Best Haunches Poems
Rain ©
I walk on slick shine streets
in the night with my lover.
Freshly out of bed and ravenous
for other food, he pauses and
licks the tears and rain drops
from my face.
Rain in its many moods
quickens to sweep the earth and
skies clean.
Settles on the skin like a damp
kiss. Cold, warm, sweet, clean,
sharp, rain.
Is designer bottled water
merely rain drops from afar?
The dog romps through the rain,
in his perfect raincoat, oblivious
to the wet.
Blinking owlishly when a drop
should fall into his eye.
Mysterious primates of the forest
sit forlornly, beneath the
umbrella leaf.
Forever patient as the skies
rupture with a torrential deluge.
Human-tender eyes reflect their
disgust and sadness at the wet,
messy coats they must wear.
The equine turn their haunches
to the storm to show their scorn
for nature’s tantrum.
Cats run for cover, sit
majestically removing the
wet rain from their person with a
wet tongue.
Wild fowl dance across the circle
patterns of the pond’s face,
beating their wings and singing.
They frolic and dive celebrating
the sublime circumstance of
being wet.
Man spends energy and money
to keep himself dry and safe
from the rain, darting from
doorway to doorway.
What does he fear? He won’t
melt if he gets soaked, he won’t
become ill or grow fins, and he
just might get clean.
Snow is rain in its wedding attire;
no two brides alike.
The rain drop falls into a rivulet
of other rain drops atop the
mountain.
The rivulet runs into the creek,
the creek into a stream.
The stream rushes to the river
and the river falls into the sea.
The rain drops turn to salty tears
as the journey ends.
It is said that chickens, if left out
in the rain, will lift their heads up
to the sky and watch the rain
until they drown.
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
Our dinner, boiled to death root vegetables, we swallow in silence as night closes-in on the school. The co-opted Buddhist monastery housing us empties its porcelain thrones into the walled garden’s weedy rear yard. Village women wash: the floors, the pots, the laundry from first light to deep dark. The water runs downhill. War does not stop the drudgery. Where the women sleep is unknown to us. The owners’ are small men; they rule the house with a heavy hand. They teach the techniques of shamanic healing and Thai Massage.
the Green Tara
hangs upon the room's wall:
geraniums on the ledge
The drowse of Friday evening evaporates in a burst of gunfire. Behind the high walls surrounding the school, the sounds of violence escalate. Through open, screen-less, windows sirens sound, the sky lights up and red, yellow, blue, and white prayer flags hang lifelessly from the eaves to the locked gate. Sleep hides, as I do, beneath the covers.
coiled
insecticide smolders:
temple bells sound
The monks, long gone, leave remnants of themselves on the incense coated plaster. Peace sought here was not found. Poverty necessitated the building’s sale. Here on a side street in walking distance from the American embassy, a school for westerner’s storm cellars. The desire to learn Eastern Healing techniques and a common language, English, binds us together: American, French, Spanish, and South African captures of the internet, pilgrims. We come, healers all, undaunted by the Civil War, to Kathmandu, Nepal.
Monday, the riots end on cue. Tourists, again, meander the dust clouded streets, skirting the alley’s begging children. Tea is served in the burgeoning shops. Butchers swat flies from hanging haunches of meat, rare bird vendors walk the street with baskets of exotic birds. And, brazen Westerners stride bare armed, sari-less exposed, and rude, at least until next Friday night—they own the world.
First Published by Mulberry Fork 2016
I am a dreamer literally for I dream a lot
With most of them remembered, few of them forgot.
My dreams are always based in reality,
Although quite mixed up they often tend to be.
But this particular dream I had just yesterday,
Was different from all the rest, I have to say.
I've never dreamed before of a fantasy creature;
Never before has fantasy entered as a feature.
It seems, in my dream I had a unicorn,
The cutest little horse with a little horn.
She was pure white like I've never seen,
Whiter than the snow, all fresh and clean.
Perfectly proportioned, rather small in size,
Maybe seven hands at her withers, I would surmise.
She knew she held a place confirmed in my heart.
She was a delight to watch and so very smart.
Her soft and low nickering never let me fear
Her presence was very far but always close and near.
She'd nuzzle me gently for treats and for pets.
Such a joy to me, she brought me no regrets.
The center of attention she really loved to be
And all her little antics were amusing to see.
Her moves so graceful, a ballerina couldn't beat;
She pranced like there was air underneath her feet.
She would stamp her little foot, toss her head around,
Let her little haunches drop 'til they met the ground.
Then her little muzzle she would lift up towards the sky,
As she'd neigh the cutest whinny with a pitch rather high.
I loved to hear her whinny, a delight to my ear
And she would whinny, be expecting then to hear
A response from me in the language that she spoke,
But as I replied with a whinny, sadly I awoke.
Now I'm left to wonder why she came to me
In a dream so surreal, as though reality.
A reason for I seek, since my dreams often do foretell,
But about this one I am puzzled of my little Uni-Belle.
