Best Whines Poems
"Once upon a midnight Poe"
Underneath the midnight mask, I remove the makeup at last,
The moon is an anvil to my mood, mooring along the vacant vast
I lay the Gin and Tonic by the bedside asking for more,
I hear a noise, a lost voice, the echoes of no rejoicing,
I couldn't brush the light coming from the cracks under the door
I gave it some thought,
My eyes twinkle, towards the tinsel tiles on the floor
Seemingly the light seemed to be deeming the distance of resistance
Curiosity came in crawling and caressing
To sense and taste of sinful skin
Everything then grew thinner than thin
On the spur of the moment, I hear a whisper, my love is near
"Darkness there, and nothing more."
A nerve impulse hits the wall if nothing nary, nevertheless
I sadistically, stagger a sullen movement, even so
At this moment, Edgar Whispered, "Nothing more."
Many nights, I dream of demonic demons, demanding answers for
A sad --sadder voice sits and whines, with the wind
"Merely this and nothing more!"
A notary, nauseate moment, seasick, shipwreck sensation
Secular suicide spreading like gossip, sailing through my veins
Evilly and twisted, "This it is and nothing more" - remains
Tweaking and repeating, the speeding of needing
My drugs of pain and passion, to end the delusion
Of the self-inflicted - bruising from the voices of my choices
I hear the whisper, a selfish whisper, asking for Lenore
How many nights, he comes into my room, dress like A Raven
Painted and tainted like the midnight dreary
Reciting the excitement like The Bells, of Annabel, in a rush
Never, never, nameless here forevermore, in my dreams
Under my evil-doing skin, like the sum of sin is how it seems
On the nights, my soul mate does not appear,
The anchor drowns and torments me with tears
I travel up in fear, of the fear, when my ghost is not near
Rattling and trembling, by the bedside,
On the grim side of the mental moon, when in gloom
I scrape up my room, screaming at the bleeding,
From my heart, who needs a killing,
From a feeding and the feeling of letting one, go!
To once again hear the renditions of the
songbird’s morning trill as leaves upon the
trees tremble in triad tones within the
moorside tempest; and lyrical waves in unsung
meadows symbolically crash against limestone walls
and telephone wires in viola whines
an archaic symphony.
© Harry J Horsman 2022
Ears pricked at car door closing in the street,
and focussed on the footsteps through the gate
she stepped into the hall, unsteady feet
they bounded forward, welcome couldn't wait.
Two forty pounds of fur, and sixteen legs,
four eager snouts and tongues shot through the air
her hands held up fruitlessly as she begged,
they brought her down, smothered her face and hair.
A canine/human ball rolled on the floor
propelled by laughter, barks and sudden shrieks
of love and longing, bottled up before
the time has come to leave, and no-one speaks.
Chorus of barking, followed by the whines
the front door closing for the final time.
R.i.P Angela Miles, passed away today but was allowed home
to see her Huskies last week for a couple of hours.
Before I knew the day, the time
He’d die,
I came home to him,
My little smile, knowing he’d
Be there, he was always there
Always aware I was his
Defender, his reminder that
Some of us were willing to believe
In his war with intruders
Intruders who were often invisible
Yet, unmistakably real
Like the thunder he accepted
With trembling heart, fear concentrated
It seemed almost a tangible thing,
Even as he squirmed from the peace
Of my arms, where there was
More love that a heart can bear,
Love rushing to his rescue,
When life didn’t seem to care
He knew me when I smiled and
When I cried, saw the darkness
Bipolar draws over the mind,
The soul, and the gentle that a prayer leaves
Behind, he knew me like I know
He would have died to protect me
From the pain of his passing
A pain that embraced me with lasting
Grief, permanent memories
A yearning for the four soft paws,
The echo of howls, the affectionate
Licking, gentling even the worst of doubts
With assurance that love is always
The way to bring music out of the clouds,
Poetry out of the whines,
Breathing hope into the moment
Just before yesterday becomes the memory
That silences the dark
Whispering joy to the heart
Who evokes – his little expression
When stroking him restored some semblance
Of the grace that has always shown me
The truth in his eyes, warm and caring,
Glowing with affection that comes to life
In those whose destiny is service
To those of us who hear the song they sing
Before their hearts grow wings!
A cruel Jack Frost blows icy floss
(in front of spring a’ burstin’)
while shiftin’ sheaves of withered leaves
near freezin’ streams a’ thirstin’.
A pack reviled runs roamin’ wild,
the alpha wolf wakes howlin’
then scents a lean and lonesome scene
while on the lurk a’ prowlin’.
A cloud revolts with spangled bolts,
and starry skies start closin’
as wild geese soar beyond death’s door
neath naked moon a’ posin’.
Electric shafts, like fractured rafts,
sail night’s cathedral caldrons –
their cracking curse makes herds disperse
in random splayed and sprawled runs.
