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Best Famous Pets Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Pets poems. This is a select list of the best famous Pets poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Pets poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of pets poems.

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Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

We Aint Got No Money Honey But We Got Rain

 call it the greenhouse effect or whatever
but it just doesn't rain like it used to.
I particularly remember the rains of the depression era.
there wasn't any money but there was plenty of rain.
it wouldn't rain for just a night or a day, it would RAIN for 7 days and 7 nights and in Los Angeles the storm drains weren't built to carry off taht much water and the rain came down THICK and MEAN and STEADY and you HEARD it banging against the roofs and into the ground waterfalls of it came down from roofs and there was HAIL big ROCKS OF ICE bombing exploding smashing into things and the rain just wouldn't STOP and all the roofs leaked- dishpans, cooking pots were placed all about; they dripped loudly and had to be emptied again and again.
the rain came up over the street curbings, across the lawns, climbed up the steps and entered the houses.
there were mops and bathroom towels, and the rain often came up through the toilets:bubbling, brown, crazy,whirling, and all the old cars stood in the streets, cars that had problems starting on a sunny day, and the jobless men stood looking out the windows at the old machines dying like living things out there.
the jobless men, failures in a failing time were imprisoned in their houses with their wives and children and their pets.
the pets refused to go out and left their waste in strange places.
the jobless men went mad confined with their once beautiful wives.
there were terrible arguments as notices of foreclosure fell into the mailbox.
rain and hail, cans of beans, bread without butter;fried eggs, boiled eggs, poached eggs; peanut butter sandwiches, and an invisible chicken in every pot.
my father, never a good man at best, beat my mother when it rained as I threw myself between them, the legs, the knees, the screams until they seperated.
"I'll kill you," I screamed at him.
"You hit her again and I'll kill you!" "Get that son-of-a-bitching kid out of here!" "no, Henry, you stay with your mother!" all the households were under seige but I believe that ours held more terror than the average.
and at night as we attempted to sleep the rains still came down and it was in bed in the dark watching the moon against the scarred window so bravely holding out most of the rain, I thought of Noah and the Ark and I thought, it has come again.
we all thought that.
and then, at once, it would stop.
and it always seemed to stop around 5 or 6 a.
, peaceful then, but not an exact silence because things continued to drip drip drip and there was no smog then and by 8 a.
there was a blazing yellow sunlight, Van Gogh yellow- crazy, blinding! and then the roof drains relieved of the rush of water began to expand in the warmth: PANG!PANG!PANG! and everybody got up and looked outside and there were all the lawns still soaked greener than green will ever be and there were birds on the lawn CHIRPING like mad, they hadn't eaten decently for 7 days and 7 nights and they were weary of berries and they waited as the worms rose to the top, half drowned worms.
the birds plucked them up and gobbled them down;there were blackbirds and sparrows.
the blackbirds tried to drive the sparrows off but the sparrows, maddened with hunger, smaller and quicker, got their due.
the men stood on their porches smoking cigarettes, now knowing they'd have to go out there to look for that job that probably wasn't there, to start that car that probably wouldn't start.
and the once beautiful wives stood in their bathrooms combing their hair, applying makeup, trying to put their world back together again, trying to forget that awful sadness that gripped them, wondering what they could fix for breakfast.
and on the radio we were told that school was now open.
and soon there I was on the way to school, massive puddles in the street, the sun like a new world, my parents back in that house, I arrived at my classroom on time.
Sorenson greeted us with, "we won't have our usual recess, the grounds are too wet.
" "AW!" most of the boys went.
"but we are going to do something special at recess," she went on, "and it will be fun!" well, we all wondered what that would be and the two hour wait seemed a long time as Mrs.
Sorenson went about teaching her lessons.
I looked at the little girls, they looked so pretty and clean and alert, they sat still and straight and their hair was beautiful in the California sunshine.
the the recess bells rang and we all waited for the fun.
then Mrs.
Sorenson told us: "now, what we are going to do is we are going to tell each other what we did during the rainstorm! we'll begin in the front row and go right around! now, Michael, you're first!.
" well, we all began to tell our stories, Michael began and it went on and on, and soon we realized that we were all lying, not exactly lying but mostly lying and some of the boys began to snicker and some of the girls began to give them dirty looks and Mrs.
Sorenson said, "all right! I demand a modicum of silence here! I am interested in what you did during the rainstorm even if you aren't!" so we had to tell our stories and they were stories.
one girl said that when the rainbow first came she saw God's face at the end of it.
only she didn't say which end.
one boy said he stuck his fishing pole out the window and caught a little fish and fed it to his cat.
almost everybody told a lie.
the truth was just too awful and embarassing to tell.
then the bell rang and recess was over.
"thank you," said Mrs.
Sorenson, "that was very nice.
and tomorrow the grounds will be dry and we will put them to use again.
" most of the boys cheered and the little girls sat very straight and still, looking so pretty and clean and alert, their hair beautiful in a sunshine that the world might never see again.

