Let me take you on an adventure,
Through insanities doors, to the land of dementia.
I guarantee you will be spellbound,
While holding on for dear life, riding hell’s bloodhound.
To seek the excruciating pleasures of pain
Where your piercing screams will be my gain
Let me take you through the narrow passage ways,
With the wall embedded razor blades
If you must know, there is only one way in
If you try to go back the blades will rip you skin
And as the passage narrows, believe me the pain will be a real scream.
Why not try the bondage section
This I consider my favourite selection
Watch them sloooooooowly slice chunks from your flesh
And eat them while they are pulsating and fresh.
And when you cry out expressing your pleasure in pain
They’ll gouge your eyes out and eat them, the crunchy sound is appealingly insane.
So if you are interested just sign your name on this scroll
The price is not much just the price of your soul
Copyright © Sidney Hall Mad Poet | Year Posted 2011
I met a man on the internet, but he’s not for me to date
He seems ok because he has a dog he loves, so I think I am too late.
The dog was given a name of notable English fame
He used to live on 221b Baker Street and Sherlock was his name.
Poor Sherlock has sore eyes, so they sent him to Dr Bart
He had to have a lid lift to keep the lids apart.
Poor Sherlock is now home and feeling very sad
A cone around his head, he wants to sleep with mum and dad.
Sherlock is a bloodhound, not the smallest dog
He sleeps with mum and dad and daddy writes his blog.
Dad has found a use for Sherlock with his cone around his head
He places him in the garden for free satellite instead.
Get Well Soon Sherlock
Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl | Year Posted 2011
Death sniffs around
until it finds the heel
works its way to the throat..
Leaves a wet spot on happiness and hope.
Two big black snotty holes,
(one from wich you came,
the other where everyone eventually goes.
Death, like a bloodhound nose.
Copyright © Anthony Slausen | Year Posted 2014
My wife found an Indonesian drum that she couldn’t live without,
It was a ceremonial one used to play for all who remain devout.
It had brightly colored beads and paint to decorate its side,
And it grabbed her by the imagination and would not be denied.
“Are you sure that we can do this, are you sure that it won’t unravel?
This thing isn’t exactly portable and it isn’t built for extensive travel.”
“We’ll make it work,” is all she said and then she handed it to me,
It was clear that from that moment on it was my responsibility.
This drum and I traveled together throughout the great Northwest,
And the both of us stayed together wherever I became a guest.
I carried it through the airport one day and then back again the next,
This is exactly why air travel always leaves me feeling so perplexed.
I transported it through the concourse then down to baggage claim,
Making sure to keep the crowds at bay, drum safety was my aim.
Carefully I loaded the Indonesian drum into the backseat of my truck,
Only one more hour on the road and then we’d be home with any luck.
When we pulled into our drive it was the first thing that I took inside,
Bringing it from Washington State and then delivering it with pride.
I set it on the kitchen counter then I went out for the rest of our bags,
Our Bloodhound was so happy to see us both and to sniff at all the tags.
The time change had effected us so we thought that before we took a seat,
We had better go out and find ourselves something good to eat.
So we patted the dog on his head and said that we’d be right back,
But as soon as we’d left again he decided it was time for a little snack.
We thought that Chinese sounded good so we went and got us some,
But Sherlock was left at home alone with a taste for Indonesian drum.
When we got back home the drum lay there with one side chewed away,
And the expression on Sherlock’s face said that he was ready to play.
So now we have an Indonesian drum with one side turned out of sight,
It has the teeth marks turned to the wall so you can’t see the Sherlock bite.
If you should ask my wife about her drum I can grantee a fluster,
I can also tell you that for at least one day Sherlock lost his luster.
But what is the meaning of a souvenir, is it only for decoration?
Or is meant for something else? Is it more of a declaration?
Because if it is meant to bring out conversation and try to evoke a story,
Then this is exactly what our drum does now that it’s in our inventory.
