guilt By Association
Fresh morning light frames
the cat, surrounded by piles of
dirt and deceased plants,
Randomling 29: Bell the Cat
How do you give a cat a bath?
Maybe you can do the math.
All I know is she stinks to high heaven.
And of us there are only seven.
How many humans to bathe a cat?
Definitely more than where we're at!
Randomling 30: Muse
I want to write a poem
using the word gossamer.
Randomling 31: Ripples
Canoes rock gently
under the waxing moon.
Black water ripples,
painting a beautiful scene
under the scented pines.
Randomling 32: Sunshine Waterfall
I cleanse my face in a sunshine waterfall,
luxuriate in a sunshine shower.
Waterfall flow and warm me;
sprinkle lemon drops through my hair.
Randomling 33: Salon Treatment
Hurricanes scour everything
they touch, then rinse and blow
Copyright © Mary Oliver Rotman
Long poem by
Bob Quigley | Details |
He stood and aimlessly watched the parade of patrons and volunteers that wandered daily past his kennel. All so familiar, so ordinary. Just like every other day he mused. Nothing new. Nothing special.
Moving to the small crumpled blanket near the back of his cage, he turned several times and finally curled up, head on his paws, positioned so that he could watch the activity around him. But in reality, he was bored. It had been a long time since he had met each morning with anticipation. Too many days. Too much disappointment. He would leave all that barking and racing to the front of their cage to the younger pups who hadn’t figured out yet that the cute ones went first. It didn’t really make any difference what you did to attract attention if you weren’t young or cute, or both.
Too much time had gone by to participate in the charade. In reality, Walter had seen a lot of people that he would rather not spend a lot of time with. You know the type. Kind of hyper, bouncing from stray to stray, looking for a perfect dog. Kids poking their fingers through the kennel screen or banging on it. Some even making barking sounds. He didn’t need any of that and was glad when they were gone.
Walter was very picky. Set in his ways after so many years. He had had it good for a long time. An only dog in a household of two people that let him be himself. No tricks. No stunts. Just long naps and daily walks. A yard to himself to reflect on what was for dinner. He had been fond of his doggy bed in their bedroom. Each night he would help his owner walk through the house turning off the lights and checking the doors before they climbed the stairs together. And there was always one last good night pat before settling down.
But those days were gone now. First one had become ill and went to the hospital and never came back. The other one changed overnight, spending long days, sitting mostly. The walks became less frequent. Walter did what he could. He could see it in their eyes that they were hurting from their loss. He would make a point of laying his head in their lap, trying to let them know that he missed them too. At times like this, he instinctively knew that although it remained unsaid, they only had each other.
He remembers well the day that his owner snapped a leash on him and said, “well Walter, I’m afraid we have to say goodbye. I have to go to a place where they won’t let me keep you, so I am going to have to let you go.” Walter could see the tears in his eyes. He knew it would do him no good to whine or resist. It was obvious there were no alternatives. And besides, it would just make it harder on his owner. But he was going to miss him. It was not going to be easy to adjust.
But adjust he did. He had been here a long time now and had seen countless pups and dogs trot past his cage with light hearts and new owners, heading off with new found hopes and expectations. But it soon became obvious that there weren’t a lot of people that wanted an old yellow hound. Everyone wanted the young ones. So here he lay, dozing a bit, but still keeping an eye on those walking by, many giving him but a glance before moving on.
He heard them before the saw them. ”Honey” the voice said. ”That looks like Walter, old Mr. Whitney’s dog.” Walters ears perked up a little. ”Do I know them” he thought. ”They seem to know me”. I’d better go take a closer look” and with that, he stood and slowly ambled toward his kennel gate, giving a cautious wag of his tail.
“It is him” the man said. ”Walter, how you doing boy? Do you remember me?”
And upon closer inspection, Walter did remember him. He used to live right across the street. He would see him in his yard and if Walter were to ramble over, he usually had a dog treat in his pocket. With the recognition, Walter gave a little stronger wag and moved toward the fingers extended through the fencing. It was good to see an old friend.
