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Best Poems Written by Gail Blakeley

Below are the all-time best Gail Blakeley poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Gail Blakeley Poem

The Day the Dog Died

The Day The Dog Died

The very day her dog had died ;
she sat alone and cried and cried.

He'd been her companion for many a day ;
she thought he'd be there when SHE went away.

She wept and wept all through the night ;
somehow, her husband would make it all right.

They got in the car and went to the pound ;
she, so discouraged, just looked at the ground.

"Pick out another", her old husband said ;
"You have to face it, your boy dog is dead."

Then the old lady walked slowly outside ;
tears rolled down her face, she wanted to hide.

Up rambled an old dog, a female was she ;
crawled into their car, as bold as could be.

The dog sat patiently waiting there ;
not moving a muscle, going nowhere.

"She just picked us out !", the old lady cried ;
"I thought I'd have no friend till' the day I died."

Now both the old girls sit in a chair;
discussing the world and going nowhere.

That little dog had a very sad past ;
now, she has someone to love her, at last.

She's given the dog a name, Dee Dee,
she listens intently, her chin on Mom's knee.

They pass the long hours being together;
in rain or snow, through all kinds of weather.

So, if this is a  "dog's life", lucky is she;
there's just not a  better place to be.

Perhaps they will leave on the very same day,
for, to each, there is no other possible way.

I think of them often....they'r gone from this earth;
I'm nearing her age and I  not nearly her worth.

Although. three little dogs sit on my bed;
listening and playing and tilting their heads,
at each and everything I say;
like it was important in some sort of way.

I understand the importance of each little creature ;
to someone, somewhere, for they are the teachers.

Details | Gail Blakeley Poem

The Lonely Nights

The night is quiet, except for the nocturnal birds that never stop singing.
One gets used to that and perhaps, finds comfort in it.

She lies beside him, as she always has.
Her cries, screams and laughter erupt periodically
brought on by dreams she will never remember.

He rubs her back and coos at her.
Her best companion, now is a child size rag doll, 
she talks to it, like she once talked to him.

Her soft, warm hands do not touch him any longer,
only the doll.

He aches with loneliness,
no one to speak to, no one to hold and be held.

When she was young life was good.
This tiny woman was always there for him.
Bad things happened. 
Still, she was always there.

Now, she is lost to him forever, only a shell exists.
One he must feed, clean and cry over.

He is often angry at her, though she has not a clue.
"Die or come back to me" his mind screams,
But, never will his voice utter those words.

Details | Gail Blakeley Poem

Camping Is :

Tiny, angel faced, fuzzy headed, little girls with baggy pants, bowed legs, toddling about.

A Wet Minnie Mouse towel hanging on a makeshift clothesline,
alongside others with college logos's and Elvis ;

Fifty something year old women in skimpy, ill fitted bathing suits,
unaware that gravity has shifted when they were not looking ;

Noisy, gas, golf carts loaded with teenage boys,
looking for golf carts loaded with teenage girls ;

Pot bellied, old men looking at golf carts full of teenage girls...wistfully ;

A big swimming pool full of screaming kids, splashing and pushing
their very best pal under the water ;

Cooking aroma's wafting through the park at five o'clock each evening ;

Camp fires burning until dawn ;

Fat ladies eating huge piles of ice cream stacked on a cone, 
vowing to diet next week ;

a young couple with two babies renting a cheap, on-sight camper,
waiting for fancier digs, when they hit the lottery ; 

A young father, beer bottle in hand, pushing a child in a stroller round and 
round the park, until the baby falls asleep ;

Old men pulling into the park with rigs costing more than a house,
not to be out done by the guys that came before  them.


I LOVE CAMPING !!!

Details | Gail Blakeley Poem

My Best Pal

My Best Pal

My very best pal is a hairy ole' guy.
His breath is so bad, it bring tears to my eyes.

Mexican music he really adores ;
though he lies, not dances on all of my floors.

He's happy go lucky,
and smiles all the time.
he has no money, not even a dime.
For why would he need it,
when he is the boss.
And I, just his servant,
pleasing him at all cost.

My pal is a stinky ole' Beagle, you see ;
I dearly love him, he tolerates me.

Details | Gail Blakeley Poem

Please Be Kind

While we're eating, please be kind,
your manners and mine should intertwine.

And if you promise not to burp,
I'll do likewise and not slurp.

My mouthful of food, I will not expose,
but, you must NEVER blow your nose.

Our future may be long and great,
it all depends on how we ate.

If your habits are disgusting,
there will be some sharp adjusting.

For, how can one love a sloppy eater,
I'd have to find someone much neater.

Should you cross me on this date,
a short goodby will be your fate.


Moral of the story:

Never judge a man by how high he makes you fly,
when it all comes down to it,
count the food spots on his tie.

Details | Gail Blakeley Poem

How Many Songs Can a Mocking Bird Sing ?

Day and night, my ears are ringing,
Never does that bird stop singing.
There just HAS to be more than one,
A second takes over, when the first is done.

I know that hate's a nasty word,
Nature is a glorious wonder,
though, when it comes to mocking birds,
God made his worst, big blunder.