Written by W S Merwin | Create an image from this poem

Green Fields

 By this part of the century few are left who believe
 in the animals for they are not there in the carved parts
of them served on plates and the pleas from the slatted trucks
 are sounds of shadows that possess no future
there is still game for the pleasure of killing
 and there are pets for the children but the lives that followed
courses of their own other than ours and older
 have been migrating before us some are already
far on the way and yet Peter with his gaunt cheeks
 and point of white beard the face of an aged Lawrence
Peter who had lived on from another time and country
 and who had seen so many things set out and vanish
still believed in heaven and said he had never once
 doubted it since his childhood on the farm in the days
of the horses he had not doubted it in the worst
 times of the Great War and afterward and he had come
to what he took to be a kind of earthly
 model of it as he wandered south in his sixties
by that time speaking the language well enough
 for them to make him out he took the smallest roads
into a world he thought was a thing of the past
 with wildflowers he scarcely remembered and neighbors
working together scything the morning meadows
 turning the hay before the noon meal bringing it in
by milking time husbandry and abundance
 all the virtues he admired and their reward bounteous
in the eyes of a foreigner and there he remained
 for the rest of his days seeing what he wanted to see
until the winter when he could no longer fork
 the earth in his garden and then he gave away
his house land everything and committed himself
 to a home to die in an old chateau where he lingered
for some time surrounded by those who had lost
 the use of body or mind and as he lay there he told me
that the wall by his bed opened almost every day
 and he saw what was really there and it was eternal life
as he recognized at once when he saw the gardens
 he had made and the green fields where he had been
a child and his mother was standing there then the wall would close
 and around him again were the last days of the world
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Old Issue

