Best Eared Poems
In the dog-days of summer of so long ago
there were bear-hugging moments I like to recall
Like leafing through pages of ram-shackle books,
that are dog-eared, and faded, wearing hound-tooth worn seams
I had a bull's-eye encounter with puppy-tail schemes
There are cat-walks through memories, over turkey-trot trails
wearing pigtails, and Mother Goose, and laughter would peal
Where pony-tailed hairdos would swing like a bell,
and where kids could play leap-frog, and happiness dwells
We would run like the roosters and bull-doze the grass,
picking puffed dandelions, to blow with our breaths
Spreading the catnip and watching it gasp
Grasping the wind, while it wolfed-down the rest
Blooming sweet dogwood would bend in the breeze
Elephant-ears would line every path
With cattails and polly-wogs, we would bunny-hop home
for chickpeas, and monkey bread, and gooseberry creams
Then hug little teddy-bear, in our goose-down reclines
while dog-days of summer would live for all time
I could wrap you
In secret
And cling
Like double-sided
Just to keep
Your gift
From prying eyes
But I have
No label
A name, perhaps
But no concept
No complete picture
For the pieces
Of you
Labels
Are for things.
Boundaries.
Pigeon holes.
For just a
Moment
In the journey
We remove them
On arrival
Or when they are
Dog-eared
Or when they are wrong
Or at least
We should
I don't want
To label
You.
Me.
Or
Anyone
Unless
That label..
Reads as follows:
"Seen"
"Found"
"Friend"
"Unique"
"BeLoved"
"Beautiful"
"Accepted"
"Treasured"
"Marvellous"
"Just perfect"
"No changes required"
"If lost, please return home"
The poems I never wrote are exquisite
Deep clear pools that reflect and reveal their readers
Nuanced and subtle, full of symbols and hidden meaning
Peeling back new layers upon each return
The poems I never wrote are bestsellers
Attenborough voiceovers and roadhouse storytellers
On bedside tables, dog-eared and marked up
The subject of disagreements over coffee house scones
The poems I never wrote are a perfect sigh
Lyrical, rolling off the tongue, effortless as breathing
Resolved with delight on the final line
Lacking nothing, possessed of no excess
The poems I never wrote are an enigma
An unanswered question desirous of much
A doorway into a new world fraught with possibility
Mysterious and unresolved, yet satisfyingly so
This is not one of those
—————
Written on 10/06/022
We live today in a world of great tumult
And of rising uncertainty and anxiety
Which pervade the world stage like a cancer
Despite soaring technological advances
Our environment and our home Earth
Are bearing an unimaginable burden
People are wondering what must be done
To right these wrongs and adjust our course
Before we turn the corner to “No Return”
Tyranny, Poverty, Disease, and War
Are still with us today since the beginning
Of time and are mankind’s greatest shame
God may be with us intellectually
But mankind must be self-reliant
To survive an inattentive, distant deity
People see answers to these enigmas
Sounds are made, echoes are heard
But nothing comes back in response
Frustration reigns supreme for many
Fear and anxiety multiple all concerns
There can never be easy answers
*******
Tyranny still reigns alive in many countries
As the actions of tin-eared dictators abound
And are on ample display for all to see
Poverty is still a shameful, terrible curse
Which afflicts the most unfortunate
And is paid lip service by the wealthy
Disease is a scourge still in our world
And still felt by those most in need
And never enough is done to change this
War is the ultimate insult to mankind
And its wide-felt swath and affliction
Plagues yet our modern, enlightened world
What to make of all these challenges
Is not easy for any of us to digest
And let alone understand why
Yet understand, comprehend we must
If we want a better world for all to live in
A Sisyphean task at its very best
Man still holds the key to make change
Positive and real for our troubled Earth
But can it ever be really so in the end
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
Schoeningen, Germany (October 16, 2014)
(Tercet unrhymed poetic format)
I've been musing lately about things that really make a home complete.
One thing for sure - a happy home is one with laughter and love replete!
'Twill be a place with affectionate parents who dearly love each other,
And blessed by a couple of kids - a little sister and her big brother!
A home ain't a home unless you have a faithful dog and inscrutable cat,
And a stoop on which to greet folks whereon lies a welcoming mat!
A grandfather clock to intone the inexorable march of time is needed,
And a fireplace with a cozy fire by which to reminisce unimpeded!
There'll be a library of classic tales with yellowed and dog-eared pages,
And a Bible that is read, having been handed down through the ages!
Displayed on the fireplace mantel will be pictures of folks from the past -
Folks from the family tree who set standards for honor unsurpassed!
