Ballooner, blink in the hot air.
Wink, O noonday sun.
On the brink, is life unfair?
Drink and be as one!
Supreme being, I imbibe!
Above god and man!
Dervish, deus, diatribe!
Lengthen, every span!
Grim-faced, O my spectres?
Well, that's the way it goes.
Singulars and hectares!
Core cone, thy carrion crows!
Trammell the enameling?
O nightingale, sing sweet.
O sky above, thy paneling!
O lion, at thy feet!
Yellow priestess, ritual.
Of this what knoweth ye?
Barrel out the brazen bull!
Fling out, fancy-free!
Rhyme and riddle, rill on roll.
Drums, thy wargods beat.
Goddess of the asherah pole!
Chosen to complete!
Tyrant of tomorrow?
An image wrought in spark.
Brindle, bindle, broken bow!
Gold, fluoresce in dark!
Hone thy skill, O warrior!
Dare not to drop thy tools!
Skyscraper, art free and sure?
Toss away thy rules...
Why can't my blind spot see?
it’s shadowing me in the eye's periphery
edgily creeping sideways like a crab,
watching me, it’s stalking me,
deceiving me with popped eyes
propped up on stilts, curling away when I look.
You live within my every gaze, yet evade my searching blaze.
Why my dear spot do you hide and blind me in so many ways?
Is your evasive spot futile, furtive, or a fugitive in the clear?
Are you black, white, brindle or transparently clear.
Do you suck, poke, protrude, grind
or cut, with a laser sear to blind.
Why can't I see you,
my blind spot hole?
I know you’re there
unseen on the edge!
I’ll shut my eyes now
and hope that you’ll
will be gone when
I awake and stare
to see you clearly there with me,
scene sharing two-eyed
In binocular vision.
I don't see how it matters
Should we be brindle, black, or white
After all our colour
Is governed by our sight
So in a world of darkness
We would be all the same
How can there be a difference
Our eyesight is to blame
So how about we take a look
See what goes on inside
So judge people by their character
And use no other guide
When I was young and friends of mine
Had different coloured skin
We never ever cared about
Which friend was out or in
Was just as we got older
We found this thing called race
We could not understand it
They said it was God's grace
Well I'm still of the old school
The colour of your skin
Does not colour our relationship
In mind you are my twin
These two old pups are near and dear;
I’ve kept them both throughout the years.
Lyra’s brindle, still cheetah-fast;
Lemony’s best years, in the past.
The thought of losing brings a tear.
When daughter schooled quite far from here
and had them crated, it was clear
they could not last, were much harassed,
these two old pups,
so I kept Lyra for a year.
Then, there’s the time Lem’ disappeared;
she got away from us quite fast,
a week in snow, did somehow last,
and then like magic, reappeared!
These two old pups…
—————
For Your Favorite Theme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Regina McIntosh
Written on 04/15/2022
burnt sienna buds
on limbs and brindle branches
emerging life
Seems Jacob, a biblical Mendel
Selected for spots, specks and brindle
Nuts, pop’lar with flocks
Produced stronger stocks
But Laban’s herds started to dwindle
(from Genesis 30)
clear and peaceful
the air fell still
the clouds moving in
in the distance
over the hill
the birds stopped singing
the bees disappeared
the traffic slowed
as the storm brewed near
glistening rain
trickled from the clouds
heavier and heavier
the drops came down
the sky above us rumbled
like anger from up above
a roar of booming explosion
like a passionate kind of love
electric charged the atmosphere
the sky expanded tragically
an ever-growing endless dream
of raging power
and
magically..
The sky lit up
an intensive surge of power
contractions heightened
the storm
hour by the hour
the lightening molten silver
vivid in night
the megawatt anger of nature
striking in plain sight
slashing through the darkest clouds
blacker than the devils soul
the thunder duetted the lightening
nature is in control
subtly the diagnosed
began to loose its symptoms
the sun peaked through
the clouds fluffed up
natures unwilling victims
the bluey grey brindle
with the softest accent of white
the beauty of the sky
always outshines
the stormiest of nights .
A massive, arch-shaped hearth of stone,
old shiplap walls of weathered oak,
warm, woolen rugs of corded make,
ancient rocker, it creaks a lot.
Fire consumes thick maple logs,
perched low on a wrought iron gate,
cast shadows flicker on the wall,
on the dog snoozing by the chair.
All his fur must be decorative
since he always hogs the fire,
a brindle-mutt with gray muzzle,
might just lick intruders to death.