Copyright © Tony Lane | Year Posted 2012
were you just a pretend friend
a beginning leading to a dead end
the polite one
not wanting to offend
I've gone over and over
the things in my mind
hoping I might find
Some clues in conversations
When we were more than strangers
Sniffing at moments spent
a bloodhound on the scent
wondering what everything meant
As I dig up
what I thought were good times
trying to glean the subtle messages
that must be buried between your lines
Is it my failing or yours
I have no answers
to the whys what's or wherefores
Along your hallway
all I can find are locked doors
I'm trapped in knock knock prison
no one to answer "who's there?"
just a silent spectre who ignores
going about saving the world
and other more important chores
So I must let go
It feels like sorrow
looking back doesn't always fix tomorrow
I'm content knowing
I was a true friend
My feelings didn't evaporate break or bend
What I gave wasn't just a pretence on lend
The tide has turned it can't be stemmed
Lost to currents
there will be no amends
I guess sadly
I must accept
we aren't meant to be friends!
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2016
I awoke just as the ship exited the black hole
My mouth was dry, and the yearning for my love ones revisited my sole
Something moved, I saw it in my peripheral view
It was as big as a football, smooth, but my vision was still askew
I think it was the movement of my eyes that caused it to silently dart and hover over me
It was made of the same substance, like the spaceships we did see
Then a long needle came out of it and it slowly penetrated the iris of my eye
My mouth seemed to open as if to scream but nothing can out just a pain and a feeling I was going to die
I felt the pain and heard a cracking sound as it passed through the retina, then... nothing, no pain
I think it may have entered into my brain
Some how it accessed my memories and began deleting the feeling attached to my past life
I fought and managed to blocked its intrusion into my thoughts of sons and my wife
All the people I met in my life, all gone
Except three, and no matter how much it scrambled my brain searching, it found “Just a closer walk with thee” song
After what seemed forever it removed its lance from my eye
The sense of not having pain for those people was a relief but why?
I felt the wanting again for those three it could not find
Of my sons and my wife I had so cunningly concealed in my mind
I felt myself been rotated, facing down, looking through the ship at a huge Earth like world
Then everything blurred and swirled.
I woke up laying on soft lawn
The sun was rising, the beginning of a new dawn
There were thousands of people asleep on the ground
I ran checking each one for those I loved, like a bloodhound
There they were, we all made it, and were back together again
I hugged them and cried with no heart ache or pain
I looked up from this new earth and thanked God in the new heavens above
Then it dawned on me...
Each person I looked at I felt a strong sense of brotherly and sisterly love
Those Creatures were not invading our planet for all its worth
They were there to take us and give us a new beginning in a new Earth.
The destruction of man was inevitable and over due
And they were watching and waiting and some how they knew...
Copyright © Sidney Hall Mad Poet | Year Posted 2011
Death lives, tangled in the forest of darkness.
The black bloodhound stalks
the beasts in your dreaming.
The sun will be sucked from your sight
to blind you to the truth.
When evening retreats to darkness
beware of the ghosts of fear.
Sleep in the wilderness of terror
that haunts your forsaken ground.
The coming of morning’s spears
will stab your eyes with golden light.
The high sun of noon will fill your dark soul with life.
Copyright © Peter Fifield | Year Posted 2014
Is wedlock the true route to all conjugal bliss,
Nuptial excitement that starts with a kiss?
Or is it the halter after the altar,
That threatens to fetter and make life not better?
The fondling and cuddling and nights of long snuggling,
Changed overnight to ones, of alcohol guzzling.
A churlishness now in the partner is found,
From a beloved spouse to an obnoxious bloodhound.
She a fabulous cook,now sports a grumpy old look;
He's turned from intimacy to reading a book.
Love and coquetry has come to an ebb,
Finding affections in a new kind of web.
Monogamy turns to Polygamy slowly,
And perhaps doing things even more lowly?
From celibacy to intimacy and words we can't shout,
Now their connubial contact lies down and out.
They denounce and renounce and have their say,
To begin a life in a new kind of way.
Leaving it all to their legal belief,
Divorce now brings in,some kind of relief.
But where it will lead is anybodys guess,
For the ball is now rolling and lifes in a mess.
(Artist and Poet)
Copyright © Prince Freakasso | Year Posted 2009
Not a day goes by I don't think of you
you have permeated my fortress and walk freely in all its rooms
(examining it's furnishings)
how did I allow you entry without the
usual search scan and seizure ?
