Best Petted Poems
A crazy old man once told me,
“Heaven is made of the things you give away.”
It appeared he was next in line for heaven
as he had next to nothing left to give.
We shared a cup of coffee, conversation,
well not so much conversation
as a gentle walk through a magical forest.
His voice had not grown old or weary
of his quest to share his experience.
He stooped to pick up a napkin
discarded in haste, tucked it
in his pocket as we walked.
He shared his muffin,
spoke with a woman
pushing a shopping cart
through the Common.
She walked away smiling.
The muffin crumbs he left for the birds.
He nodded to the homeless,
waved to strangers, petted stray dogs,
offering all the brightness of his being,
warmth of his eyes,
quizzical wrinkle of his grin.
His rambling soliloquy
poked sticks at the universe,
offered hope to the ducklings…
yeah … the ducklings followed him
as if they knew that he knew.
As we approached the starting point
of both walk and oration he spoke
of the completed circle – not the
circumference - but the center,
said that the achievement was not
in amassing things to give away
but to offer freely those things
that you always have. Time, he said,
is huge, as is a smile, a word,
a shared muffin, a moment
in the passing of an eon.
He left me sitting on a park bench
sharing muffin crumbs
and smiling.
1/25/2017
submitted to – Random Acts of Kindness – Poetry Contest
Oh how sad, oh how glum,
Goodness gracious prater comes.
Writing winsome words of woe,
Endlessly stopping, never to go.
Whiling away the endless hours;
Scribbling sigils, clawing, I cower.
Oh how sad, oh how glum,
Goodness gracious prater comes.
Envy those not thus engaged.
Envy the prattle on the page;
Stroked, petted, tilled and hoed;
Fields ‘pon fields, rows ‘pon row.
Oh how sad, oh how glum,
Frantic fretting, fear comes.
Wading through the endless nights;
Waiting, waiting for the light.
Writing, writing, scratch and scribble;
All this soulless, mindless, drivel.
Writing, writing, writing on;
‘Till the coming of the dawn.
A "woof! woof!" shout-out
goes out to a dearly departed
four-legged pooch
running free in doggie heaven!
An energetic, playful people-pleaser
that belonged to
a friend and old neighbor of mine
What a personality had he!
He was taught so many tricks:
He barked "Woof! Woof!"
when told to "speak."
He knew how to sit and stay,
how to roll over, even how to
hi-five and shake hands.
He loved getting his belly rubbed, too!
A funny, intelligent, curious,
not to mention, affectionate...
pit bull named "Baby"
He made me laugh one time
chewing on his squeaky toy...
for what seemed like an eternity!
I'll never forget him; he loved
the treats I used to bring him.
He really liked me and used to...
lick me to death
every time I petted him!
He changed my perception
of pit bulls forever!
Rest in peace, "Baby"(2007-2018)
All Pets Go To Heaven Poetry Contest (Winner: 1st Place)
Sponsored by Constance La France
Date written: 08/10/2020
She was the best pal we ever had,
Thinking about her still makes me sad,
Quietly wagging her tail for her food,
Silently waiting like a friend so good,
She survived death scare two times that year,
We prayed for her healing, God did hear,
She knew whom to bark at, scared them bad,
She was the best pal we ever had,
Following us all around to be petted,
Love she did not lack, nor once we regretted,
When she fell sick, she had us cuddling her,
Trips to the doctor, we went juggling her,
Ten long years, she stayed with us happy,
Never once did she become snappy,
In times of sorrow, she made us glad,
She was the best pal we ever had.
08/30/18
Woman’s Desire
What’s all this rigmarole and claptrap
About the man being the only one thinking of sex?
Well, truth be known,
A woman, skin deeply eager, thinks much of it too…
Once leaving the job, after
The shopping; the vaccuuming; the cooking; the pots,
Pans, and dishes; after the childrens’
Homework, meals, baths, and good-night kisses;
Once the cat and dog have gone out and in
Twice, been fed, and cooed over while petted;
After inquires about her spouse’s work, complaints,
And wishes; after the phone calls to people of concern;
After checking the bank account, new emails, and
Cleaning out her handbag; counting out lunch monies;
Preparing the morrow’s snacks and clothing; writing
The lists of to-do’s and schedules; and, preparing medications…
Afrter all that, following ten minutes of rest
In a cushioned chair,
Among the first wishes of her long-patient body,
Is for some time to linger, living
Pleasure’s words whispered by her passion’s tongue.