“What do you say hon” the man said. ”How would you feel about bringing Walter home with us?”
Walter looked at the woman and saw her nod in agreement. ”You wait here and I’ll go find a volunteer.”
The man bent down and said “What do you think Walter? Would you like to go home with us?”
Actually, Walter decided, he could think of nothing he would like more. A chance to go back to the old neighborhood with people he already knew. What was there not to like.
Soon the woman returned and the gate opened. A leash was snapped on Walter and together they proceeded past the rows of dogs and puppies, all vying for their attention. Walter couldn't help but stand a little straighter, stepping a little more lightly, showing off. ”This is what going home looks like guys.” he thought. ”Good luck and goodbye”.
As they neared the car the man said “I can’t believe we found you Walter. There is someone I am going to take you to see. I can’t wait to see the expression on his face when you walk in his room>”
Walter, of course, knew exactly who he was talking about. And he couldn't wait to see the expression on his face either.
Copyright © Bob Quigley
Long poem by
Andrea Dietrich | Details |
Narrator: I take you now inside the mind of a ten year old miniature Eskimo dog who
lives happily inside a Rambler house with a fenced back yard that serves as his special
area to periodically run freely when his “favorite person”(Love) puts him out, always
shouting “go pee!” to him. Strangely, Ollyver does not really seem to understand that
command. Perhaps to him it means “go play” since often he is later caught inside the
house in compromising positions, causing his owner to rush him again to the door to
the back yard!
Furthermore, new computer technology has enabled Ollyver’s owner (his “Love”)
to come up with a crude translation for Ollyver’s stream of thoughts. She knows his behavior the best, but still she must guess at a few things inside his brain due to his limited range of vocabulary and his typical doggy unconcern with that ! So now she has just let Ollyver out the back porch to go pee. . .
Ollyver: I go out! I go out! Run run run . . . Run here. . . Run there. . . Strange man
by fence. . . I can’t get to strange man. What you doing by my yard? Leave here leave here leave here. . . yip yip yip yip yip yip yip. . . . .
Owner’s voice from the porch: Go pee, Ollyver!!!
Ollyver: always “go pee” she say. . . Look look at me. . . I go pee . . . run here . . .
run there. . . (Ollyver continues running back and forth yelping at the stranger who
has since gotten past the fence as he walks along the canal road) I go pee I go pee. . .
Narrator: Ollyver runs back to the house, never having actually gone pee. He runs to
sit by his owner, whom he perceives as his favorite human. She is eating a bowl of ice
cream on the bed.
Ollyver: I go in. . . see yum-yum milk. . . I want I want I want
Narrator: Ollyver goes toward the bowl and gets pushed away, so he stares with big
anxious eyes going back and forth to Love and the bowl of yum-yum.
Ollyver: I want I want I want. . . Give me give me give me. . . Ohhhhh. . . Yum-yum
getting smaller and smaller. . . Ohhhhhhhhh
Narrator: Ollyver’s Love pats his head and lets him lick what remains at the bottom of the bowl. After he finishes, he snuggles by Love and beings to lick her hand and arm.
Ollyver: kiss kiss kiss kiss. . . Love Love Love
Narrator: Suddenly the door bell rings, and he dashes off the bed to the front door
with his Love following behind him, yelling: “No Ollyver!” He peers through the window and sees a stranger.
Ollyver: yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip go away strange lady go away strange lady
go away strange lady yip yip yip yip yip yip yip. . ..
Narrator: The door bell rings again and Ollyver runs to his favorite corner of the family
room, where he begins to do the very thing his owner had wanted him to do previously
when she let him out into the back yard. Her voice yells shrilly “No, Ollyver” and she
shoves him to the back door saying: “OUT here, Ollyver. Go pee out HERE.” Ollyver
then runs across the yard going back and forth, back and forth.