A she-wolf sighs with hungry eyes;
the ancient wolf waits, bayin’ -
with weary back, he’s lost the track,
his bandied legs betrayin’.
The brood’s somewhere in shrouded lair
with mama left to mind ’em -
the wolf, a’ drag with empty swag,
is on his way to find ’em.
The pack rejoins with weary loins -
perhaps its days are numbered.
In evening’s night, he’s feeling tight,
with aches and pains encumbered.
As morning nears, with shaggy ears
(one droopin’ down, hung over)
he’ll set the course with renewed force,
for, yes, he’s still the rover.
When snow enshrines the timberlines
and skies are ripped asunder
though young, lupine, they’ll stifle whines,
as gullies fill with thunder;
mid echoes in the mouth o’ death,
they bid farewell the lair
while panting puffs o’ crystal breath
float, hanging in the air.
Their path is black (they can’t look back
for herds long gone a’ missin’)
as dusk profanes the snow-bound plains
the sinkin’ sun was kissin’.
Neath northern lights, with barks and bites,
he keeps ’em all in motion –
the speckled scars of fallin’ stars
display the night’s devotion.
The sky’s a’ blushin’ in the east,
and hollow wind’s are sighin’
while buzzards freeze in gallows trees,
a’ roostin’, rapt and eyein’.
These ghouls of prey, they’re spooked away,
like tumbleweeds a’ blowin’,
by tilted head, white fangs tipped red,
and warnin’ wail’s a’ growin’.
...... Continued in part 2 ......
Another Christmas day is finally here
The very thought fills me with such fear
I have to try and control my old Aunty Mable
Once she hits the gin she gets very unstable
Uncle Arthur rushes in and opens the sherry
then sups half the bottle and gets really merry
He begins to sing carols at the top of his voice
I put up with the din… I don’t have much choice!
The last to arrive are old Gladys and Bert
Bert always wears his distasteful Santa shirt
Gladys walks through the door and starts to moan
I wish Bert would leave the old cow at home!
She whines from the moment she removes her coat
And heads for the sofa and grabs the remote
Demanding she has her dinner on her knee -
There’s some crap on the TV that she wants to see
I politely tell Gladys the dinner table is set
And the film will be repeated of that you can bet
So she sits at the table and picks at her starter
then moans very loudly to poor Uncle Arthur
The table’s soon laden with wonderful food
But Gladys is seething, she’s so blinking rude
She says the turkey’s tasteless and it's bone dry
So I pass her the gravy and I try not to cry
Bert finishes the bowl of chestnuts and sprouts
He’ll be passing foul wind in copious amounts
After rich figgy pud he crams in six mince pies …
It’s no wonder he’s gross with huge wobbly thighs
They descend on me each and every year
And eat all my food my wine and my beer
Then we open the gifts that lie under the tree
As per usual they bring just one present for me
Gladys has knitted me a horrendous jumper
it's two sizes too large, I just want to thump her
I dutifully put in on and I feign my delight …
but it will be in the rubbish bin later tonight!
At three we watch The Queen on the telly
Bert’s farting begins; the room gets so smelly
Within minute’s they’re snoring away in their chair
I retreat to the kitchen and silently swear
By the time they wake up all the dishes are done
The doorbell rings; thank god their taxi has come!
This is the LAST time they'll take advantage of me …
Cos I've booked a yule cruise on the Caribbean sea!
Fiction write
12/14/17
Lurking in the darkest shadows,
she looks for one of us to hound,
trying to catch a little glimpse
as she staggers along and limps
Spittle and drool keeps dripping
from yellow teeth and snarling lips.
She whines and hunches her back
picking out one of us to attack.
Alone because she's made enemies
of those who once pitied her, but
she never let us howl our intentions
and blocked any effort of intervention.
With watchful eyes she tries to be sly
and has an ego that's rude and annoying.
She's always waiting for the chance
to trounce, then do her trophy dance.
She takes swipes and nips at our butts
when she thinks she has the upper hand,
but her whining doesn't matter to us.
Our pack calls her 'the ornery old cuss.'
Let her coo and take those falsetto bows,
and let her think she's a ruling queen,
but we all know she's just a looney hyena
while we laugh at her haughty demeanor.
^. .^
1/31/17
Poetry in an animal's view
contest by Jamie
On a sale, my Aunt Bel can’t be denied
Access to mark-downs with red, yellow tags
Off for the big loot, her shoulders take pride
In carrying four gigantic tote-bags.
To keep poised, she dons fancy sunglasses
Like those models who shop but then conceal,
A giddy look that excites the senses
Obsessed about offers… Aunt’s set to reel.
Hurrying to snatch branded teenage jeans
Which do not fit her extra large belly;
She picks a bimbo hat, dye, and face-creams
As twinkling eyes roll … what a joyful spree.
