Some people believe
that dogs have no words.
Perhaps they've never
heard the language of dogs.
In the heart of a guide dog,
there is language,
and in moments of danger,
appropriate actions speak eloquently.
The gaze with which they watch
their handler from behind
is language itself.
They communicate words
to those who cannot see.
Their quiet conversation,
though inaudible to others,
still reaches its intended listener.
The chimp stretches its arm,
a small hand, palm up under my chin,
fingers and thumb supple,
a pink-pawed sharing.
It’s a palmistry offering,
if only I had the skill to read it.
There is a lifeline.
It looks a lot like mine
if my hand were his.
I see a heart-line,
it seems open and flowing
as if this ape were following
another meaning of ‘heart.’
The handler moves on.
I check my own palm,
note the similarities, even see
an indistinct squeezed crease,
where the heart line bifurcates.
A sign, but of what?
And why does my hand
look like an old map of the moon,
while his looks like the hand
of a poet?
Releasing a
lost-in-city
Inland Taipan
into the wild,
the snake handler
exclaimed with joy
'go! get a life'.
Slithering away snake
hissed back 'you too'!
[[X][x][X][X][X][X][X]]
[ ]
Albeit, a riddle and true,
happenstance quietude,
privacy absolute of two,
monarch, and servitude.
( )
(*******~0~*******)
( )
Proximity rather risqué,
her inner horse handler,
usually believed display,
and so all souls said her.
( )
(*******~0~*******)
( )
Soulfully tenet ill a day,
as good friend perishes,
Queen Victoria alas say,
confidant's...cherishes.
[ ]
[[X][x][X][X][X][X][X]]
I received a comment on my post
I attempt exposure once again
Shall I perish by others' words?
Rein in heartbeats like a strict handler
Or ride the bronco bareback?
Awakened from depression on hope
I thought I was free from validation
When will mania be domesticated?
My drama on a fruitless escapade
At least my heart finds its gait
Grounded I have laundry to do
Really I have a house to vacuum
But, a comment on my poetry
Is it coffee or coffers of expectation?
Shall I wait for this present to pass
Wondering if it is critical or in remission?
Can one comment fill an empty day?
Look up to the sky where poetry is born
What’s next behind one encore?
Good poetry comes when vessels are empty
Nature comes to fill the void in a vessel
But one poem is not everlasting H2O
Filling this vassal with eyeballs
Yet when my love returns tomorrow
After 12 days of absence disquieting
My heart skips quietly to a cantor
Keeps my polarities from spinning
Grounds me from prying stares
No poem is constant like loved ones
No comment compares to thee
Contribution is a wild ride
Fingers on the keyboard
Sweating
The chimp stretches its arm,
a small hand, palm up under my chin,
fingers and thumb supple,
a pink-pawed sharing.
It’s a palmistry offering,
if only I had the skill to read it.
There is a life-line.
It looks a lot like mine
if my hand were his.
I see a heart-line,
it seems open and flowing
as if this ape were following
another meaning of ‘heart.’
The handler moves on.
I check my own palm,
note the similarities, even see
an indistinct squeezed-in crease,
where the heart line should be.
A sign, but of what?
And why does my hand
look like an old map of the moon?
Time passes and I'm glued to the monitor,
Swiping articles on a greased up screen,
Some are absurd, some are obscene,
But how do I care,
As it sits on the lap I’m its janitor.
Acting like a sane handler,
But things go insane quickly,
With multiple tabs open how sickly,
I want to read them all.
The vital cog is I never go in-cog,
And the days I have missed the jog,
Blamed it all on the smog.
Getting the results but the process is getting wayward,
Trying to prohibit procrastinating profusely,
But my luck’s out of favor.
I’m in the danger of a mighty fall
My eyes are watering down,
While I mow the lawn
The time passes and I reminisce
I have traversed many dawns.
The chimp stretched its arm,
palm up under my chin,
fingers and thumb supple,
a pink-pawed sharing.
It’s a palm-reading offering,
if only I had the skill to interpret it.
There is a life-line.
It looks a lot like mine,
there are breaks in it
like mine.
I see a heart-line,
it seems squeezed to one side,
like mine.
His handler moves on.
I am left wondering
if it was I who had been read,
and why now does my palm
resemble a map
of my dreaming face?
Outside of town
a cluster of circus people
were clanging stakes into summer's ground.
It was a lively event:
with a sequined lion tamer
heavily muscled trapeze artists
the smell of cheap carnival food
and watered down drinks.