Ollyver: see see see, Love. . . I go pee I go pee
**For the contest of Just That Archaic Poet:This is my personification of Ollyver, the pet that gave me the greatest unconditional love of any pet I ever owned. Because we could never train him (I even hired a trainer to help us) and because of other complications, I had to give him up when he was around ten years old. I missed him so much. and even my cat, Razzmatazz cannot replace him for pure affection. I gave him to a place that promised a no-kill policy and to this day, I am hoping he had a great life until the end!
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich
Long poem by
John Posey | Details |
Grandpa had a bulldog whose name was Tige.
They were close – as close as honey and bees.
If Grandpa felt a cold comin’ on –
Well Ol’ Tige was the one who would sneeze
Grandpa was noted for his wealth and generosity.
His love for me was demonstrated when he paid my college fees.
The love he held for Tige was almost the same for me.
And ol’ Tige was always with Grandpa wherever he might be.
College life was different then, separation was the norm.
And years at Alma Mater meant years far from the farm.
Students have it difficult and allowances soon shrink
So, short of money there, I soon began to think.
Grandpa, bless his giving heart, quickly came to mind
That bulldog owned his generous heart – if somehow I could find
Some way to convince my grandpa to increase the money sent --
I came upon a devious plan – and this is how it went.
I wrote and told my grandpa, “There’s things you ought to know.
The things they’re doin’ here at school will set your heart aglow.”
“They’re takin’ all these sorts of dogs – it came as quite a shock
Grandpa, you won’t believe me, they’re teachin’ dogs to talk.”
Now grandpa loved ol’ Tige so much it didn’t take him long
To ask how much would it take to send ol’ Tige along?
Well, when I gave a figure, Grandpa was satisfied
If this crazy scheme was figured out, there’s no place I could hide.
I kept feeding grandpa all sorts of good reports
How Tige was a star pupil and mascot of all sports
Two years passed and soon there came the time to take Tige home
Grandpa was so excited -- Tige was never more to roam.
Grandpa came runnin’ when I stepped down off the train.
His eager eyes were searching for what he’d never see again.
“Where’s ol’ Tige?” he asked, as we began to walk.
“He’s not comin’.” I replied, “C’mon we need to talk.”
This morning I was shaving in the bathroom by the sink
And Tige was justa talkin’ when he looked at me and winked.
“Ya know’ he said, “I’ll be so glad to be back home at last.”
There are some things I’ve thought about that went on in the past.”
“I was standin’ at the mirror with my razor in my hand
Ol’ Tige was talkin’ ‘bout some things he couldn’t understand.
I could not believe the lies he told – things he’d seen first hand
Like the times he saw you wrestlin’ with that female hired hand.”
His words just lit a fire with the pictures that he painted
I almost couldn’t help myself – Grandpa, I nearly fainted.
It seems that I lost it some and when I finally woke,
I’d grabbed him by the backa his neck and cut his lyin’ throat.
I know grandpa was shaken, I saw it in his eyes.
A look of consternation he could not disguise
He seemed to be relieved, as he looked at me and said,
“Now, Son, I really need to know, are you sure ol’ Tige is dead?”
Years have hidden the truth of this deception that I wrought.
I’m the one who wove deceptive tales that everybody bought.
But when the truth is told at last and no more lies are found
You’ll gladly find an ending that surely will astound.
Grandpa? -- He now lives with Jesus, and me? -- I’m headed there.
Tige? – I know he’s still around though I shouldn’t tell you where.
We made a pact some years ago when things went awfully bad.
For years he’s been the best darn mascot my school ever had.
Copyright © John Posey
Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/twos_magic_nose_538609' st_title='Two's Magic Nose'>
Such a nose had Ol’ Blue.
Best in south Missouri... everybody knew.
Could smell a pheasant across the plain.
Could point a covey in a hurricane.
That’s the way the legend goes.
Ol’ Blue had a “magic nose.”
As Blue got older, his master’s mind would drift away
To a place where he and young Blue used to play.
In the mornings, sitting over his coffee cup
He found it sad there were no pups.
He thought it would be such a shame
If the only memory was Ol’ Blue’s name.