Round window reveals falling snow,
and frosted pasture beyond it,
safe within this homely cottage,
hear the sounds of owls at night.
Such a place I will imagine,
sanctuary, my escape,
but deep down know, if I had it
I’d be bored within two hours.
…I guess some aren’t meant for peace.
Her tail tells tales as wags of whining pleasure
of frolicking service; treasures of licks and love
snips of lips, cheeks rubbing fur to skin akin
kinship-mans best friend finding flee-free paws
shots of super vaccinations to vacation to parks
averted eyes; chewed leather, spilled trash magically
delicious yet daunting; poo-pee fest of wines soaking
cream carpets loathing brindle fur raining lavishly.
Pitful pitbull lay, sit, come, play; mommy’s bay-bay
sweet forever homes to soothe the sad and alone.
Love brought many kitties; each one special.
Some colors solid, others were brindle.
They come in big sizes and some of them small.
No matter how they look, I like them all.
My first fluffy kitty was beautiful, white.
One eye was blue and the other one green.
He grew to become a beautiful sight.
His silky soft fur in sunlight would sheen.
A once feral kitty came to live at my house.
She’d run, slip, and slide excited, wide eyed.
One day with great pride she brought home a mouse.
Unhappy day; she let it go inside!
There was that winter and the Christmas tree.
Our kitty knocked some ornaments around.
It was really a funny sight to see.
Until she knocked the whole tree to the ground!
Some cats are mousers, but others think twice.
Some live in houses and some with wildlife.
Cats can be naughty or they can be nice.
Either way they are fun, the spice of life.
1/8/2017
Written especially for Brenda Chirl-Carrol’s granddaughter &
For the Love of Kitties Contest
oh gee he is a bundle
of dog as i have the same brindle coat
on a mantel they remind me what it took
of my life to make them gentle to the world
and futon come handy as we listen to operas
and with my I camera should I show the peace
or the war the cat hiding as I told her will be ok
just give a day or two or adjust and learn or teach
Tonight it starts again.
The longing for something I can’t have.
A life that is meaningful.
I claw and scrape the surface of humanity.
A bubble that wont’ be burst.
I am on the outside looking in.
Tilt-o-whirl dreams spin out of control until I am dizzy.
I need to get my bearings, put away my dreams of other summers
Filter the shadows of my life
Are their lives as messed up as mine?
Is there perfect harmony?
Can it be reached in a Buddhist Temple on a steppe in Tibet?
Would a mantra, robe, and sandals free me?
Or would I long for a cheeseburger, maybe a bag of fries…”could you super size that please?”
These are the burning questions that keep me awake at night.
There’s a brindle dog that sleeps under my house at night.
As long as I don’t let him in he doesn’t know what he is missing.
Toss him a bone and he’s ecstatic.
Me I am full of blue trombone solos that no one wants to hear.
Jeez you would think every now and then someone would want to know why the shadows on my face never change, but no one dares to ask.
They would get an answer they’re not prepared for,
An answer full of blue ruin and rag water.
From my chair
Through the air
I want my info now
Truth or dare
I don’t care
Give me info now
Hip wired infolites
Something bout usage rights
Whereas my info wow
Flying flags ever knowing
Looking back never going
Here’s my info now
Meaning without content
Exists without it being sent
The contents meaning slowly dies
Contending feeds on sorefull eyes
Mercy typo pings brindle blogger
Immortal mention 2 NSA loggers
Wikimaster with google goggles
Seeks truthess acknak for boondoggle
Give me just a little push
My parental burning bush
Life lite the snippet deluxe
Youtube the world gone amuck
WHO SHOT MY DOG?
Dedicated to my English mastiff, Zeus
Who would shoot my dog
The brindle warrior
Whose brave heart
Kept me safe
Whose eyes
Followed me in faithfulness
When tears of anguish fell
The male who had my trust
Slept beside me nightly
Alert at any strangers touch
Upon my door
The one true friend who
Never wandered from my side
What cravenly bastard shot my dog
The days grow shorter on the spindle
of North winds crispy, frosted breath
and winter patches white o'er brindle
where autumn's bow has left her flesh.
The hours dwindle brushed by twilight's broom
that paints the dark revealing moontide’s dawn
and icy moonshine drips from lunar looms
to drape the earth in robes of pearl chiffon.
As wispy respirations string through air
the year moves steadily through its last quarter.
The white washed atmosphere seems cold and bare
as this year dwindles and the days grow shorter.
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