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Poems about Dogs

Poems about Dogs This Dog by Rabindranath Tagore loose translation by Michael R. Burch Each morning this dog, who has become quite attached to me, sits silently at my feet until, gently caressing his head, I acknowledge his company. This simple recognition gives my companion such joy he shudders with sheer delight. Among all languageless creatures he alone has seen through man entire— has seen beyond what is good or bad in him to such a depth he can lay down his life for the sake of love alone. Now it is he who shows me the way through this unfathomable world throbbing with life. When I see his deep devotion, his offer of his whole being, I fail to comprehend... How, through sheer instinct, has he discovered whatever it is that he knows? With his anxious piteous looks he cannot communicate his understanding and yet somehow has succeeded in conveying to me out of the entire creation the true loveworthiness of man. My Dog Died by Pablo Neruda loose translation by Michael R. Burch My dog died; so I buried him in the backyard garden next to some rusted machine. One day I'll rejoin him, over there, but for now he's gone with his shaggy mane, his crude manners and his cold, clammy nose, while I, the atheist who never believed in any heaven for human beings, now believe in a paradise I'm unfit to enter. Yes, I somehow now believe in a heavenly kennel where my dog awaits my arrival wagging his tail in furious friendship! But I'll not indulge in sadness here: why bewail a companion who was never servile? His friendship was more like that of a porcupine preserving its prickly autonomy. His was the friendship of a distant star with no more intimacy than true friendship called for and no false demonstrations: he never clambered over me coating my clothes with mange; he never assaulted my knee like dogs obsessed with sex. But he used to gaze up at me, giving me the attention my ego demanded, while helping this vainglorious man understand my concerns were none of his. Aye, and with those bright eyes so much purer than mine, he'd gaze up at me contentedly; it was a look he reserved for me alone all his entire sweet, gentle life, always merely there, never troubling me, never demanding anything. Aye, and often I envied his energetic tail as we strode the shores of Isla Negra together, in winter weather, wild birds swarming skyward as my golden-maned friend leapt about, supercharged by the sea's electric surges, sniffing away wildly, his tail held erect, his face suffused with the salt spray. Joy! Joy! Joy! As only dogs experience joy in the shameless exuberance of their guiltless spirits. Thus there are no sad good-byes for my dog who died; we never once lied to each other. He died, he's gone, I buried him; that's all there is to it. Dog Daze by Michael R. Burch Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler; he really is one of the best. Sometimes in bed he snuggles my head, though he mostly just plops on my chest. I think Oz was made to love from the first ray of light to the dark, but his great love for me is exceeded (oh gee!) by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark. Epitaph for a Lambkin by Michael R. Burch Now that Melody has been laid to rest Angels will know what it means to be blessed. Amen Excoriation of a Treat Slave by Michael R. Burch We practice our fierce Yapping, for when the treat slaves come they’ll grant Us our desire. (They really are that dumb!) They’ll never catch Us napping— our Ears pricked, keen and sharp. When they step into Our parlor, We’ll leap awake, and Bark. But one is rather doltish; he doesn’t understand the meaning of Our savage, imperial, wild Command. The others are quite docile and bow to Us on cue. We think the dull one wrote a poem about some Dog from Kew who never grasped Our secret, whose mind stayed think, and dark. It’s a question of obedience conveyed by a Lordly Bark. But as for playing fetch, well, that’s another matter. We think the dullard’s also as mad as any hatter and doesn’t grasp his duty to fling Us slobbery balls which We’d return to him, mincingly, here in Our royal halls. Wickett by Michael R. Burch Wickett, sweet Ewok, Wickett, old Soul, Wicket, brave Warrior, though no longer whole... You gave us your All. You gave us your Best. You taught us to Love, like all of the Blessed Angels and Saints of good human stock. You barked the Great Bark. You walked the True Walk. Now Wickett, dear Child and incorrigible Duffer, we commend you to God that you no longer suffer. May you dash through the Stars like the Wickett of old and never feel hunger and never know cold and be reunited with all our Good Tribe — with Harmony and Paw-Paw and Mary beside. Go now with our Love as the great Choir sings that Wickett, our Wickett, has at last earned his Wings! The Resting Place by Michael R. Burch for Harmony Sleep, then, child; you were dearly loved. Sleep, and remember her well-loved face, strong arms that would lift you, soft hands that would move with love’s infinite grace, such tender caresses! Bed Head by Michael R. Burch When Beth and her babies prepare for “good night” sweet rituals of kisses and cuddles commence. First Wickett, the eldest, whose mane has grown light with the wisdom of age and advanced senescence is tucked in, “just right.” Then Mary, the mother, is smothered with kisses in a way that befits such an angelic missus. Then Melody, lambkin, and sweet, soulful Oz and cute, clever Xander all clap their clipped paws and follow sweet Beth to their high nightly roost where they’ll sleep on her head (or, perhaps, her caboose). Xander the Joyous by Michael R. Burch Xander the Joyous came here to prove: Love can be playful! Love can have moves! Now Xander the Joyous bounds around heaven, waiting for him mommies, one of the SEVEN ? the Seven Great Saints of the Great Canine Race who evangelize Love throughout all Time and Space. Keywords/Tags: dog, dogs, friend, friends, friendship, love, loyalty

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020

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