I'ts like a foreign substance and all
my antibodies are seeking to eradicate
your presence (anti-christs)
My mind and heart find your entrance exhilarating
like ecstasy ( a neurologically happy drug ,
which by the way I've never imbibed in but the
other one I'm only slightly familiar with)
My body wants to throw you off like some
intruder to the death it lies in bondaged slavery of.
I finally understand the WAR.
I want to isolate this substance and imbibe at will
or as often as I desire.
There's no corner on the market for this substance,
you can only get this by freely accepting it as your
own life blood , the loss of which kills us , but it's
flow is what keeps us alive.
I desire to lay in it's bliss
like basking in a warm sun's rays
unfortunately I burn easily , so I usually limit
my exposure to substances I feel may do me damage.
But OH , HOW GOOD this FEELS , as though I should
have been born to this naturally .
But NO , love is not the natural substance of the world
in it's battlements and fortresses erected by men and
so thoroughly indoctrinated into his very being .
I just want to bottle this and share it with everyone.
But everyone "knows" every really really great substance
wears off and kicking the habit is way way painful .
But I want to suck this up and live in it , to have the heat
of it never dim , until it is an all consuming fire that lights
everything in it's sphere . Yes LOVE JUNKIE , child of God
a shameless addict to truth about the paths people choose
to "lose" themselves on .
I've been like a bloodhound sniffing out every trail looking
for this substance the one that transforms you into fully
brilliantly vibrantly alive , and to roll in it until every fiber
of my being is saturated with it's fragrance.
The factory that manufactures this is built within ,
and I want unlimited access , but my own body has
set up perimeters and walls to fence off my full access
to my own God given life source ..(the curse)
You can only have full admittance when you can use
it's power to give life and not destroy others , to be
able to manage it usefully for the benefit of all.
But I'm a natural indulgent in what feels good ,
substances always on the intake , seeking to have a
balm that shields me from being abused or seeing
my own abuses of Life. My ability to utilize a substance
so powerful is limited by my training , my will and my
exposure to everything that seeks to sell it on the open
market like a thrill seeker , or cheap whore who can be
had for a bouquet and dinner , which is quickly consumed
in one night and disappears tomorrow . Nothing that the
world offers can even slightly imitate the magnitude and
power residing where Love dwells . When you've been
allowed to taste its manna , the desire for a plateful
is now not even enough but the drive to constant partaking
of its presence is now an all consuming fire and I am
driven to sign up for the lifetime plan . For better is a life
that feeds on love daily , than to choke and suffocate on
the bowls of hatred served up daily in the worlds menu.
I have relished the view from opposite sides of the room ,
when you're ready for the permanent plan you will
have to crossover to the other side . I know you read me,
like the good book , and when you understand you can
hide it from the world , but not from me , or yourself .
We want full access to the wellspring of life and love , I'm
willing to share the source , but it's a limited partnership (MLP)
on a lifetime plan , but it's riches are infinite and can only
be provided by the source. If you're willing to crossover ,
I'll allow you re-entry and full access ... Love
COPYRIGHT © 2013 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Copyright © Poetryof Providence | Year Posted 2014
Two boys disappeared without a trace
from their parents and their homeplace.
It seems nobody had seen the face
of either boy,such a sad case.
In April of eighteen fifty six
these little boys were in the sticks
while supper their mama did fix.
She first thought they were up to tricks.
Over and over she called each name.
Figured that they were playing a game.
She told her husband Samuel the same
when home from his hunting trip he came.
They were nowhere to be found.
Neighbors came from all around.
Their shouts made such an eerie sound.
They even searched with a bloodhound.
For ten long days the search went on.
But these two little boys were gone.
Then on the parents it started to dawn
that they were an unwilling pawn.
In a horrid guessing game of a kind
some of the people were of a mind
they'd killed their boys in a fury blind.
But they were never thus inclined.
During this speculation it seems
their neighbor Jacob was having dreams.
Nightmares people construed as schemes
of the little boys lying dead by streams.
Deep in the Pennsylvania wood
they searched this same area good.
Found the dead boys near where they stood
and knew that they'd done all they could.
Now you might not believe it's so
that they would find the children though
it's proven they'd searched both high and low.