 Here is nothing new nor aught unproven," say the Trumpets,
 "Many feet have worn it and the road is old indeed.
"It is the King--the King we schooled aforetime! " (Trumpets in the marshes-in the eyot at Runnymede!) "Here is neither haste, nor hate, nor anger," peal the Trumpets, "Pardon for his penitence or pity for his fall.
"It is the King!"--inexorable Trumpets-- (Trumpets round the scaffold af the dawning by Whitehall!) .
"He hath veiled the Crown And hid the Scepter," warn (he Trum pets, "He hath changed the fashion of the lies that cloak his will.
"Hard die the Kings--ah hard--dooms hard!" declare the Trumpets, Trumpets at the gang-plank where the brawling troop-decks fill! Ancient and Unteachable, abide--abide the Trumpets! Once again the Trumpets, for the shuddering ground-swell brings Clamour over ocean of the harsh, pursuing Trumpets-- Trumpets of the Vanguard that have sworn no truce with Kings! All we have of freedom, all we use or know-- This our fathers bought for us long and long ago.
Ancient Right unnoticed as the breath we draw-- Leave to live by no man's leave, underneath the Law.
Lance and torch and tumult, steel and grey-goose wing Wrenched it, inch and ell and all, slowly from the king.
Till our fathers 'stablished,, after bloody years, How our King is one with us, first among his peers.
So they bought us freedom-not at little cost-- Wherefore must we watch the King, lest our gain be lost.
Over all things certain, this is sure indeed, Suffer not the old King: for we know the breed.
Give no ear to bondsmen bidding us endure.
Whining "He is weak and far"; crying "Time will cure.
" (Time himself is witness, till the battle joins, Deeper strikes the rottenness in the people's loins.
) Give no heed to bondsmen masking war with peace.
Suffer not the old King here or overseas.
They that beg us barter--wait his yielding mood-- Pledge the years we hold in trust-pawn our brother's blood-- Howso' great their clamour, whatsoe'er their claim, Suffer not the old King under any name! Here is naught unproven--here is naught to learn.
It is written what shall fall if the King return.
He shall mark our goings, question whence we came, Set his guards about us, as in Freedom's name.
He shall take a tribute, toll of all our ware; He shall change our gold for arms--arms we may not bear.
He shall break his Judges if they cross his word; He shall rule above the Law calling on the Lord.
He shall peep and mutter; and the night shall bring Watchers 'neath our window, lest we mock the King -- Hate and all division; hosts of hurrying spies; Money poured in secret, carrion breeding flies.
Strangers of his counsel, hirelings of his pay, These shall deal our Justice: sell-deny-delay.
We shall drink dishonour, we shall eat abuse For the Land we look to--for the Tongue we use.
We shall take our station, dirt beneath his feet, While his hired captains jeer us in the street.
Cruel in the shadow, crafty in the sun, Far beyond his borders shall his teachings run.
Sloven, sullen, savage, secret, uncontrolled, Laying on a new land evil of the old-- Long-forgotten bondage, dwarfing heart and brain-- All our fathers died to loose he shall bind again.
Here is nought at venture, random nor untrue Swings the wheel full-circle, brims the cup anew.
Here is naught unproven, here is nothing hid: Step for step and word for word--so the old Kings did! Step by step, and word by word: who is ruled may read.
Suffer not the old Kings: for we know the breed-- All the right they promise--all the wrong they bring.
Stewards of the Judgment, suffer not this King !
Written by Randall Jarrell | Create an image from this poem


 It was not dying: everybody died.
It was not dying: we had died before In the routine crashes-- and our fields Called up the papers, wrote home to our folks, And the rates rose, all because of us.
We died on the wrong page of the almanac, Scattered on mountains fifty miles away; Diving on haystacks, fighting with a friend, We blazed up on the lines we never saw.
We died like aunts or pets or foreigners.
(When we left high school nothing else had died For us to figure we had died like.
) In our new planes, with our new crews, we bombed The ranges by the desert or the shore, Fired at towed targets, waited for our scores-- And turned into replacements and worke up One morning, over England, operational.
It wasn't different: but if we died It was not an accident but a mistake (But an easy one for anyone to make.
) We read our mail and counted up our missions-- In bombers named for girls, we burned The cities we had learned about in school-- Till our lives wore out; our bodies lay among The people we had killed and never seen.
When we lasted long enough they gave us medals; When we died they said, "Our casualties were low.
" The said, "Here are the maps"; we burned the cities.
It was not dying --no, not ever dying; But the night I died I dreamed that I was dead, And the cities said to me: "Why are you dying? We are satisfied, if you are; but why did I die?"
Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket

 I am unjust, but I can strive for justice.
My life's unkind, but I can vote for kindness.
I, the unloving, say life should be lovely.
I, that am blind, cry out against my blindness.
Man is a curious brute — he pets his fancies — Fighting mankind, to win sweet luxury.
So he will be, tho' law be clear as crystal, Tho' all men plan to live in harmony.
Come, let us vote against our human nature, Crying to God in all the polling places To heal our everlasting sinfulness And make us sages with transfigured faces.