There'll be a white picket fence and a trellis with climbing yellow roses,
And a huge front porch with a swing on which to enjoy pleasant dozes!
At the kitchen table, the family dines, discusses the day and grace is said.
Later the kids say nightly prayers before being tucked in their featherbed!
Marks to measure the kid's height mar the wall nigh the kitchen door.
Happy holidays and birthdays are celebrated that will add to family lore!
Though the dog and kids may create havoc as about the house they roam,
If I may quote Edgar Guest, "It takes a heap o' livin' to make a house a home!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Words he formed.
Shells, pebbles, sorted by color
Straight grey lines
Curved watery blue
Rosy dots
Sand dollar phrases
drifting, floating, resting on the shore
Gathered decorative patterns
garland and seaweed
Expressed feelings
hand dug gully around
his small world filled with
salty water
And he lay down
safely on his island
Awaiting the surf, the tide,
pure white ripples of hope
to wash away the pain
Words he formed
with his fingers
folding air around
simmering sun
finally realizing
his thoughts had meaning
as nary a cloudy day
could be seen since…
He sent out his heart
It flew for him
Sent out his soul, surfing
in rhythmic coastal stanzas
lapping a lazy shore
measuring the distance
beyond a vertical eclipse
where water meets air
and the sky merges with his dreams
With eyes closed
his horizontal form
sails through time
closing chapters
and opening pages,
dog-eared memories in numerical order
At the count down of
5 he lands ashore
4 drapes his sea-green garments around self
3 gathers dollars, dignity
2 opens his eyes
1 thanks his therapist for the session
0 leaves, with a sense of regret.
***
June 16, 2017
Copyright © Chris Green and Darren White
Oh, how I love
the dear three
I can’t get
enough of!
Any day -
not one pet
could there be
as sweet as they.
Each day they’re here when life gets hard.
My pup so cute and small;
one cat with yellow eyes
with great pride I regard.
One cat, curled-eared and white,
is clever, I surmise.
Those three – I love them all.
They are my comfort and delight.
(Each stanza has a rhyme scheme of A/B/C/A/D/C/B/D)
Sept. 5, 2022
For the Charlie New-Ku Poetry Contest of Charlie Messina:
A rhyming haiku with two stanzas. The first has a syllable count of 4,3,3,3,3,3,3,4 and the second has a syllable count of 8,6,6,6,6,6,6,8.
Now Jake was a Dapper man
Black Stetson and great style
Ladies were afraid of him
Even with that sparkling smile
They all feared his presence
Although he looked so cool
They may have been attracted
Yet these ladies were no fools
Never look him in the eye
Best to give him a wide berth
The old men tried to warn me
For Jake life had little worth
They agreed that Jake had style
Sadly he's as mean as they come
Nothing but a smooth talker
With a solid silver gun
I watched him for a moment
Then it seems I caught his eye
Walking slowly towards me
With his gun strapped to his thigh
I wasn't seeking trouble
Still it was coming my way
I stared him straight in the eye
and said "come make my day!"
For a moment he waivered
He was used to seeing fear
Before he pulled his gun
I shot him in the ear
With that he dropped his gun
Because I drew too fast
If he made another move
It would surely be his last
Now they call him one eared Jake
He's not such a dapper man
It's much harder to get dressed
I shot some fingers off his hand
A Shadowlam production.
Brought to you by Shadow Hamilton
and Richard Lamoureux.
Thank you Shadow for Dapper Jake
and for letting me add to your story.
This was fun!
Shrunken sweaters, dusty ball caps
Tarnished silver, and hedge clippers
Pointed hat pins, gaudy jewelry
Faded jeans and worn out slippers
Greasy fry pan, wobbly table
Crates of dog-eared musty books
Tattered doilies, ragged Barbies
One brown old crock pot that still cooks
Rusty shovel, dented buckets
Ma's old apron, broken dishes
Dated calendar, crooked lampshade
Chipped glass bowl for all your fishes
Ugly painting, candle holders
One old bike for exercising
Broken TV, toaster oven
Doesn't work....it's not surprising!
What's the point?" our husbands mutter
While we fill the garage with clutter
I explain to him..."She buys mine, and I buy hers"
"What's the point of shopping stores??!"
"Now...don't you know the grass is greener?"
"OH GOOD!" "She's bought my vacuum cleaner!"
Just then I point across the street!!
Another yard sale.....and we both shriek!!
He points at me and shakes his fist
But I'll just ignore and toss a kiss
And side by side I'm in a race...
Who gets there first will buy that vase!!
