Dog Chases Tail
Listen to poem:
Written August 13, 2025, for a contest by Edward Ibeh
Quote: The grief you cry out from draws you toward union. Your pure sadness that wants help is the secret cup. Listen to the moan of a dog for its master. By Rumi
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A courageous puppy with a rosy frieze,
Fumbled through the fragrant breeze.
His tail—a vortex of whirling grace—
A fleeting moment he could not chase.
He barked into the heaviest stream.
When ideals are dashed and never redeem.
All day and night, he pursued that tail.
With rivaling barks and bear-like howls prevail.
A drake swooped by with glittering wings.
Regaling stories around fantastical things.
The dog, eager and agog, with drool and spin
Believed to grasp his tail, an idea spun within.
Yet Life, that wondrous, jussive beast,
Pabulum was provided with every feast.
It sighed truths, a chorus of voices, stark—
A clamor stirs within the oculus dark.
A human doppelgänger was near,
Gazing at the evening's crimson smear.
He forsook the hunt, yet not the stench—
Of booties lost and shadows cast, a trench.
He carved with muse, like a surgeon deft style,
With mettle mutterseelenallein in mordant smile.
He understood the dog’s crimson plight—
To supplant the turbulent flow with delight.
Yet the pestilence of reflection did grow,
A tempest in the warmth of the arm's glow.
With slight grace, the dog circled round.
As the man held swiftly, he wept profound.
Visions of care linked to a song of vermin fleas,
Concomitant distress and poodle pleas.
The dog was unaware of human despair—
He just let it fly and run, with joy laid bare.
An iconoclast of the tether and the law,
He twirled beneath the crescent's claw.
Uncertainty held dominion over his kismet—
No truth to grasp, no closing sublimit.
The man, in joyless whispers, stands alone,
Beholding the tail and the dog in a ceaseless tone.
He stuttered his prayers to Iliovasilema skies,
Where the dusk drips, the dream defies.
The tail did wag, the dog did heed,
In pliant arcs of joy, proceed.
And Life, that hungry, binding specter,
Gleamed where pain ran deep, a defector.
Should you chance upon a dog in a spin,
Do not jest at the circle he finds himself within.
For in that pursuit, he follows a worn trail,
He roams unbound, unlike the man grown pale.
And maybe—on some pavonine day,
Life catches its tail, then dances away.
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