The fog comes/on little cat feet.//
It sits looking/over harbor and city/
on silent haunches/and then moves on.
~Carl Sandburg
Arrival of fog was something
more catty with claws extended
it gripped the town with damp dreadful
shivering so even church bells
refused to ring and shopkeepers
closed their normally friendly doors
against the sudden misery
of a day gone terribly wrong.
the fog rolls in
on little dog paws
it sits looking
over beach and island
on silent haunches
then springs up and moves on
dark Lord, lend me your horns and tail
the monster you need is with me in jail
my brother mike, a werewolf mean
he is the perfect villain on Halloween
His howl is treacherous, it ruins your suppers
His teeth are revolting, especially the uppers
Nightmares will be given throughout the night
to anyone who has seen his transformed sight
who else has the haunches to run children down?
To scare them so hard, the earth turns brown?
What other animal's howl causes your blood to stop?
you can pause right here, the werewolf is your only op.
when he wolfs out, there is blood in his teeth
he captures humans and tears into flesh above and beneath
the screaming goes on for a long time until his prey is dead
he will keep you tossing all night, scared to death inside your bed.
The taste of blood is on his tongue
A scent carried by the wind
Haunches move to a rhythmic song
A song only he can hear
Beneath the moons dim glow
His eyes have found the prey
His mind is drawn to slender throat
And flesh torn away
He is the horse and rider
A silent Death approaches
Space between the two grow tighter
But only one will notice
The reapers shadow cloaked in fur
A scythe sent to harvest
A single lone but deadly cur
Twisting through the forest
Upon his pounce, the kill is swift
His jaws are locked in place
A final jerk and bones are split
A painting of gore and grace
Now to return, since he's through
With another life he's smothered
A Death to all that he pursues
A savior to his brothers.
Christopher Pitts/2019
Hear the tale of the green fields where I roam,
Leisure World, the place that I call home.
If you take strolls (a healthy habit),
at dawn or dusk, you'll see a rabbit.
(If you were faster, you could grab it)
You'll see four-legged, curly-haired cuties
who lead their pets while they do their duties,
and grey-brown squirrels on their haunches
meticulously chewing their lunches.
If your garden was ruined by a snail,
I ask, are you reading my mail?
See the colorful apples of my eyes -
hummingbirds and monarch butterflies.
But what I'd like to see most (pardon my sharin'),
is a coyote or a great white heron.
The foxes in my garden
Arrive at night to play
They had their fill of chicken
And so decide to stay
I crouch down on my haunches
And look into her eyes
The little one so trusting
She’s like her mother wise
I see how she has taught them
To fend well for themselves
But only Little Roxy
Has me so overwhelmed
She comes to me at midnight
For honey in a bowl
As I crouch down and watch her
I know my heart she stole.
The other three just run around
They eat and scatter fast
But Roxy and her mother
Make this encounter last
At the Des Moines River’s Road End
There was a sharp tricky right bend
Prickly pines there were ready to defend
Graveled middle, a modern MODOT trend
Weeds that flittering faeries often tend
Mushroom homes, upon whom elves defend
Mother nature sat on haunches to mend
Torn sage weeds, beavers had chewed to extend.
After midnight, an uncle
was born a newborn.
In the center of the Buddhist room where incense smoke lingers
He was born sitting on his haunches
He stood up, his legs trembling
“I really wanted to be a steamboat.“
He was a troublesome man.
So the next day, we went out to the harbor in the morning.
Uncle Pulp was armored up with a heavy body.
“Watch out, Uncle!”
I closed my eyes.
Behind my eyelids, the sunlight shone thinly.
Sure enough, he slips on the tetrapod.
He slips on the tetrapod and flips over.
His head was bleeding and he couldn't move a muscle.
I knew he would not live long
But the way it all ended so quickly
I was a little disappointed and sentimental for a while.
The next afternoon
under the bridge, where I could hear the sound of the rain
I was playing with stones
The leaden sky stretched far out to sea
to the sea beyond.
Then I saw my uncle's soul emerge from his corpse
the soul of my uncle, shimmering
It came to me
“I still can't be a steamboat
But I think I can become a mirage.“
With a look of unconcern on his face
He went out into the rainy sea.
And he never came back.
At night soil dreams in silent technicolour, peaceful and alone.
It exhales gently without the trampling of mankind snapping
roots; without the world above and its usual stampede.
Branches notice it first, having time to stretch,
to watch stars appear; time to open bark and bow wide,
sprawling and luscious. Away from daily smokes and steams,
the sky is a black mosaic of golden shards.
Rivers lap, sigh upstream. Birds fly in a chorus,
circling in trills below the moon’s pupil-white skin.
Fields are resting their patchwork bodies, the tissue of
grass sewn from the earthly vapours of oak, birch, ash.
Nature’s legs grow stubbly at night, wild and unshaven.
In the morning a rabbit stands on its haunches, saluting the sun.
"please sit on your sitzfleisches,"the 4th grade teacher said
Preschoolers do not understood German, so they continued to stand
"Sit on your hindquarters!" This was stated a bit louder.
The kids stared at her, still not understanding.
"Your haunches, your petootsies, your derrieres!"
They looked totally consternated now.
A preschool teacher walked in.
"Sit on your pockets," she said.
They all sat.
hey, mommy, can I please read a page?
the kitten was sitting on her haunches, waiting.
The next page, the girl promised.
She was loving this adventure story.
Every line was a treat to read.
Kitty sat high on her haunches.
Now, Mommy?
In a second, the girl replied.
It is very difficult to relinquish a book like this.
My horse's haunches sway,
Saunter up hillocks and down a valley path,
Above a ridge off and on: a village where some people fish,
Phosphorescent flotsam washed ashore.
Green embers breathe as if through shriveled lungs.
Wax in contrast to the gloaming dark that's coming on.
Shrubbery shadows lengthen, enlarging blacknesses.
Crickets ratchet down their temperatures.
The earth cools in wan mirage.
Time lapsed, the stars make
A slow, quiet carousel of lights.
It circles far above us disengaged.
Wings of crows scoop pools of air,
Then dive down open maws
On tiny, furred crawlers shocked stock still.
Crows chalk their caws across the night.
A copse will grow into a stand of oaks.
The vintage children like to climb.
Gnarled limbs reminding them of fiction sailing ships.
Hand over fist to where the topmost rigging is.
For now, people and trees are bottled tiny on a shelf.
At dry dock like some whittled models are.
Until the oak is christened keel and frame
And of agers live lives and make their livelihoods at sea. (9/18/22)
Monochrome winds fantail snowdrifts.
Fleck-churned sparks maw feathery flights
and a howling backdraft
spikes matted fur.
Pawing winds spring traps clenched,
injurious icicled haunches hollowed.
A smothering whiteness whistles
through yellow teeth, a smoldering
witness from snow that isn't snow,
(one homeless person's jaw drops, he looks up,)
I wolf down yogurt that drips off the plastic sides,
whitening the Los Angeles sunshine
where some homeless rest on the reflective sidewalk,
all but one, the nimbus of his mouth quakes.
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.
rumor should have stopped at our living room
not sure what happened
temporary insanity?
we discussed it
agreed to never share it with others
both lied apparently
came back to bite us in the haunches
served us right
knew better
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.