Written by Artsieladie/Sharon Donnelly
©2018-04-05 23:55:00 (EDT)
All rights reserved.
Mother Rat
The queen of common suffering
is a pregnant rat.
She lifts a perfume atomizer
from a dumpster-
for its chandelier glint,
lilac smell,
mint vodka taste,
soft squeeze-bulb feel,
and 'pfffit pfffit' sound.
A good mother steals with all 5 senses.
She has fifty children.
She's a brown city rat.
She pretends it doesn't bother her.
Her littlest one is dying.
I have a powerful craving for poison.
I must be pregnant again.
Why are men so weak?
She has broad shoulders for a rat.
They haul the tools of litters:
shreds and bits and medicines,
extra beads of fresh blood.
I will provide.
There is no discussion.
While giving dinner, she asks,
Spray my haunches, would ya, Hun?
'pfffit pfffit.'
She's not without good breeding.
She wants to feel like she's
more than a good mother.
Wants to so much.
Just for tonight.
Before any pups can stow away,
She scurries out, humming
"I like the nightlife."
And just like that, she's free.
She's fat and happy and singing
and she's not ashamed of her tail
and she's strutting down garbage avenue
on hind legs like John Travolta.
Faster, faster.
Suddenly she's hiking through
centuries of rat narrative:
Rodent purges. Rat diasporas.
The 2nd Albino Civil War.
Bubonic Enlightenment.
The Norwegian Post Erotic movement.
Faster.
What's happening to me?
Please let it not be the arsenic,
not here in the promised land!
I've been meaning to cut back.
Her eyes are sparkling ruby beads,
but now they're flickering out.
Her long red tongue stands erect
between rows of inward daggers.
She is still beautiful.
The full moon and milky snow illuminate the nighttime landscape I found myself lost on the mountain.
I have to make a choice. Looking for the North Star I placed a stick pointing north to direct me to the closest destination when I rise in the morn dawn. To the North one hundred fifty miles to the nearest cabin hoping that it is supplied with stable foods and a warm place to stay until rescued, or south two hundred miles in the other direction where a trapper lives all year round.
Over my shoulders I carried my rifle and survival equipment and begin the one hundred fifty-mile hike to the cabin. Walking through spruce, hemlock, and lodge-pole pines and eating a variety of berries.
In the morning after the snowstorm, I woke to ski snow-powder steeps. A wolf rested on its haunches, inspecting my unprotected surroundings. I took aim, shot, and missed, and it turned and took off.
For days, I had the feeling that someone or something was watching me. I started seeing signs of bear tracings. I was almost out of ammunition for my rifle and decide to make a spear. I looked around for a suitable sturdy tree limb or sapling a few inches taller them me. Using my knife, I fashioned a shelf for the knife creating securing support for the knife and wrapping it tight with rope.
I had shot a three-point buck early that morning and dressed it out; when I heard woof, woof, woof, sounds. The brown grizzly bear came down on all fours and started pawing at the ground, then came at me like a freight train.
I wedge the wooden in of the spear between the rock and into the ground. The grizzle charged then stood up rising above me, impelling itself through the heart with the spear killing it instantly. His dead weight slumped falling limp forward on top of me trapping me under.
Tired and cold the pain disappeared by the time I amble down the pathway toward the summer cabin in the noon-lit dawn.
1/3/2017
O' great beast. (you and me)
I borrow your strength, you
use my mind
WE together are a force....
Dynamically sublime!
Upon your great haunches WE ( I )
can conquer the world-
Upon my shoulders you (+ I)
are , together a spirit divine!
Mania draws WE (us) to race
the coming dawn in rivalry-
Not even Ra in his golden chariot can
triumph over us- WE ARE FUSED ALCHEMY
WE two united are a greater
power than any foe-
WE just laugh and kick all
losers to Hades below.
as if your power -alone-
Were not enough...
My mount (and I) , her ethereal
beauty makes celestial bodies
of us.
The Dogs we called Family
Tara came first and then there was Ben,
When both of them died we said never again.
Then Sam the runner, got killed in the street,
Prince came and went quick, we didn't know he was sick.
He came from a farm where distemper was rife,
Took him to the vet where he ended his life.
One year had to pass to get our house clear,
Without a mutt there, it seemed without cheer.
One day I was out and the Pound I happened to pass,
I doubled back and I looked through the glass.
Inside I walked, many dogs ignoring my stare,
Until one at the end looked up at me square,
Sat on her haunches both paws outstretched.
She's the one, I knew, so my family I fetched.
I said nothing to them of the dog I had seen,
When they saw the same one I knew they were keen.
The dog was due for the jab that very hour,
To save her life now was in our power, you see.
We paid the fee for her life, Our Lucy was free.
She was the new member added to our family of four,
She lived with us and loved us for 19 years more.
While she was with us we had another to add,
Along came Jamie the Yorkie,he was a bit of a lad.
Like Ben he stayed near ten years and sadly passed.
Lucy died of old age, we said it's time to give in.