Written by Elinor Wylie | Create an image from this poem

Pretty Words

 Poets make pets of pretty, docile words:
I love smooth words, like gold-enamelled fish
Which circle slowly with a silken swish,
And tender ones, like downy-feathred birds:
Words shy and dappled, deep-eyed deer in herds,
Come to my hand, and playful if I wish,
Or purring softly at a silver dish,
Blue Persian kittens fed on cream and curds.
I love bright words, words up and singing early; Words that are luminous in the dark, and sing; Warm lazy words, white cattle under trees; I love words opalescent, cool, and pearly, Like midsummer moths, and honied words like bees, Gilded and sticky, with a little sting.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

59. Death and Dr. Hornbook

 SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn’d:
Ev’n ministers they hae been kenn’d,
 In holy rapture,
A rousing whid at times to vend,
 And nail’t wi’ Scripture.
But this that I am gaun to tell, Which lately on a night befell, Is just as true’s the Deil’s in hell Or Dublin city: That e’er he nearer comes oursel’ ’S a muckle pity.
The clachan yill had made me canty, I was na fou, but just had plenty; I stacher’d whiles, but yet too tent aye To free the ditches; An’ hillocks, stanes, an’ bushes, kenn’d eye Frae ghaists an’ witches.
The rising moon began to glowre The distant Cumnock hills out-owre: To count her horns, wi’ a my pow’r, I set mysel’; But whether she had three or four, I cou’d na tell.
I was come round about the hill, An’ todlin down on Willie’s mill, Setting my staff wi’ a’ my skill, To keep me sicker; Tho’ leeward whiles, against my will, I took a bicker.
I there wi’ Something did forgather, That pat me in an eerie swither; An’ awfu’ scythe, out-owre ae shouther, Clear-dangling, hang; A three-tae’d leister on the ither Lay, large an’ lang.
Its stature seem’d lang Scotch ells twa, The queerest shape that e’er I saw, For fient a wame it had ava; And then its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp an’ sma’ As cheeks o’ branks.
“Guid-een,” quo’ I; “Friend! hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin!” 1 I seem’d to make a kind o’ stan’ But naething spak; At length, says I, “Friend! whare ye gaun? Will ye go back?” It spak right howe,—“My name is Death, But be na fley’d.
”—Quoth I, “Guid faith, Ye’re maybe come to stap my breath; But tent me, billie; I red ye weel, tak care o’ skaith See, there’s a gully!” “Gudeman,” quo’ he, “put up your whittle, I’m no designed to try its mettle; But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear’d; I wad na mind it, no that spittle Out-owre my beard.
” “Weel, weel!” says I, “a bargain be’t; Come, gie’s your hand, an’ sae we’re gree’t; We’ll ease our shanks an tak a seat— Come, gie’s your news; This while ye hae been mony a gate, At mony a house.
” 2 “Ay, ay!” quo’ he, an’ shook his head, “It’s e’en a lang, lang time indeed Sin’ I began to nick the thread, An’ choke the breath: Folk maun do something for their bread, An’ sae maun Death.
“Sax thousand years are near-hand fled Sin’ I was to the butching bred, An’ mony a scheme in vain’s been laid, To stap or scar me; Till ane Hornbook’s 3 ta’en up the trade, And faith! he’ll waur me.
“Ye ken Hornbook i’ the clachan, Deil mak his king’s-hood in spleuchan! He’s grown sae weel acquaint wi’ Buchan 4 And ither chaps, The weans haud out their fingers laughin, An’ pouk my hips.