A woman desires to lay felt and feeling sensuously
With her beloved, warm and spent,
Close to sleep at her side.
——————————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 9/16/2023
Bluebells are a ringin' and springin' up like kites.
Thyme is rustling along, glimpsing at dazzling sights.
Fox tails are a wagin' in the breeze, zig-zagin',
strutting their charisma, to be petted beggin'.
Roses are perfuming, famous scent resuming,
competing with nearby lilac flowers blooming.
Be still, my bleeding heart, absorb these works of art.
Listen to the thistle, performing like Mozart.
Healing beets are thrumming; tulips pressed are humming.
Flower petals tapping together are drumming.
Tune to trillium thrice and heed sound, sage advice.
Lettuce be thankful for song birds-of-paradise.
2-4-2021
A** cat
hobbled out of the woods Looking
lost, lonely and lean. With a hitch
in his get along, a pitiful sight to be
(( seen. My wife felt sorry for this feline I ))
don't like cats, but I did too, so she
fed him and fixed him up, and
after a while he pulled
through! Then we started
seeing dead mice, so before you
step you better check! "I guess
he's not all bad", I thought (Even
though some mice were on our deck!)
I asked, "What will you do with him now?"
"Let him go", was my best advice. She said, "No,
His name is Dexter, He's a serial killer of mice!" Later
I petted him, purring at my feet. That he loved it was
very clear. When I looked up, what did I see? My
wife was grinning ear to ear! I favor dogs to
cats it's true, but Dexter's
okay in my book Sometimes I even
pet that cat if there's no one there to look!
The first time
Goodness?
or not
the first time I saw a man’s parts
I was five…….
Such confusion, such disbelief
hide and seek we played and in a a box he hid.
Sears had delivered a new frig
his sons and I “ally alley out free……..”
we called and ran from room to room
in giggling search for each other.
Closet ……….no..
Behind the kitchen door ……no
Upstairs we ran His son and I to the kids bedroom.
Under the bed….nope!
Downstairs we ran and out the door,
the boy went left I went right.
The backyard with all the sheds and trees and….
a huge cardboard box……….
His eldest son squealed from the front yard…
baby boy was no where out front!!!
The flap on the cardboard box moved.
Ever so quietly I approached ……….
“I got him!” I screamed and lifted the box flap.
Inside the box sat my friends Dad?
In an over coat and nothing else….
“Wanta see what I got?” He said?
Between his hands stood a rigid rod
he petted it. Looking down at it and up at me….
I screamed. I ran. “Grandma! GRANDMAAAAAAAAAAA!”
And that was my first exposure to man.
Oh, how sad, oh how very glum,
Goodness gracious me prater comes.
Still writing winsome words of woe,
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
Oh Lord, let not our life pass by
Let us do more than weep and cry.
Wallowing in morbid abode.
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
Whiling away the endless hours;
Scribbling sigils, claws cower.
Envy those not caught in limbo
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
Envy the prattle on the page.
At least the words are given stage.
Fields upon fields, rows upon row.
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
Feeling your life’s left no dower.
Enjoying the pain not power.
Pondering heaven on life’s gallows.
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
Goodness gracious me, prater comes,
And, all of it just, so, ho-hum.
Each word stroked, petted, tilled and hoed,
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
And, all of it just, so, ho-hum.
Leave the box, flee the asylum!
Writing, writing, writing on,
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
All this soulless, mindless, drivel.
Writing, writing, scratch and scribble;
Live above your massive ego
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
She calls me up
Come over now
Let's experiment
Meow
On arrival
Dressed in black
Body purring
Like a pussy cat
Her leather-ed wear
Two thin strips
Flesh so open
Lips to hips
Stocking delight
Two pillars of black
Opening of joy
No turning back
Tying of leather
Lashed to her bed
Purring to perfection
Her wantings read
Stroked and petted
Writhing in pout
Touching of her
In sensuous shout
Deliverance of love
Our bodies grow
Releasing our spores
Explosive throw
On her command i release
Her ties so slack
The rise of her body
Arch of her back
I'm captured within
In clench of her grip
Total satisfaction
Sexed equip
Passion's continue
Well into the night
Leather-ed and bound
Her wanting delight
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love5.php
Freedom turquoise sky, golden wings and me
We are utterly delightfully unencumbered
Loved for ourselves
Admired
Petted
As we float happily on the golden wings
of happiness, sheer enthusiasm and joy
softly float precariously close to our best
friend tree, a twinkly, sparkly, tree of greenness and fun.