Our Garden Cemetery of loved ones was full to the brim.
To Cyprus we came to retire and live in the sun,
Of a dog in the family we didn't want one.
Then a visit to Larnaca was to change our life again,
Because along came Lexi to start it all over again.
She was soon followed by Levi, he was a lively one,
Then came Eli, the whirlwind and pain in the bum.
So from just us two forever as we'd planned,
Now we were five and life was once again grand.
A sad day loomed we had no idea of what was to come,
Levi was walking wrong so we took him to the vet
He had hurt his spine, as bad as it could get.
His rear end gave out and could not be reversed.
He was paralyzed, and getting steadily worse.
The love he gave us in his life reduced us to tears.
The vet said it's time he confirmed our worst fears.
We let him go to where he could romp with all the rest,
All the dogs in our family, they were the best.
With Tara and Ben, Jamie,Charlie the Pinscher and Lucy too
Neo the Collie and Big Ben & Storm the Rottweilers two,
Newfoundland Curtis and Demon the Chow,
All Pals together, in the Big Kennel now.
© Dave Timperley May 5th 2016
The perfect year,
two equal halves.
One with leaves
one without.
Forest thinning out.
Bring indoors
swing sets, pools, smiles, thoughts.
Having enough and not much else is a lot.
The transfer of funds is a loving gratitude for work well done.
Not self-sufficient unless self
is defined as family, community and nation.
The world.
Universe.
Thus,
I settle my haunches like a bear content, snug into coming winter.
House will be warm notwithstanding the Muslim-Judeo-Christian condition
not to mention the Hindu-Buddhist vortex.
Searching space
for an entity
to unite us as humanity.
Carbon-based, earthbound
meeting, understanding and absorbing
the clicking, algorithmic logic
of passionately computing species, insects, machines, bacteria.
A world moves only as fast as you think.
If it moves faster you're not thinking, you're it, dead, chemicals redistributed
in an ever more painless process.
What are my feelings exactly?
Systemic joy.
Lovely the logic
we have invented and applied
identifying, specifying, classifying.
It can keep you busy
counting, praying
while all the leaves are falling.
Haiku Trilogy
Fox poises mid-step
Rabbit scent tantalizes
Mouth waters wildly
Eyes peer intently
Haunches crouched, slung low to ground
Biding time to spring
Mountain lion growls
Padded feet part tall grasses
Hunter now hunted
©R.Selena Howard-Rowland,2012
he plants his right hind
rocks back onto his haunches
front crossing over
he falls into his pivot
with practiced ease and beauty
October 29, 2012
The soil is dreaming in a silent technicolour,
peaceful and alone. It exhales, gently without the tragic
trampling of mankind snapping roots, without the world above
and its usual stampede. Gone. Branches noticed it
first - slowly having time to stretch, to watch clouds;
time to open their barks wide and bows sprawling and luscious,
away from smokes and steams and smogs. The sky is blue,
clear. Rivers are lapping, sighing. Birds fly in a chorus, circling
in trills below the moon’s pupil-white skin - seen at night.
Fields are resting their patchwork bodies, their tissues of
grass and pores sewn from the vapours of oak, birch and ash.
Nature’s legs are stubbly now, growing hair left wild and unshaven.
In the morning, rabbits stand tall on haunches saluting the sun.
FREE LUNCH
Poet, they name me, and then ask for a verse:
Especial for someone they hold in their hearts;
Rarely considering my oft empty purse -
Really a wallet, he muttered, self-conscious -
Yet brand stores for blank cards: them they’ll reimburse.
Muted thanks mumbled by even the staunchest
Coolly avoiding the pockets at haunches.
Dubious looks given freely instead
As they wonder how I can walk in their heads;
Incisively dredging soul-secrets to fore.
Dismiss me entirely until they want more.
The storms’ve now passed.
The birds call under rainbows.
Cat’s haunches in wet grass.
darkness into darkness forms,
atoms swirl, congeal, and swarm,
the dark gets darker, blacker still,
folds in upon itself at will
a fluid, liquid, shifting shape,
a mass upon which shadows drape,
the black gets denser by degrees,
straining eyes attempt to see
deep, instinctive, primal fear
comprehends that evil's near,
slightly canine, haunches low,
it glides the way quicksilver flows
foundations cracked, beliefs erased,
just emptiness to take its place
Bums are funny, I don't know why
giggling 'til I nearly cry-
Silly nicknames are so much fun
like tuchis, tail, rump or buns
Some are dainty, sweet or cutesy
like heinie, cheeks, and petootsie
Timid hinting at their meanings
“back-end”, “behind”... backward leanings
While some are spunky, full of sass
like keister, bum, or tush, (or ass)
Posterior and derriere
both spell it out with quite a flair!
But buttocks, butt, or plain “backside”
bare it all- with nothing to hide
Haunches, hindquarters, can or seat
the list goes on without repeat...
Rear-ends, bottoms, duffs, full moons
all leave me laughing like a loon!