While purchases are arranged , now she whines
The Mall’s closing with a long queue that’s packed
Bel groans,” I'm dizzy; my breathing's not fine,”
She gets ahead… feigning a heart attack!
Humorous Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Thomas Martin
Come my beauty, I am the voice of the forest,
Just take my mossy hand and come my dearest;
With love you will be embraced by emerald vines,
Listen to the birds sing, oh what a sweet chorus.
And in ancient towering trees the wild wind whines,
On hanging branches tangled moss falls and twines;
Let us take this path, see the sage unfolding ferns,
Not far, my dear, a creek bubbles like sweet chimes.
Come my darling, be careful of those wild rose thorns,
A colorful bright hummingbird twirls, swirls and turns;
To hear my whisper, that has always been your "choice",
I know you love me, since childhood this love burns.
The forest is within your heart and I am the sweet voice,
And in your dream dear, I called and you came by choice;
You love my green deepness, my peace, and tranquility,
So until it is time to wake, be still and just rejoice.
__________________________
April 30, 2016
Poetry/Rubaiyat/Forest
Copyright Protected, ID 16-784-237-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Poetry (Fill in the Blank)
sponsor, Poet Destroyer
Third Place
fallen, rotting tree
a short pause to sit and think
what was in this exact spot
one million years past?
my dog whines impatiently
as if he already knows...
the ever helpful angels,
we meet along the way,
ones who will pick you up,
till you are happy, bloody aye,
boot the black dog up the Kyber pass,
and the mongrel whines away,
depression knocked off, on its asss,
when the angel comes your way,
take the world by scruff,
yer tough enough,
be happy bloody aye,
let the inner spirit shine, plum duff,
is all that johnson says...
Don Johnson
On the bed, my ginger cat settles
onto a pile of clean laundry, dryer warm
Feline steady stare, resolute
a strategy of possession
she relaxes the way prayer soothes
"Off!" I command. My cat an unwelcome bedded guest.
she whines, "Surely, he's bluffing!"
solidified
empowered
swollen in the pride of "I'm not moving!"
meows spewed like an anthem of resistance
I lift her from the pile,
my underwear dangles from cat claws
like cheap tinsel on a tree
she exits, her short lived reign
sulks into howls of whining
till dinner softens her rebuff
till wherever curiosity and comfort take her,
anew
My hope of co-habitation:
to calm the little woes of daily chores
to reduce cat prestige from shedded hair
to shrink feline non-compliance to a
manageable scale
Our social contract - a trade off
to reaffirm my status
to maintain the charade of "boss"
an unsteady footing
in the crushed aspiration of rule
Poem composed February 7/2022
Wind
wandered
whispering
when wondrously. . .
Whoosh!
“Wail,”
went wind
while whirling
with wild whipping
whines.
March 11, 2019 for Joseph May's Light Up The Page 2 Poetry Contest
The heart words its sweet lines
Pen marks papers and has tough times
Passion and duty, each one whines
And my soul with art chimes
These are a teacher poet's rhymes.
I wanted to write a Lind6886 poem but not for any contest!
EXAM TIME!!
Thank you so much, Robert.. Best regards.
With John Wayne snarling at me
from the television screen,
I quickly glance at my watch;
five minutes to the end
of a year’s journey through
what the Psalmist would describe
as the Valley of Death,
and what Dante would describe
as a descent through hell.
The little small ball of white fur
whines at my feet,
his almond dark eyes
begging for the last bit of cheese
I have in my hand.
Take him out now
for his nocturnal constitutional,
Or wait until three in the morning?
It is not a difficult choice.
The puppy and I head for the door.
The puppy runs hither and yon
around the yard,
sniffing and searching
the frozen ground
for the perfect spot
to make his nocturnal emissions.
I reflect upon the arrival
of another year In Anno Domini,
with dread, or is it anticipation?
Another year of grace
is what they always say about
the turning of a new year.
Like the puppy running from
one frozen turd to another
in the yard, I, sniff and search
among the heap of promised
“grace-filled moments?”
from my past year.
The church bells begin
to peal out the old year
as the puppy stops and
stands poised upon a
strategically chosen location
to unleash the grace
contained within himself
upon the frozen ground.
I appreciate my puppy’s
brilliant metaphor of
crapping out the old year
to make room for the new year.
There are some years indeed,
in which grace is bestowed
in abundant quantity.
And, there are some years indeed,
in which one must sniff
and scratch to find the grace
hidden within the dung heap.
The church bells cease their tolling,
as the puppy, in a triumphal display
Of accomplishment,
kicks with his hind feet,
bits of ice, snow, and fecal matter
high into the air.
The puppy, head held high,
small tail wagging, and I,
retreat from the frozen yard
toward our house.
Warmth and a hope for new grace
greet us as we enter the house.
And, as I close the door,
I glance once more at the frozen yard.
I leave the old year
and its promise of grace,
lying in a heap
upon the frozen ground.