Was it the dreams?We'll never know.
This has been been considered folklore (although based on fact)
near my hometown in Pennsylvania
Copyright © Deb Wilson | Year Posted 2011
Take a moment out of your day and just look around you
The trees and how they sway so big and old yet some new
And how the stream winds past and wistfully flowing away
And the different shadows cast as upon the grass they lay
The birds that are in the sky each heading to a certain place
Some low, yet some so high but all are a show of His Grace
As the deer so swiftly turn about, but the tortoise doesn't fear
I just can't see how you can doubt something that is so clear
The fox isn't around as they all keep an eye out for the bear
As there goes the bloodhound and why the fox isn't in his lair
The grasshoppers jumping so high over a giant village of ants
Just the speed of that fly until upon a web six legs he plants
And His Glory's only just begun in setting us in the only place
His moon His stars and His sun surely you can see His Face
Yet so many still remain blind and just simply refuse to see
But it's in His Creation I find just a glimpse of His great Glory
Thine habitation is in the midst of deceit;
through deceit they refuse to know me,
saith the LORD.
Copyright © Vincent Flannery | Year Posted 2015
Do you remember being adorable when you were young and cute,
No one calls you adorable anymore because now you’re a big galoot.
Your mouth has drool your nose is wet your ears are covered in food,
Your wagging tail sends things aloft and your sniffing is sometimes rude.
You think that the couch belongs to you and you don’t want to share,
But when I’m in the kitchen for a snack, at me you’ll intently stare.
I don’t get to take a nap anymore unless your nose is in my face.
And your snoring is strong enough that you just inhaled my pillow case.
But even if I’ve had one of those days filled with error and trial,
I know for a fact that when I get home I’ll get a Bloodhound smile.
Copyright © Tony Lane | Year Posted 2011
The humans were gone from this island for twenty million years
Its twenty million years in to the future and those islands are new frontiers
The mother giant lemur her children rears
One of lone lemurs nearby cleans his ears
He jumps on large baobab tree
But this baobab is not the largest tree
He will see
There is one right next to it and related but ninety meter tall beauty
He climbs up and looks at the appearing visage of majestic moon
It will be lemurs’ time to go to sleep pretty soon
The silver blue light of the full moon
Illuminates the deep lagoon
This is the time when like a shadow from the dark
Giant relative of fossa looks to make his mark
In his powerful like moving train but very elastic gate he makes an arc
He is relative of mongoose looks like a cat dog cross but does not bark
Instead he howls like a demon at the night
To fear this animal for any creature would be right
The moon is shinning bright
But even in total darkness fossa has incredible sight
But unlike human age fossa this one is over three meters long not counting the tail
And it looks like it came straight from hell when its teeth it will unveil
His claws also the prey can impale
And prowling this primeval looking forest is this sleek and very dangerous male
He sees a lemur in moons light
He stalks him during part of the night
With fear hundred and sixty kilogram lemur’s face turns white
When giant fossa begins to bite
The fight goes from tree tops to the ground
But other predators hear the sound
The giant crock does not waste time to sit around
He wants fossas’ prey that’s sent he smells like a bloodhound
For a moment fossa is dumfound
Fighting off another predator by fossa gives lemur time to escape without a sound
The crock tries to grab the fossa but fossa jumps back just to rebound
By the demonic agility of fossa the crock is spellbound
Fossa grabs the crock and with enormous strength of the jaw she bites through crocks’ head
Just like that the crock falls dead
The ground turns blood red
And primordial predator continues ahead
Once again he looks to the mysterious moon
Howling to it with melancholic and dreadful tune
He will find another prey soon
Chasing after it with a force of typhoon
Copyright © Patrycjusz Kopec | Year Posted 2013
Me pay cheque is wounded, they gave it the axe
And these vampire politicians have drained 20% tax
Credit cards are all crunched to the max
Bailiffs keep knocking, won’t cut me some slack
Dam credit crunch has hit me hard
We scraping dad’s toes to use as lard
Granddad’s pluckin and a pickin’ the banjo with his teeth
Humming “I’m sure there’s some chicken in between these strings or underneath
To travel the bus is £1.20; it used to be a pound
There no such thing as free sex around
I ask the misses give me some; even she bleeds me pocket like a bloodhound
What’s wrong with the world it’s turning into a credit crunch breeding ground?