So, Jim was compelled and full of pride;
He made a search, far and wide,
To find Ol’ Blue a suitable mate.
No doubt, his offspring would be great.
It seemed likely, he supposed,
At least one pup would have his “magic nose.”
She was a Champion Miss from New Orleans,
A beautiful “red” named Cajun Queen.
But Blue suddenly passed away, before the pups were born.
Jim was broken hearted. He and “Queenie” mourned.
Then came the litter, but there was only one.
Jim struggled for hope; after all, he was Ol’ Blue’s son.
Dappled and lanky, a handsome little cuss,
He looked just like Blue. Jim made such a fuss.
Naming this pup would require no ado.
It was obvious. Officially, he would be “Blue Two.”
Oh yes, these were mighty large tracks to fill.
“Can he?”, folks asked. Jim would say, “Heck yes he will!”
So his nickname became “Two” and he seemed to be smart.
Soon it was time for his training to start.
The basics went well, but Jim’s outlook grew very dim
When, instead of pointing, Two would wag and jump and bark at him.
Oh, Two seemed to be trying; but try as he might,
He just could not seem to ever get it right.
“Blue’s son or not, he’s got to go!”
Jim found Two a “pet home” far away, in Tupelo.
On his way back, he stopped in Texarkana.
Been too long a time since he’d seen his sister Hannah.
Six days and six pounds later, he was back on his way.
Work at the farm was callin’ and he’d be drivin’ all day.
He thought about Ol’ Blue and wondered if and when
He’d ever have a birddog as good as Blue again.
Oh, he knew another “magic nose” was just a far off dream;
After all, it wasn’t something any man could scheme.
A “magic nose” was a gift from God, only given to a few;
And he was proud and very lucky just to have known Ol’ Blue.
As he turned into his drive, he broke into a smile.
“Why… I can’t believe it! It…It must be 300 miles!”
Two was on the porch, thin and dirty; but he struck a handsome pose.
Jim ran and hugged Two hard. “How’d you get back? Lord only knows!”
Suddenly Jim realized; and struck with awe, he slowly rose.
A tear trickled to his smile. “Why Two… you have a “magic nose!”
Two and Jim are best of friends, together everywhere.
From milkin’ cows to bedtime, Two is always there.
Jim doesn’t hunt much anymore, now Two’s a rescue dog.
Just last month, he saved a little girl lost in Cooley’s Bog.
Jim struts and tells proud, heroic stories;
While Two wags and jumps and barks, and shares his glory.
Jim boasts, “Like father, like son!”, then speaks fondly of Blue;
But all know the largest tracks to fill are those of Two.
His deeds are known far and wide,
And fill Jim’s heart with love and pride.
For with every rescue, the legend grows;
About a dog named Two, and his “magic nose.”
Copyright © Robert Candler
Long poem by
Tadon Archer | Details |
People wonder why I’m so antisocial hardly talk or hang with anybody
They wonder why I stay to myself and just do me
They wonder why I’m always on top while others are still at the bottom
feeding on to me
Well if you ask me there are a lot of reasons why I’m antisocial
There are too many fake niggas to socialize with I see no human in them
They are like an artificial mannequin I can see right through them
They are nothing but cartoons I watch on TV
I can’t **** with everybody because everybody is different
Your close friends can be your enemies
so you gotta be on the look out
Because niggas now days are phony and they don’t give a **** about you
35So you’re a fool thinking that everybody is your friend or everybody is
down with you
Because your friends will turn on you in a minute
The only two people I trust is God and myself
I can’t trust my family because I don’t know what they be on
All they do is black mail me when I don’t do what they say
Or talk about me like a dog behind my back just like my enemies do me
And the only time they act nice to me or speak highly of me is when they
want something from me
Man what a damn shame but that’s how life is I can’t get mad the only
thing I can do is move on and do me
That’s why I’m so antisocial because people will dog you out and then turn
back around and be your friend again
And your dumbass is to dumb to realize that he or she is just using
Well for me it don’t work that way once you **** up with me I’m through
So ain’t no point of hitting my line or in boxing me on face book because I
will reply back **** you
And when I do try to socialize with people they act like they don’t
And when I tell the guys my view of women they look at me funny like
what the **** you’re talking about