“See, here’s a scythe, an’ there’s dart, They hae pierc’d mony a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi’ his art An’ cursed skill, Has made them baith no worth a f—t, D—n’d haet they’ll kill! “’Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane, I threw a noble throw at ane; Wi’ less, I’m sure, I’ve hundreds slain; But deil-ma-care, It just play’d dirl on the bane, But did nae mair.
“Hornbook was by, wi’ ready art, An’ had sae fortify’d the part, That when I looked to my dart, It was sae blunt, Fient haet o’t wad hae pierc’d the heart Of a kail-runt.
“I drew my scythe in sic a fury, I near-hand cowpit wi’ my hurry, But yet the bauld Apothecary Withstood the shock; I might as weel hae tried a quarry O’ hard whin rock.
“Ev’n them he canna get attended, Altho’ their face he ne’er had kend it, Just —— in a kail-blade, an’ sent it, As soon’s he smells ’t, Baith their disease, and what will mend it, At once he tells ’t.
“And then, a’ doctor’s saws an’ whittles, Of a’ dimensions, shapes, an’ mettles, A’ kind o’ boxes, mugs, an’ bottles, He’s sure to hae; Their Latin names as fast he rattles As A B C.
“Calces o’ fossils, earths, and trees; True sal-marinum o’ the seas; The farina of beans an’ pease, He has’t in plenty; Aqua-fontis, what you please, He can content ye.
“Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus spiritus of capons; Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, Distill’d per se; Sal-alkali o’ midge-tail clippings, And mony mae.
” “Waes me for Johnie Ged’s-Hole 5 now,” Quoth I, “if that thae news be true! His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, Sae white and bonie, Nae doubt they’ll rive it wi’ the plew; They’ll ruin Johnie!” The creature grain’d an eldritch laugh, And says “Ye needna yoke the pleugh, Kirkyards will soon be till’d eneugh, Tak ye nae fear: They’ll be trench’d wi’ mony a sheugh, In twa-three year.
“Whare I kill’d ane, a fair strae-death, By loss o’ blood or want of breath This night I’m free to tak my aith, That Hornbook’s skill Has clad a score i’ their last claith, By drap an’ pill.
“An honest wabster to his trade, Whase wife’s twa nieves were scarce weel-bred Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, When it was sair; The wife slade cannie to her bed, But ne’er spak mair.
“A country laird had ta’en the batts, Or some curmurring in his guts, His only son for Hornbook sets, An’ pays him well: The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, Was laird himsel’.
“A bonie lass—ye kend her name— Some ill-brewn drink had hov’d her wame; She trusts hersel’, to hide the shame, In Hornbook’s care; Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, To hide it there.
“That’s just a swatch o’ Hornbook’s way; Thus goes he on from day to day, Thus does he poison, kill, an’ slay, An’s weel paid for’t; Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey, Wi’ his d—n’d dirt: “But, hark! I’ll tell you of a plot, Tho’ dinna ye be speakin o’t; I’ll nail the self-conceited sot, As dead’s a herrin; Neist time we meet, I’ll wad a groat, He gets his fairin!” But just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell Some wee short hour ayont the twal’, Which rais’d us baith: I took the way that pleas’d mysel’, And sae did Death.
Note 1.
This recontre happened in seed-time, 1785.
[back] Note 2.
An epidemical fever was then raging in that country.
[back] Note 3.
This gentleman, Dr.
Hornbook, is professionally a brother of the sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary, surgeon, and physician.
[back] Note 4.
Burchan’s Domestic Medicine.
[back] Note 5.
The grave-digger.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem


 Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool,
I walks in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule,
With seventy gunners be'ind me, an' never a beggar forgets
It's only the pick of the Army that handles the dear little pets -- 'Tss! 'Tss!
 For you all love the screw-guns -- the screw-guns they all love you!
 So when we call round with a few guns, o' course you will know what to do -- hoo! hoo!
 Jest send in your Chief an' surrender -- it's worse if you fights or you runs:
 You can go where you please, you can skid up the trees, but you don't get away from the guns!

They sends us along where the roads are, but mostly we goes where they ain't:
We'd climb up the side of a sign-board an' trust to the stick o' the paint:
We've chivied the Naga an' Looshai, we've give the Afreedeeman fits,
For we fancies ourselves at two thousand, we guns that are built in two bits -- 'Tss! 'Tss!
 For you all love the screw-guns .
If a man doesn't work, why, we drills 'im an' teaches 'im 'ow to behave; If a beggar can't march, why, we kills 'im an' rattles 'im into 'is grave.
You've got to stand up to our business an' spring without snatchin' or fuss.
D'you say that you sweat with the field-guns? By God, you must lather with us -- 'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns .
The eagles is screamin' around us, the river's a-moanin' below, We're clear o' the pine an' the oak-scrub, we're out on the rocks an' the snow, An' the wind is as thin as a whip-lash what carries away to the plains The rattle an' stamp o' the lead-mules -- the jinglety-jink o' the chains -- 'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns .
There's a wheel on the Horns o' the Mornin', an' a wheel on the edge o' the Pit, An' a drop into nothin' beneath you as straight as a beggar can spit: With the sweat runnin' out o' your shirt-sleeves, an' the sun off the snow in your face, An' 'arf o' the men on the drag-ropes to hold the old gun in 'er place -- 'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns .
Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool, I climbs in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule.
The monkey can say what our road was -- the wild-goat 'e knows where we passed.
Stand easy, you long-eared old darlin's! Out drag-ropes! With shrapnel! Hold fast -- 'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns -- the screw-guns they all love you! So when we take tea with a few guns, o' course you will know what to do -- hoo! hoo! Jest send in your Chief an' surrender -- it's worse if you fights or you runs: You may hide in the caves, they'll be only your graves, but you can't get away from the guns!
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem


 There's a soldier that's been doing of his share 
In the fighting up and down and round about.
He's continually marching here and there, And he's fighting, morning in and morning out.
The Boer, you see, he generally runs; But sometimes, when he hides behind a rock, And we can't make no impression with the guns, Oh, then you'll hear the order, "Send for Jock!" Yes -- it's Jock -- Scotch Jock.
He's the fellow that can give or take a knock.
For he's hairy and he's hard, And his feet are by the yard, And his face is like the face what's on a clock.
But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry -- "Send for Jock!" The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance; Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead.
The Mounted Foot are hampered in advance By holding of their helmets on their head.
And, when the Boer has dug himself a trench And placed his Maxim gun behind a rock, These mounted heroes -- pets of Johnny French -- They have to sit and wait and send for Jock! Yes, the Jocks -- Scotch Jocks, With their music that'd terrify an ox! When the bullets kick the sand You can hear the sharp command -- "Forty-Second! At the double! Charge the rocks!" And the charge is like a hood When they warmed the Highland blood Of the Jocks!
Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

The Gamblers

 Life's a jail where men have common lot.
Gaunt the one who has, and who has not.
All our treasures neither less nor more, Bread alone comes thro' the guarded door.
Cards are foolish in this jail, I think, Yet they play for shoes, for drabs and drink.
She, my lawless, sharp-tongued gypsy maid Will not scorn with me this jail-bird trade, Pets some fox-eyed boy who turns the trick, Tho' he win a button or a stick, Pencil, garter, ribbon, corset-lace — His the glory, mine is the disgrace.
Sweet, I'd rather lose than win despite Love of hearty words and maids polite.
"Love's a gamble," say you.
I deny.
Love's a gift.
I love you till I die.
Gamblers fight like rats.
I will not play.
All I ever had I gave away.
All I ever coveted was peace Such as comes if we have jail release.
Cards are puzzles, tho' the prize be gold, Cards help not the bread that tastes of mold, Cards dye not your hair to black more deep, Cards make not the children cease to weep.
Scorned, I sit with half shut eyes all day — Watch the cataract of sunshine play Down the wall, and dance upon the floor.
Sun, come down and break the dungeon door! Of such gold dust could I make a key, — Turn the bolt — how soon we would be free! Over borders we would hurry on Safe by sunrise farms, and springs of dawn, Wash our wounds and jail stains there at last, Azure rivers flowing, flowing past.
God has great estates just past the line, Green farms for all, and meat and corn and wine.