Fur Fly Poem
In the daylight hours, I spend my time
So high on a perch, in a lofty pine
Where I fluff and comb my pretty plumes
And wait for the rise of the silver moon
I bob and weave on the top of the tree
Watching my world, in dimensions of three
My golden eyes fixed, on the fallen leaves
As I wait for the night, so patiently
At the set of sun, and the rise of moon
In the Croatan forest, near Camp Le Jeune
With a piercing screech, I take to the sky
On the wind, with silent wings, I fly
Over forest and swamps, on a winter night
Dipping and swaying like a wind-blown kite
In search of a rabbit, a rat or a bat
Until I find one, there's no turning back
Over Emerald Isle, and wind-swept dunes
I fly, so freely, neath a silver moon
For miles along the Atlantic shore
Engrossed in the din of that oceans roar
I hear from a distance, the stir of a hare
And see her dining, on sea grasses there
Her nibbling nose, like a lure, to my eyes
As I, with the speed of lightning, fly
Then swooping straight down, without a sound
I wrap my talons, so tightly around
The slow, soft beat, of a dying heart
As bits of fur, fly away in the dark
A Great Horned Owl, I'm a bird of prey
With the wind at my back, I make my way
With the chill of winter, a melt on my breast
I return triumphantly to my nest.
For contest sponsored by Eve Roper
Written: February 12, 2016
Elaine Cecelia George, of Canada
Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2016
Fur Fly Poem
This breezy day outside the truckers’ Gas ‘n Go,
I brush my doggie's hair of fine white strands-
some short, some long-
all seeming to remove themselves either separately
or as small fur "cliques,“
each one intent on acts of random abdication.
They float up and drift away;
some get stuck in crevices of man's inventions,
their journeying cut short.
Others voyage upwards - and how do they end up?
Snatched by larks? Brought back to earth?
Are they made into some strange nesting fabric
that shelters birdlings squabbling for a worm?
Do some strands travel farther till they touch with eagles' peaks
and then settle themselves in mountain hollows?
Do other strays make their way to other cities or states
to land on asphalt, snow or desert sand?
I rarely see a canine hair anywhere except inside my house
or in houses of the folks like me with pets.
Surely escaped hairs and clumps lie in rest in numerous sundry parts of this world!
Are there some of them still wafting through sky
while humans on the ground below,
sensitive to fur of kindly beasts,
wheeze and sneeze, eyes watering, from unseen hairs?
Imagine this. . .
perhaps . . .their journey has an end in some far off place
where every tiny piece instinctively collects arriving mates;
then laid by magic hands side by side,
they await the day when all God's creatures,
man and beast alike,
reunite with particles once lost.
What a wonder it would be
to see my shaggy Eskimo in lion-like magnificence,
all hair restored to bushiness-
and marvel of all marvels!
In bodies of perfection,
we’d all of us have need to shed no more!
For PD's Another Free Verse Contest
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013
Fur Fly Poem
John Deere riding lawn mowers in fields of high grass
can sometimes be cruel to small creatures that live within.
My brother, Jimmy, twelve years old at the time,
noticed a puff of fur fly out from the side of the green beast
as he ran screaming and flailing his arms at my father.
With tears running down his cheeks,
Jimmy searched the surrounding area for other rabbits
that he could secure away from the rotating blades.
He came upon the brood of new born bunnies that
must have been the offspring of the clump of fur
now nestled in the shreds of grass.
My father tried to explain to Jimmy the futility
of trying to save four newborn rabbits,
but Jimmy would not listen as he removed his shirt
and placed the four, still furless, wet bunnies inside.
At twelve years old, Jimmy had already saved
the life of a robin from the mouth of a stray cat;
raised frogs from tadpole eggs found in the small
pond of water formed in tire tracks down the old dirt road;
helped our pet dog deliver a litter of eight puppies;
rescued a butterfly cocoon from a fallen branch;
and nursed back to health a box turtle ran over by a car
on the road in front of our house.
With a shoebox full of grass, a light bulb for warmth,
and an eyedropper of milk, Jimmy stayed with those
bunnies day and night.
As days slipped by, eyes opened; a bigger eye dropper was needed;
lettuce was introduced to the shoe box; and furless bodies
became covered in a soft brown fur coat.
Jimmy was never one to become too attached to his patients;
he did not do what he did to try to add to his menagerie of pets.
When he was confident that the bunnies were ready to live on their own
he began his long hike into the fields, far removed from John Deere tractors,
farmers, cats and dogs; and, released the four, healthy bunnies into the world.
Twenty years later, no one was able to do for Jimmy
what he continuously did for the creatures that he so loved and adored.
We lost a good man that day. May he rest in peace.
Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2012
Fur Fly Poem
The madness of the cats began. They came from Ulthar and
Singaloon, in my dreams, and from cellars and old steeples by day.
By Day! I saw the twitching tails snake madly, as yellow eyes
glared hungry and I feared for my flesh.
You think I am mad. But you haven’t seen the horde of furred
demons crouching in the shadows of chairs, squirming out of closets,
heard them yowling in the old barns.
“They’re after me,” I cried to my wife, but she only purred.
“I need a sedative, anything to help me sleep," I told my
doctor, but he only offered me a saucer of warm milk.
I called the police, and they just suggested the Animal Rescue. I
told them what I was going to do instead, and slammed down the phone.
My wife mewed insincerely, till the rat poison finished her.
My next-door neighbor asked too many questions, till I distracted him
with cat-nip, so that he didn’t see my knife.
Now the police are outside, they want my rifle, and think
because I am only a mouse who cannot climb trees, that I won’t fight.
Let them come in. The buckshot will make their fur fly!
Copyright © Steve Eng | Year Posted 2010