A stuffed Sabre-toothed cat was paraded in a cage.
While a chimp blew kisses to bubble popping music.
Clowns and sparkling ladies
manically smiled between everything...
I was sitting home that night.
Thinking about the gentle gray giant
Who'd given rides to children all night.
Without a break or complaint..
Slowly walking her tiny circle of misery,
Sadly, chewing away on something unseen.
After the performers took a victory lap...
I watched the elephant handler-fingering his cash.
Within the grand shadow of Viola his meal ticket...
Metal hook flashing from the loop in his pants
I'd contributed a link to that thick chain
around Viola's gray pillar leg...
That was the last circus I would ever attend.
Forged in fire, presented 'ala carte'
Deceit and lies play their devious part
like Hell Hounds hunting as a team of two.
Their handler keeps close watch on you.
In stark sound of silence, whispers creep
while seeking souls to groom and reap.
Greedy, modern men are such easy prey.
These dogs will snare them by end of day.
Beware your pitfalls when traps are set.
The dark one trains each evil, defiled pet.
His hounds thirst to lick your heart's blood
and drown your spirit in a diabolical flood.
The fiendish canine are taught to fight,
lurking in shadows, beyond the light.
Be steadfast in courage; stand and defend,
so your battle will bring the dark one’s end.
Life lover
Death mugger
Hope giver
Low sugar
Water chugger
Love lugger
Tree hugger
Silly bugger
Fun frolicker
Food fantasiser
Friend finder
Hug holder
Soft shouldered
Money shrugger
Deep diver
Divine dealer
Rift healer
Hate hater
Kindness creator
Destiny developer
Imperfect Father figure
Occasional tent rigger
Peace pursuer
Joy juggler
Plate wobbler
Poetry writer
Destiny thriver
Earth empowerer
Environment ambassador
Eden encourager
Evil eradicator
Snake stamper
Veganish validator
Animal appreciator
Wonderful wisdom warrior
Future fantasiser
Present meditator
Past appreciator
Sporty spectator
Not so bad geezer
Summertime sneezer
Bespectacled bungler
Kitchen surface scrubberer
Sad movie blubberer
Healthcare handler
Magic marveller
Movie meddler
Piano plonker
Canine craver
Book reveller
River walker
Christ carrier
Church changer
Cross celebrator
Deafness dabbler
Community keeper
Poverty challenger
Happiness harbinger
Justice instigator
Prayer purveyor
Holiness hailer
Jehovah jotter
Jesus jostler
Bible basher
Beautiful
Believer.
Joe Sandler states that he can handle
An ample band of verbal vandals.
Scanning a slew of scrambled samples,
Joe soon grows grudgingly disgruntled.
Top trophy goes to Mighty Sandler
For Tongue Twister triumphant handler.
December 28, 2020
Contest: Tongue Twister
Sponsor: Joe Sandler
Sjaak was a K-9 in a little town
he was shot while on duty in a drive-by
he was with the Police since 2014 and he was partly brown
his age hasn't been given in this crime by
People stood near the side of the road
while watching an entourage of blue
to pay respects to this code
we cried while watching them pass through
A Belgian Malinois was his breed
a truly handsome dog
I wish he could have used his creed
to escape this madness fog
I'm sure his handler is grieving still
I can't imagine his feelings allow
it's enough to induce one to be ill
but in the afterlife is where he is now
The chimp stretched its arm,
hand palm up under my chin,
fingers and thumb supple,
a pink-pawed sharing.
It’s a palmistry offering,
if only I had the skill to read it.
There is a life-line.
It looks a lot like mine,
there are breaks in it
like mine.
I see a heart-line,
but it seems
squeezed to one side,
like mine.
His handler moves on.
I am left wondering
if it was I who had had
his hand read,
and why now does my palm
resemble a map
of the face of the moon?
The rubber roo is a fantastic work of art.
Constructed of rubber, as to never fall apart.
It has a large round head with little arms and legs.
It strongly bares the resemblance of a hard boiled egg.
It’s made to punch and kick around.
The perfect back yard toy to deliver a righteous beat down.
It’s for your everyday frustration, it’s never broke a toe.
Kick it barefoot or with a boot, you can even pick it up and throw.
But leave it parked outside, it has one special part.
The backside where you kick, kind of smells like a bad old fart.
It comes with its own private handler carefully packaged in the box.
Our factory is cleverly hidden, way out in the boondocks.
Willy Wonka Is Not Here So What Is My Factory Going to Make Poetry Contest.
Caren Krutsinger
5-10-20
Related Poems