I whispering don’t make waves and they water skiing trying to make me drown
This is a joke
I’m sure all of this of just a hoax
Well I have to go it time to munch
We having mama’s toe nails for lunch
Copyright © Sidney Hall Mad Poet | Year Posted 2011
You hate your job,
but you're good at what you do
A paid shadow
who follows the trail of indiscretions
that other people lead you to
You're a gumshoe,
sticking to the assignment given you
Like a bloodhound on the scent,
another philanderer is going down
once you catch them in the act
Innuendo and suspicion becomes legal fact
And there's a bonus in it for you,
if you can get the aggrieved party the yacht too
Even still, you hate your job
It cost you a marriage,
and a normal family life
Walking the grimy streets,
back alleys and gutters
The underbelly of society is rife
with corruption and debauchery
This is what your private eyes see ...
so much dirt tracked back home to your family
It made your ex-wife not trust you as much as she should,
made your children lives sad from the taunts in the neighborhood
That's why you hate your job,
but you're so good at what you do
Everybody in high society wants to hire you,
opening up their blank checkbooks ...
with a couple more zeroes added too
You're a private eye,
living the Sam Spade life
Ain't nothing wrong with that,
being the good guy wearing the black hat
Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017
© 2011 (by Jim Sularz)
(The true story of Frank Eaton – AKA “Pistol Pete”)
At the headwaters of the Red Woods Branch,
near a gentle slope on a dusty trail.
On an iron gate, at the Twin Mounds cemetery,
a bouquet of dry sunflowers flail.
In a grave, still stirs, is a father’s heart,
that beats now to avenge his death.
Six times, murdered by cold blooded killers,
six men branded for a son’s revenge ….
Rye whiskey and cards, they rode fast and hard,
the four Campsey’s and the Ferber’s.
With malicious intent, they were all Hell bent
to commit a loving father’s murder.
When the gunsmoke had cleared, all their faces were seared,
in the bleeding soul of a grieving son.
Ain’t nothin’ worse, than a father’s curse,
to fill a boy with brimstone and Hell fire!
Young Eaton yearned and soon would learn,
the fine art of slinging lead.
Why, he could shoot the wings off a buzzin’ horsefly,
from twenty paces, lickety split!
Slightly crossed eyed, Frank had a hog-killin’ time,
at a Fort Gibson shootin’ match.
Upside down, straight-on and leanin’ backwards,
he out-shot every expert in pistol class.
By day’s end when the scores were tallied,
Frank meant to prove at that shootin’ meet.
That he would claim the name of the truest gun,
and they dubbed him - “Pistol Pete.”
In fact, Pistol Pete was half boy, half bloodhound,
a wild-cat with two 45’s strapped on.
In District Cooweescoowee - bar none,
he was the fastest shot around!
Pistol Pete knew his dreaded duty had now arrived,
to hunt down those who killed his Pa.
He vowed those varmints would never see,
a necktie party, a court of law.
Where a man is known by his buckskin totem,
in hallowed Cherokee land.
There, frontier justice and Native pride,
help deal a swift and heavy hand.
Pete was quick on the trail of a killer,
just south of Webber’s Falls.
Shannon Champsey was a cattle rustler,
a horse thief, and a scurvy dog!
Pete ponied up and held his shot,
to let Shannon first make a move.
The next time he’d blinked, would be Shannon’s last,
to Hell he’d make his home.
With snarlin’ teeth and spittin’ venom,
Pete struck fast like a rattlesnake.
Two bullets to the chest in rapid fire,
was Shannon’s last breath he’d partake.
Pete galloped away, hot on the next trail,
left Shannon there for a vulture's meal.
Notched his guns, below a moon chasing sun,
and one wound to his soul congealed.
