The most welcoming bedroom I ever had was high up in a tree.
My hosts were foxes, I believe there were about twenty-three.
Some hogged the pillow, but most kind of let me be.
They were bragging to everyone about their Air B and B.
We slept well, and it was a good deal, a reasonable fee.
I got poked a few times, one kit laid all night on my knee.
But in the morning, they served me a delicious lemon tee.
And they invited me again to stay with them in that glorious tree.
The drunk hogs the path where the public walks
Then hogs the air with his nonsense talk
His breath smells of ale
His eyes look stale
This Scottish male
In a Scottish gale
Just gets wet
Along with his pet
His unkempt dog
As white as the fog
Feeds him a chip
Gives it some lip
He thinks he is hip
And knows it all
That he's on the ball
Then staggers and falls
Can't walk but crawls
On his all fours
He doesn't care
This Glasgow Laird
Who thinks his world isn't fair
For tomorrow he will call into the bank
Take out some cash from the Governments tank
Then he can go back to the house
That will sell him more Guinness stout
And stand outside on the same old street
Where the cold will numb his directionless feet.
Christmas shopping in Glasgow. 6 drunk men hogged the footpath in the cold rain. They didn't realise all the people who could get passed with getting soaked.
Laird is a Scottish word, derived from "Lord". It is the owner of the property.
I’m in a salt and pepper dive called Magdalena’s Den of Sin,
Long overdo for dry dock, with my keel hogged out of line.
I’ve just enough good cheer to ring a single jingle bell.
Outside of that, the climate on the weather deck is fine.
I've got my ducks lined up, soon I’ll be shooting them down
So that I’m ready when those saints come marching in.
I’ll use a few smooth maneuvers to raid the barmaid’s port
In this sailor’s house of worship, Magdalena’s Den of Sin.
Some Morning Musings
I saw a most wondrous sight;
A cardinal feeding a sparrow beak to beak,
Compassion while bully boys hogged the feed,
Now why can’t we be like that?
***
Dear Lord, here I am beneath the trees,
In a place you made especially for me
I do not know why you love me so,
When my rattled mind blows to and fro;
I so want to know and understand,
When it’s just me, or
Your mighty hand.
*****
Gray velvet doves
Blue jeweled Jays
Dusty topaz sparrows;
Pink lungs expelling for lizards of sap green
Crimson cardinals and blue-black finch.
All trying to find their piece of peace.
******
Here among the birds
In a green world
Face to face with a frightened squirrel,
Trees enjoying the same summer breeze as I.
Where fresh air allows escape
From masks and mindfulness of 19,
Not alone am I with such whispers and sighs
Of leaping lizards sliding along the rails.
Though the mood wanders over ebbing days
Such peace must be deadly paid
War, virus, racism take no holiday.
Father, send us a rainbow
Wonderful Sight
I saw a most wonderful sight;
A red cardinal feeding a sparrow
Beak to beak.
Compassion for big doves
Hogged the bird feeders,
Now why can’t we be like that?
My snow boots weren’t meant for snow.
I bought them several years ago
In summer – I was Ireland-bound,
Expecting puddles on the ground.
They’re hiking boots, not very high,
But waterproof to keep one dry.
I’d have no reason to complain
When Irish skies would spit out rain.
My trip was glorious and, funny,
Every day was bright and sunny.
Nestled snugly in my case,
The unworn boots hogged too much space.
Still, I’ve used them lots since then
When stormy weather comes again.
I stomp through slush piles on the street,
No drops or dampness on my feet.
I’m grateful to my Ireland tour,
Preparing me so I’d be sure
To buy the perfect boots to wear
In snowstorms here or rainstorms there.
At five of the clock on the dot a female owl woke the late summer fog out of its slumber
as it hogged our house - 'chouette', 'chouette' - repeatedly after a short break, as it hunts
for food for its brood, or speaking to its mate with near perfect conditions with hot days and
light rain nights so unlike the too dry or the too wet days and nights of yester years:
our owl alarm clock waking to what would become a hot pleasant day.
Fell twilight for the gods on craven haunches,
sarcophagus tantrum slammed,
broke fingers dug in the sacred bread,
stilled mouths from sipping rough cask wine
from the vine of the freshly damned.
Satan, with crossed hooves, hogged the distant corner,
stroking pointed chin,
enrapt, volcanic, in serpentine repose,
silent, black and melodramatic,
marinated in chloroform sin.
And God pulled strings that puppet limbs
writhed virulent with fate
and infect the twelve with cold unease,
inklings spawned and realisation dawned
of a favourite son's death in orchestrate.
Betrayal engendered of love of lucre,
mule whipped by denial,
when driven rivets nailed feet and hands
the physics of pain in vinegar nerves
was less a torture trial.
When forehead thorns drew bloody sweat
the side was speared through,
it ended in tears of salt and stigmata
and waves of hysterical weeping and wailing
for they know not what they do...?
"They know no what they do?"
playing fast and ever loose
with good intent, the best defence for dirty deeds
of crucifiers, despots and natural born killers,
yet the laws of man decree ignorance no excuse.
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.