A quirky, tree, who has befriended me
And loved me
And taken care of me
Like the wind
Also free and
Fabulous!
I come back often.
To be admired and loved.
Sandra believed in Snow White, and Rapunzel, and Sleeping Beauty.
She waited for her prince for sixty years or more; men came along, but they never met her criteria.
They could not.
Although three really tried.
Not handsome enough.
Not powerful enough.
Did not have a horse.
Sandra spent her lifetime, dreaming of her prince.
She pictured him in her mind when young, and she danced with him, in her mind.
She lived her whole life, in her mind.
When she got older, her relatives gave up.
They had tried to help Sandra empower herself,
But her Cinderella Complex always won out in the end.
She wanted to be idolized,
Revered, admired, petted,
But mostly saved.
She died alone,
The one thing
She had not
Planned
In her
Happily-ever-after.
Dog demands attention and food.
Loves to be petted.
Rolls around on the floor like a pig in slop.
Legs in the air.
My husband claps.
I clap.
Her one trick.
She is the only baby who still lives with us.
The perils of being in our sixties.
The Moon’s Yellow Eyes
After: The King in Yellow by Robert Chambers
Situations righted by the assassination in Sheepshead Bay (alibied with difficulty under earth’s single moon), I curl up on the windowsill hissing at the pallid orb. Oh how, I long for my planet, Carcosa. I lick the remaining human poison from my claws. Yes, man-made poison, but I, I am the one who delivers— population control.
Wilde, my mate, our transformed intermediary, brushes my coat. I purr. How oddly complacent Wilde has become. Once, he too walked on four legs. After our arrival on Earth and his change (We thought the change would regrow the ear I tore from him in his last life—) my mate became no more than a castrato. I do regret the torture which deprived him of two fingers on his right hand. (It made his job more difficult.) But, discipline was necessary.
the pestle crushes
poison white snakeroot:
yellow eyes shine
Well, why am I telling you this? To that I would say, why not? Who on earth would believe a cat could talk?
The feline form has advantages in espionage. A petted and pampered puss can lure the reticent, overhear the loud-mouthed, two-footed, earthly baboons—with cunning, obtain information no human in their right mind would divulge to an enemy. As valet, advisor, disciplinarian to Wilde (and he to the earthlings), my position abides, a mere slap and tickle from the throats of power. My teeth, neck piercing weapons of choice; my claws scimitars of death drip with the blood of masters.
One more night out. Wilde cat-like licks the scar on his damaged hand and stares at the invitation stamped with the Presidential seal. One more night, sweet puss and the reign of The Yellow King will begin.
Published by Illumen 2016
Dogs dogmatically guard the home
Sounding the alarm with a growling bark
As owners are alerted to the threat
Miscreants flee into the dark
Cats are categorically useful too
Their mouse-tracking skills renowned
When a feline is prowling on patrol
Rodents scurry underground
But rabbits are a tougher sell
Their herbivore hunting skills quite moot
Unable to save the day or keep vermin at bay
They mostly sit there looking cute
Rabbits are thin-skinned as well
There's one faux pas you must not commit
Please do not call them rodents
Order Lagomorpha is where they fit
Why then do we delight in ours
The doe we call simply “Bunny” ?
It's cuz her antics provide comic relief
When she yawns it looks so funny
Bunny blithely flips her little plate
A curt review of pet shop food
She’s holding out for blueberries or kale
Depending on her mood
Baby carrots and parsley sprigs
Make for a tasty Bunny lunch
She regales us with her table talk:
Munchity, crunchity, crunch
After a hard day’s work, I come home
To my gray-and-white-furred friend
She’ll run to be picked up and petted
And my stresses are at an end
Yes, Bunny is priceless to us
And she certainly earns her keep
Familial duties done for the day
On a little throw pillow she falls asleep
_______________________________
for contest: Furry Friend
Sponsored by: Royal T