(Continued on Part 2)
Copyright © Jim Sularz | Year Posted 2016
I am sitting in a silent storm
Your love is a mirror reflection of gold
Each day i wait for your retaliation
But you know me so well
Calculated my every move
You keep me at bay when you know that
passion is at the door
Your love makes me rise
like dough bread in an oven
Taste so good
But too much of your love is poisonous
I am hungry now Im like a bloodhound
eating hearts for dinner
Because i cannot have yours
i will have to act like the Rozvi and destroy
Everything in sight
You mean so much to me
Yet in my mind i kill you a thousand times
but in my heart you live on
Your love is as powerful as death
I feel like i have died everyday waiting for you
My oasis in the desert
My light in the dark
Thee one my hearts desire
Copyright © Rachael Chitondwe | Year Posted 2016
I have a dog that lives with me his name is Sherlock Bones,
He loves to sing his songs to me in beautiful Bloodhound tones.
He sings a song of deep regret when he does something wrong,
It’s as mournful as he can get but it never lasts too long.
He’s too happy to let a bad feeling last when there’s time to play,
That’s when he sings his joyous song; it’s his favorite time of day.
If I should ask him if he would like to walk the path at the park,
He sings a whole aria of squeaks and hums then crescendos with a bark.
And when he curls up on the couch to sleep he has talent yet to lend,
Because even when he’s sound asleep he’s still musical at each end.
My dog’s got the music in him and it keeps trying to get out,
So I’ve learned to stop feeding him with beans with sour kraut.
Sometimes I will join him and we will howl up at the silvery moon,
He’s happy that I’m with him and never complains if I’m out of tune.
Oh, Sherlock Bones is a musical dog and he sings with all his might,
And I love to hear him sing his songs just not in the middle of the night.
Copyright © Tony Lane | Year Posted 2011
It reeked upon entering
Like nothing i'd smelled before
thinking about it now
renders my Bloodhound to a Washout.
There we stood, waiting on what?
Nurses in casual clothing pranced by the one-couch room
I was staring at my Pop-Pop's white and blue's
The one with the emblem on the Back and Lapel.
A man appeared, being escorted by one of these "Nurses"
When my eyes fixated on him
He looked like a man with a rough face, weathered.
But actions began speaking louder than my observations.
Such an immature grown-up, I thought,
Playing with toys too young for even me.
Mother and grandparents treated him
as an infant, though no cradle could hold.
They sat and spoke of Michaelangelo
While he and I were on similar wavelengths
Which I liked.
They spoke of him before and how
"Special" he was, and being a
child, I had no idea of the "special" they spoke of.
"Special" to them meant different, beyond the realm of the accustomary norm.
I recall his strength to have been alien, if not super-human.
Shook hands like S.I.D.S.
Needed a breaking stick just to loosen this mans grip
He had no idea what he was or supposed to be. He was He.
I was both scared and intrigued
but too young for such dialect
I never saw the man again
But i remember our eyes met.
And they had a dialogue of their own
and at the end of our visual conversation
I knew he was of my blood.
Copyright © Peter Calvanese Jr. | Year Posted 2009
You lost your home, you can stay with me
It depends on your mood, sometimes you're a she and sometimes a he
Don't leave your unmentionables lying around
My sense of smell is like that of a Bloodhound
I must address this one thing
I noticed in my bath tub you left a dirt ring
Judging by the odor, I believe a dumpster was your last home
Here, take one of mine, it's obvious you don't own a comb
I will have to shorten your stay due to the smell
You say you bathe once every 10 days, I can surely tell
I thought when you finally bathed, there would be birds that sing
It all went south, when you left that filthy bath tub ring
Get out and don't come back, the odor is too much
You are not the one I would not call in the clutch
You are the definition of what trailer trash is
I gave you blunt hints, this is no quiz
You have nothing I want, there is no bling bling
The tub now has to be replaced, I can't remove the dirt ring
Copyright © Eugene Carmen | Year Posted 2008
I am an Urban Fox
In human form , I know
I trot along my daily trail
And wag my bushy tail
With my disguise it’s no
Surprise, that people
Greet me all but one
As finest company
And really fun.
But; a ruddy Red Coat
On a horse, with brassy
Bugle and hard hat
Of course, does follow
Me around; with malign
Intent on ending my
Amazing day, in the
Jaws of his bloodhound.
I like to hide in coffee shops
He cannot see me there
With my disguise and human
Form, they let me in
But bloodhounds stay outside!