Whoopee!!! I spy a broken chair...well, I can glue it!
Just hope she doesn't beat me to it!
Another point about my purchase
Perhaps I can use it for another purpose
Oh No!!...he's found old tool collections!!
And points at them with great affection!!
The point I'm making is simply this
Another's person's trash or junk, may soon become your bliss!
When the snout of lush abundance is full and flowing,
when all prey and creature-kind spill upon the verdant swards,
then it is that I worry night and day,
for the stoat, fox and hawk are at work,
they scythe in the whelm and nimiety, they hack and harrow.
The kits and chuckling’s are many, the light too bright;
for then the foragers forgoing fright, are palpable and open.
The long-eared nibblers, hairs on scattered rodents laid bare,
they scutter, skitter and twitch much in the open
greatly prone to be pounced upon;
their paltry pelts all unhidden, and being many,
and not running, they are huddled; yet not strong.
If this slew not ease, if the grabbers not falter,
if the singled-out dither, the glut not wither,
then the green snake will climb to where nestlings hutch -
they all so easily plucked and quickly snatched.
I worry for the wee brown birds; mottled shells still unhatched.
I fear a winnowing, withal a harsh hazard of gorge and sate.
I fret for the freshly delivered, the teeming,
the newly produced, all the bounding bounty
for those too easily found and so, arrived too late.
Written: November 12, 2024, for — Glenn Hughes Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori, inspired by the song “Let America Be America Again”
______________________
Through veils of twilight, we walk
Starlit stars sparkling bright
And beneath, spirits dwindle —
And dreams slip from sight.
Farmers firmly toil the summer soil
Hopes cradled in their hands—
But where’s the pledge in the toil—
When golden glimmers through sands?
In quiet lands, the echoes call
Of history's heavyweight
Poor whites, scrape by on scraps —
While people endure fate.
Natives gaze upon their land
Once rulers of rolling meadows
Now naked of tales, raw and bare —
Their zest for life is still in their ghetto.
Immigrants, with drained hearts
Bring burdens brimming with pain
Their promises packed in perilous chains—
Ceaseless struggles, calamities, and gain.
The workers wake as one word in a song
Brick by brick, they construct a dream—
But in unsung nooks, nebulous shades lurk—
And faith falters, starts to wane its gleam.
Look—hope weaves through patches torn
Each flag a tattered breeze
Men gather close around despair—
While stories cling to trees.
A dark veil cloaks this fractured land
Where families fight and grow
People searching for their kin—
Through seas of strife, they row.
The dog-eared dreams, the scuffed-up souls
Marked by scars and strife
Yet with each breath, a deep resolve—
This is our shared life.
Singing the songs of pioneers
Voices strong and clear
We reclaim the ideals professed—
Longing for what feels near.
In every heart, a spark ignites
Hope rises, raw and bright
For in the struggle, we find our way—
Through shadows into the light.
Don't be mistook
Every face is a book
That tells of a story
The closer you look
Around the eyes
You can read every line
The laughter and heartbreak
Wrote out over time
A crease in the edge
At the turn of the lips
Dog-eared smile or frown
To later be read
It's all there of course
In chapter and verse
As the title suggests
From our best to our worst
All in the look
Not always understood
Telling a story
As every face is a book
Lord,
You see me as a saint
While I see myself a sinner
You see me on the next page
As I'm stuck on this one dog eared
You see me as beyond myself
I see me where I'm at
You see me like nobody else
Please help me to grasp that fact
Lord,
You see me through your sacrifice
I fall down on my knees
You see me through the breath of life
In you I need to breathe
You see me in pure love
A love I'd love to have
You tell me that you are enough
Please help me to grasp that fact
Lord,
You see me in eternity
I see myself finite
You see me beyond the veil of humanity
I've yet to turn on that light
You see me as your greatest creation
I see all that I lack
Over me you have elation
Please help me to grasp that fact
She found some mementoes stored in a box
before the new owners came to change the locks.
An assortment of items almost forgotten
now partly hidden under protective cotton.
The items were in her late husband's dresser;
reminders of the days when he tried to impress her.
Some old coins, a yellowed program, a dog-eared ticket;
her memories stirred and for just a minute
husband and wife were united, if only in spirit.
Two soulmates: one on earth, one up above,
linked by ephemera, but forever in love.
Mounds of papers, ragged, uneven as if elbows flaring at angles severe
Pens akimbo, dog-eared reminders, fading memorabilia
You-Name-It was all piled there only yesterday, only yesterday
Somehow dumpier now that it's been stripped bare of
What gave it character, its empty drawers ajar