I have to close my door at night,
I put on ear muffs, what a sight.
He doesn't care, it slows him not,
he ramps it up, gives it all he's got.

I'll take the city with all it's clatter.
Give me murder, give me mayhem,
steal my money, take my gems.
choose your torture, it  won't matter,
Just save me from that damned mocking bird's chatter.

  * None of our feathered friends were hurt during the writing of this poem....yet !

Details | Gail Blakeley Poem

Barracuda Alma

Alma was a Barracuda, married two times four,
she knew the game, she played so well and never failed to score.

So, when the chance came about to scam a naive Sailor,
she knew she had to do her best to take the drunken whaler.

He told her she would make a fortune taking care of him,
for when he died, there was a prize, though all that seemed so grim.

Alma did not blink an eye or even hesitate,
she took the deal and lead him home to wait, and wait, and wait.
For years he kept on living, amazing her each day.
He must have been one hundred on the eve he passed away.

She shuffled with his papers, searched long throughout  the night.
At last, she found "The treasure" to her unashamed delight.
For there upon the table, an envelope did lay.
The seal was stamped, it looked official, she was finally on her way !

She opened it to see her name, her time had come around.
Alas, She was not mentioned on the paper she had found.
For years she'd taken care of him without a word of scorn.
But in the paper came a photo of a tiny, pink, newborn.

To her dismay, she turned it over, this is what she saw,
shocked, she read the note outloud in disbelief and awe.

"To Timmy. my dear and only son, I find myself ashamed,
that never have I seen you, nor given you my name."

"To you, I leave what all I have, you'll find it all recorded,
to only you, no exception, it will be awarded.
It's at the lawyers' office, not far down the street."
"Forgive me son, my sad regret, we will never meet.

P.S. Avoid Ole' Barracuda Alma, all smiles, a greedy type,
She'll snatch the gold out of your teeth, if she thinks the pickin's ripe.

 Alma ranted, then she raved,
she cursed him in his cold, dark grave.

He fooled her once and  cheated her right to the very end.
"Oh well", she finally whispered, 
"There's ALWAYS time for me to  find a very new, best friend !

Details | Gail Blakeley Poem

Little Girls

When I was a small girl going to school,
I picked my friends carefully.
They had to wear clothes no better than I,
else I felt poor.
They had to be nearly my size,
else I felt fat, skinny or too tall.

They had to live in a house no better than me,
else, I felt underprivileged.
I never questioned their silliness,
I demanded it,
else I felt stupid.
They had to be loyal, 
for I would take care of them to the end.
A hand held, an occasional hug and a good, short cry proved they trusted me and I cared 
about them.

Now, I'm an old lady.
I pick my friends carefully.
They have to wear clothes no better than me,
Else I feel less chic'.
They can be any size, the bigger they are, the smaller I look.
We are all shrinking, I don't feel so tall.
Any house is a home.
Silliness is better than counting aches and pains, but I will listen to those too.
Loyalty is only as long as my arm and that's o.k.
I will be your friend as long as you will have me.
I can listen to the worst of your problems with a kind ear.
A hug or hand held means, " I like you and I am there for you."
We are all little girls again.

Details | Gail Blakeley Poem

Goodbye Smoking

I'm not smoking today ;
not that the urge has gone away.

It's just that I'm tight and smokes are high ;
but, clothes are cheaper, I won't deny.

I'd like to be known for my wit and charm ;
instead of an odor setting off a fire alarm.

Believe me, it's not easy;
but, with a cigarette, I look sleazy !

I have an image to uphold ;
I'm known to be brave and even bold.

But, those little, white, sticks of fire ;
have always been part of my attire.

Will people even know me now; 
without the smoke circling my brow ?

Grit my teeth, gnaw my tongue ;
clean my hair and clear my lungs.

I might even feel brand new ;
and smell like perfume, not fish stew.

So, wish me well, no more Pall Mall ;
and pray I do not have a fall.

For this will be my very last try ;
to say it's easy, is a BIG, FAT lie !!

Details | Gail Blakeley Poem

The Insanity of Poetry

I never did like rhyming,
it's all in the darn timing.

Words now just pop out on their own,
all my good senses have simply flown.

Most of my pals don't speak anymore,
they find me such a big, dumb bore.
I tell them it is not my fault,
it's Poetry Soup that  caused this assault.

Give a forum, give  a soapbox,
that's when I find opportunity knocks.

Help me somebody ! I'm losing my friends,
throw away my pencils and all of my pens.

Goodbye hubby, children and kin,
This could be a beginning..or maybe an end.

No meals have been made, no ironing been done,
I'm way too busy, just having fun.
I seem to sit here in a  daze,
thinking up yet, another phrase.

I'm on this ride, a slippery slope,
Soup, this is your fault, is there no hope ?

I've made up my epitaph, it reads as follows :

                                           "Here lies  a dope who spoke only in riddle,
                                             She could never seem to find the middle,
                                                            of sanity and reality
                                                                        which,
                                                      inevitably led to her own finality. "