Ruddy Red Coat, poised
Perplexed, his Bugle
Ain’t much use, in
Streets as filled
With traffics din
The hunt that won’t begin
Has made him vexed!
Then later on when
Red Coats gone, I
Return to my natural
Tune. I trot along
And sing my song
To the cities night time
Copyright © David Byrne | Year Posted 2010
Darkness is the only light
I seek, silence the only sound
I take heed, such is my plight
Scent of death come the bloodhound,
Take me down into the depths of
The cloudy skies drifting above,
I've spun out of your orbit
And I'm off into the nearest sun,
The last bullet I must have bit
Hollowed out the chambers of your gun,
Burning in and burning up
The oxygen in my lungs
I got too close
And singed my nose,
Ladder from the moon
I've broken all the rungs
No way back
Unless I tack on another tack,
Runneth over my cup
Spilled from thy lips and soon,
The stars will fall
Drops of light into my dark, call
Off the ravens and bring
The vultures that sing,
Over my melancholy
No crime or folly,
I've still got a smile
Because an alligator ate a crocodile...
Copyright © Nestor David Armas | Year Posted 2012
My Bloodhound is a dreamer and he thinks that he can fly,
And his ears are plenty big enough to give it an honest try.
When we are out walking and we turn into a headwind breeze,
He sniffs the air and looks into the sky well above the trees.
Then he will fall back a bit to give the leash some extra slack,
When he lunges into the air it's altitude not attitude he'll lack.
A willing heart is what he has, he knows he's meant to sail,
With ears for wings his feet for gear and a rudder that's a tail.
And he might be disappointed when his four feet hit the ground,
But he will only show a smiling face when he turns around.
Because he sees himself in the clouds and one more thing I know,
He takes delight in watching me dangle from the leash below.
Copyright © Tony Lane | Year Posted 2011
It was a good spot.
A spot near the bus stop.
A spot where on many days the air was filled with aroma
of fruits and vegetables from tables set up in front of markets.
A spot where a poignant odor from the fish market stretched the nostrils.
There on that corner, that favorable spot of hers where she spread
And on that blanket, her well-crafted beads and basket do
There on that corner, that favorable spot where one would have
no need to have the nose of a bloodhound to pick up the different
smells of people.
There on that corner, that favorable spot she smelled mineral odors
from shipyard workers, whose boots and uniforms were stain by oil.
There on that corner, that favorable spot there were strong musty,
and repugnant smells from dislocated drifters.
There on that corner, that favorable spot, were dusty smells of
the sawdust and paper mill.
It was a good spot, a most favorable spot where her body and soul
ravished the distinctive odors, and the many loud and
indistinguishable voices that were subaqueous to the object of
the sounds of the street.
It was that spot on that corner that whispering winds spoke to her
about in her dream.
It was a dream that was sent to her by Hashtali-
On that corner, that most favorable spot she offered up her praise to
Hashtali-Achafa and hawk out notice of her goods.
And Hashtali-Achafa blessed her with prosperity.
Copyright 2017 Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake
Inspired by a character from the book Halona, copyrighted 2004
Copyright © Mary E.W. Stephenson | Year Posted 2017
The blanket of darkness hides innocent eyes, powerful allies.
Powerful allies stand guard and set vigilance, musky sweat.
What goes unnoticed , with a strong will forms a pattern.
The groove is carved deeper into the path to follow a dear heart
and bring them back to safety.
Going unnoticed, untracked footsteps are sinking deeper into the
Go hounds , go! Rest not till you find and restore our plight.
The bloodhounds scurry forwards on the track of a scent crunching
through the snow.
Entering through a tent opening our brother is found tied up
while the captors are momentarily away.
Brother , wake up! ....he's in an awful state, gives a smile of
recognition and relief.
He looks half conscious and gives last wishes to his saviours
with his hand on his love's locket.
A few cuts and bruises he has but we are glad he is alive.
How on earth did he survive?
Suddenly, a sound is heard and everyone scurries!
Approaching horses hoofs in the distance..we must move quickly.
Moving quickly we gently but hurringly
place our brother on a sled ,fasten him securely and
steal away into the night.
After several hours of travelling we stop for a rest where it is
safe to revive.
Copyright © Mariana pavlich | Year Posted 2005