But when they give their view of women its cool
But to me its wrong but who gives a **** I mean nobody won’t listen to
It’s like a midget talking to a giant that’s why I stay quiet and just be me
Because people are petty now days
And I’m afraid to talk to the girls because they are so rude
It don’t matter how you approach them they will still give you smart
They can careless about your feelings
So that’s why I stay antisocial I will just let them come to me
And I’m sometimes afraid to introduce myself to certain people
Because I don’t know how to approach them like I judge myself before
they can judge me
I wonder too much that sometimes I contradict my own damn self
I gotta stop thinking so hard people wonder why I’m so antisocial
And when they ask me you know what I tell them
37None of your ****ing business
Because all you want me to do is socialize with you so you can know my
entire God damn business
I hate noisy people that’s why I hang in a small circle and don’t **** with
no **** niggas I gotta stay in my own lane and stay focus
Because these niggas out here lurking waiting for you to slip up but not
Nigga so while you’re stocking me you need to just do you and let me be
Because you will never figure out what I’m going to be
I’m staying antisocial as long as I’m living
So if you don’t like it then don’t **** with me
Copyright © Tadon Archer
Long poem by
Shadow Hamilton | Details |
I had not long lost Shona (German Shepherd) and was not sure because of my age and disabilities if I should get another when my daughter spotted an advert .
I thought long and hard and having always since the age of seven had my own dog
I decided that there were ways around my disability.
I went to the farm you were born on and met Matthew and your mum Lady.
Matthew suggested we met the 3 puppies left and take them down the fields so I could
choose. He let you all out and we started off by the time we reached the gate Lady and two pups had run on ahead. I looked at Matthew who had not noticed and said I have be chosen he looked in surprise and said so you have.
Needless to say I took you home and thus began a wonderful relationship you were highly intelligent I remember the first time you saw TV you were glued to the screen. We started obedience classes when you were 6 months old and soon you were in the top class. I quickly learnt when a new challenge or lesson was started to hang back and let you watch. Then when it was your turn you went out and did it nearly perfectly and always nailed it on your second attempt.
You had a yellow squeaky dog toy that you liked to live just outside the door and you would nuzzle it going in and out. One day my daughter said to me Zante thinks it her puppy doesn't she I said yes, then my daughter told me she had thrown it for her and that she went mental checking it was not hurt.
I knew you longed to be a mum so when you were two you went to a good dog and
in time produced nine fine puppies you were so happy and a wonderful mum.
I with your agreement moved yellow squeaky dog to the kitchen window sill.
When the day came for them to go as each one left you lay crying softly by the back
gate and I joined you shedding my own tears.
Two years later after some notable wins in the ring by you and your daughter
Tanganyika you again became a mum to 8 fine pups. Tanganyika did not understand
why you growled and sent her away. You finally allowed her to meet them at around
4 weeks. This time we kept two a dog and a b**ch, still we both cried when parting time came.
I did not know we were on borrowed time and that a year later at only six and half years you developed very aggressive cancer and faded in under 3 weeks I held you here at home while you tried to stand to say hello to the vet you could not get up,
the cancer had sapped your strength.
I cried buckets as we said good bye and you slipped of to peace and heaven
I buried you at home with your yellow squeaky dog that still squeaked and your
favourite blanket. There is an uncarved stone marking the spot in your favourite
corner of the garden.
I still miss you so much as does Tanganyika who went on the following spring on win 3rd at Cruft's 2010 you would have been so proud.
Zante you stole my heart and gave me a new leash on life You will always live
in my heart YOU WERE THE BEST 2003 -2009
Copyright © Shadow Hamilton
Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details |
It seems like just the other day
Our pup, Shadrack, did pass away;
And altho’ they never seemed like friends,
My old cat, Jorg, knew Shad had met
his untimely end.
He mourned his loss every day
And looked for Shadrack everywhere.
He’d mew and moan as if to say,
“We were friends. I do care.”
Then one night, an eerie howl
Awoke me from my sleep.
He’d found Shad’s toys and left no doubt
That his feelings did run deep.
So our tedious search began
To find another likely pup;
But while my poor wife still grieved,
Could another measure up?
We went to Second Chance and Free to Live.
She just could not make up her mind.
She loved them all; but, if she picked just one,
The rest would have to stay behind.
Then, quite by chance, there was a “pound pup”
Who’d been picked up from the streets.
He was a mutt, a “schnauza-pug”;
But he was awfully sweet.
He jumped up and kissed her frantically.
He seemed aware of his “iffy” situation.
He made the best of his opportunity.
Tears of joy told her elation.
“This is the one”, she smiled through tears,
As she held him oh, so tight.
“I’m sure that Jorg will like him too.
Everything will be alright”.
And so it was, until one day
When old Jorg did pass away…
There was no hesitation on this sad occasion;
Come Saturday morning, we went straight
to the pound,
Open minded and hoping to be “saviors”,
Surely a nice cat was to be found.
“Sadly”, the lady said,” three kitties have only today.
There’s Andre and Panda and another one too”.
My wife smiled and said, “Jorg was your boy. You pick.
They’re both beautiful cats. It’s up to you”.
As I pondered this commitment
Another cat, a young one, caught my eye.
Like Jorg, he was a common gray tabby.
Fond memories were stirred. I almost cried.
On closer look, his name was Boris;
And, strangely, he was number three.
There was a small sign on his crate,
“I don’t like other cats and other cats don’t like me”.
But there was character in his eyes and he was cute.
He was rolling and purring and stretching.
He seemed to look deep into my heart
And did his best to be quite fetching.
But because he was just a common gray tabby,
And because of the little sign,
His chances were slim, his future quite dim
And one day is precious little time.
For a moment I was lost in his eyes
And I heard his desperate plea,
“I’m a swell cat and litter box trained.
Take me. Please, take me”.
“Well”, my wife urged, “is it Andre or Panda”?
“One of us will take the other kitty.”, two older ladies chimed.
“You can each have one ladies”, I said with a smile.
I want Boris and he wants to be mine”.
In just hours he was romping and rolling with Pepper,
Who had happily welcomed his new friend.
Boris was a perfect fit, an affirmation;
The Circle of Life never ends.
Much more Joy than Sadness in this Circle,
And there should never be regrets.
Honor their memories and all the love they share,
Never break the Circle, never be without a Pet.
Copyright © Robert Candler
Long poem by
Lindsay Laurie | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/hes_just_a_dog_629180' st_title='He's Just a Dog'>
He’s just a dog, a mongrel pup that fitted in me hand,
short haired, tan and white, with needs of high demand,
he’s whingy and he’s whiny, I s’pose he misses Mum,
but now his Mum and Dad are what me wife and I become.
And the recommending is that we must take him to the vet,
to have all his virus shots with rates that put us into debt,
we had to have him micro-chipped in case of getting lost,
and then de-sexing and to register all added to the cost.
We made a fuss of him and spoilt him rotten to the core,
even after peeing on the carpet on the lounge room floor,
we fed him ‘smackos’, munchies, and tins of high-class meat,
and let him lick our plates for a special little treat.
We knew we shouldn’t feed him sitting at the dinner table,
but when those eyes stared through me, I just wasn’t able
to ignore the little blighter who was pleading for a crust,
and of course I’m feeling guilty, so ignoring is unjust.
He mightn’t talk, but body language gets his tale across,
by demanding his intentions with a bark “I am the boss!”
That can mean our double bed, becomes one of his beds,
it’s a God given right to scratch a pillow into shreds.
He’s just a dog, but as he grew from pup to fully grown,
there are more human aspects that our little dog has shown.
He’s believing in his own mind, we are not his Dad and Mum,
because now he is the King, and slaves we’re now become.
Dogs shouldn’t have to take a bath; a chain should be denied,
and a dog definitely should never have to sleep outside,
to prove his point before its dawn our actions are defied,
he’s barking at the back door demanding to be let inside.
He’s just a dog with habits that does reimburse our training,
he licks his bum and then me face, and thinks it’s entertaining,
then rubs his bum along the carpet, so we have to come to terms,
that we have to medicate him… ‘oh my God it’s bloody worms!’
The more we tried to train him, then the more he’s training us,
for he always gets his own way when he’s kicking up a fuss,
his wicker chair and blanket are for him and him alone,
and every week on shopping day he gets a king size bone.
And doesn’t he love visitors; it’s all ‘welcome to my joint,’
wagging tail and somersaults, but to get more to the point,
if he can’t grab the sole attention when he sits up and begs,
then it becomes acceptable to go humping people’s legs.
It took him very little time to claim the television set,
he’s the closest to the heater, and he does get quite upset
if we don’t take him in the car… and now when being fed,
he’s expecting us to feed him, his brekkie in our bed.
The house is rearranged these days to suit his every need,
each day by his insistence he is walked upon the lead,
we bow to all his wishes, to his commands and dialogue,
but for anyone who drops in… they only see a bloody dog.
Copyright © Lindsay Laurie
Long poem by
rene Chabriere | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/its_too_early_in_the_gray_sky____from_french_612072' st_title='It's too early in the gray sky - from french'>
No one in this morning
The road is deserted,
It's too early under the gray sky,
The veins of my hands,
Salient hands on the wheel
The look Elevated
The white line scrolls,
The colored houses, fled,
Since the curves crossed,
The white studs punctuate
the road, pedal to the floor,,
Not any possible gesture
Just those, tiny,
Extending the machine
According to the gray ribbon
Powered by the wheels
Swallowing the consistency,
of traffic signs,
blurred by speed,
The craft carried by his power,
Shares my drunkenness ...
Almost brought a strength,
Internal and autonomous
The motor flexibility
It shiny metal body,
Discreet comfort inside ...
And suddenly ,this is
At the end of the turn,
As an immobile sphinx,
His unexpected question,
The deflected trajectory,
Gravel under the tires,
The crazy slide,
Nothing controls it
A jump above the parapet,
A single flight without return
Net stopped by an heavy shock
Cons below ...
A brief moment, I remember ,
The covering waves,
Again and again,
Distributing its foam
On the rocks ...
No one in this morning
The road is still deserted
It's too early in the gray sky.
Personne en ce matin,
La route est déserte,
Trop tôt sous le ciel gris,
Les veines de mes mains,
Saillantes, mes mains sur le volant,
Le regard en plongée,
La ligne blanche qui défile,
Les maisons de couleur, enfuies,
Dès les courbes franchies,
Les criques entr'aperçues,
Les poteaux blancs rythment
le trajet, pédale au plancher,,
Plus de geste possible,
Que ceux, infimes,
Prolongeant la machine,
Suivant le ruban gris,
Propulsé sous les roues
Avalant la consistance,
des panneaux de signalisation,
floutés par la vitesse,
L'engin porté par sa puissance,
Presque porté d'une force,
Interne et autonome,
Moteur en souplesse,
Confort intérieur discret ...
Et c'est là soudain,
Au sortir du virage,
Qu'il y a ce chien,
Comme un sphinx immobile,
Sa question imprévue,
La trajectoire déviée,
Les gravillons sous les pneus,
La glissade folle,
Que rien ne contrôle,
L'univers qui bascule,
Le bond au-dessus du parapet,
Un vol sans retour,
Stoppé net par le lourd choc,
Je revois un bref instant,
Les vagues les recouvrant,
Refluant, se brisant,
Encore et encore,
Distribuant son écume
Sur les rochers...
Personne en ce matin,
La route est encore déserte,
Il est trop tôt sous le ciel gris.
RC - mai 2014
Copyright © rene Chabriere