Long Dog days Poems
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His blood wasn’t red
At least in my head… that is what I said
To myself, believed, accepted
As fact – absolute proof that he was better
Than the mere human, the simple man
The one who took my hand when I needed him
His sweat didn’t smell
But, oh, my heart did swell… never would repel
This heart who loved him so
Knew he was like the sainted ones
Despite his addictions and secrets, the darkness
That whispered doubt from his soul when I prayed for him
His light wouldn’t fade away
Never giving in to dread or delay… a soul who would betray
Reflections of kindness and grace, inspiration
Faith that soared over the hesitation, the suspicion
To make a way through each conviction,
Destroying the grief that lives inside bitterness and resentment
His life wasn’t honored by praise
There were worries and tears to rephrase… they amaze
Bold fears who haunt like dog days, more than just a phase
They left my spirit gloomy and breathless
With the feelings that bled dark red, crimson stories
Reminding me he died from his revulsion to hope
Is there anywhere cool?
Everywhere there is heat
A summer of 'Dog Days'
Cool air is what I seek
Not this mirage of haze.
Is there anywhere cool?
People wilt, sweat runs free
Even the shade is hot
Our home we cannot flee
Suffering in hot spot.
Is there anywhere cool?
All things subject to heat
Everything breaking down
Temperance obsolete
In perspiration drown.
Is there anywhere cool?
Yes, just wait for winter
The thought might make you frown
When summer is interred
And safety underground.
My thoughts are with all brave firefighters. A heartfelt thank you....
Pixabay Image by: Pixelman
On the first day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, pee-pee under my tree
On the second day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the third day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the fourth day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the fifth day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, five gnawing rings... four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the sixth day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, six tails a wagging, five gnawing rings...four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the seventh day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, seven toys a singing, six tails a wagging, five gnawing rings...four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the eighth day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, eight days of milking, seven toys a singing, six tails a wagging, five gnawing rings...four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the ninth day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, nine walks of prancing, eight days of milking, seven toys a singing, six tails a wagging, five gnawing rings...four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the tenth day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, ten bones he's keeping, nine walks of prancing, eight days of milking, seven toys a singing, six tails a wagging, five gnawing rings...four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the eleventh day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, eleven barks of griping, ten bones he's keeping, nine walks of prancing, eight days of milking, seven toys a singing, six tails a wagging, five gnawing rings...four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the twelfth day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, twelve new puppies coming, eleven barks of griping, ten bones he's keeping, nine walks of prancing, eight days of milking, seven toys a singing, six tails a wagging, five gnawing rings...four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
If dogs could talk, what would they say?
Would they label any of their own as "mangy mutts?"
Would they toss around epithets like "cur" or "?"
Would they call a down-and-outer a "dog without a bone?"
If dogs could talk, would they come up with "the dog days of August?"
Would they describe a downpour as "raining cats and dogs?"
Would they call a period of misfortune "a dog's life?"
Would they say that a tough day at the office is "working like a dog?"
Perhaps they'd equate negatives with the human race
"As mean as a little kid pulling a dog's tail"
"As heartless as someone who cages an animal"
"As lazy as a man watching football on a Sunday afternoon
But perhaps they wouldn't
Dogs are too classy for that
Dog Days of August
When my friend has something to say,
He lets me know in his own way.
He wags his tail, and pricks his ears,
And barks out loud for me to hear.
Sometimes he’ll act ridiculous
And gets downright cantankerous,
And tongue pants while looking around,
Disgusted when I don’t respond.
And then, for fun, I’ll stare him down,
But he doesn’t flinch, blink, or hound.
He’s the boss and calls the shots,
And when it’s time to go, we hop.
Lucky and I were born in August
During the dog days, which are the hottest.
As the years flew by, we got older.
His face whitened, and I grew taller.
***
Note:
The month of August is named after Augustus Caesar (aka Octavian, 63 BC–14 AD), the first Roman emperor, who reigned from 27 BC until his death in 14 AD. August babies are considered lucky.
In the Northern Hemisphere, the “Dog Days” of summer are usually very hot and humid and last about forty days, from July 3 to August 11. They are so known since Roman times because Sirius (aka the Dog Star), located in the constellation Canis Major (The Great Dog), rises at the same time.
One month into summer 2022 elapsed here...
Within Perkiomen Valley, Pennsylvania,
thus far marginal rainfall for season
nevertheless...the hazy, hot and humid dog days
meanwhile (gad) Zeus
tiredly huffs and puffs...with a growl
regarding thunderstorm unable to make headway
against invisible firewall
shielding this area
of the keystone state haul
in tandem with the spirit
of Saints Peter, Paul
and Mary (Southeastern -
tri county (also)
encompassing the suburban hall,
sans Spring Mount Mountain King -
an egg gree us fellow - quite tall
simultaneously straddling Bucks,
Delaware, and Montgomery),
and much as I revel,
when blizzard conditions raged, a Saul
ting self importance of humanity,
where meteorological conditions
hurled a wicked frozen curveball
forcing fatuous, egocentric brazen arrogance
into unassuming (ruff) atoll
shape shifting paradigm,
viz dogmatic couture of modesty call
out depravity, immodesty, pomposity,
et cetera, vis a vis,
when "she" declares marshall,
law yes only when might
of Mother Nature tempers
trumpeting one donning
guise of cloudy (with chance of) meatballs
unfortunately indiscriminately
striking havoc overall
mindful, honest, decent... folks
swept up in maelstrom, which pitfall
could cause loss of life or limb,
this teetotaler inebriated,
fascinated, and captivated,
and linkedin to thrall
dom wielded by volcanic, tectonic, climatic...
of phenomena take (measure for measure)
an indifference to scuttling
hominids beef four all
lose well that ends well,
asper scrimmage maul
ling the accouterments of civilization
then...deathly still quiet doth befall
after unleashed forces exhaust
and expend blistering might
temporarily silencing madding crowd
to standstill, and eventual faint crawl
courtesy of a wicked atmospheric drawl!
Every Spring there’s a battle cry
from deep within the South;
It raises the hair of millions for miles;
Tempers rise and just continue to climb
brushes try as styles explode mid motion;
Nothing can stop the impending siege;
Wild curls wage war with humidity;
Summer follows suit bringing sweat
to frizzed ringlets that go out of control;
One goes up while the other goes down
leaving bangs to hang limp like noodles;
With longing you look at the ten percent;
Over and over again failed products,
new ingredients same formidable foe;
Dog days leave you looking so unkept;
Wild curls wage war with humidity;
Doing this and trying that
slaughtered instantly by air;
Warriors fall this combat so daunting;
Lean into the wind armed and dangerous;
One final stand for the incorrigible;
A worthy opponent? My old school hat.
Wild curls wage war with humidity.
A flawless sapphire blue tanzanite sky
spurs the flight of a monarch butterfly,
discarding its colorless chrysalis
as summer's sunny rays intensify.
Waves tongue ticklish toes along the shoreline
licking at bare feet playing in the brine,
and laughs and giggles echo in the wind
as the magic of surf and sand combine.
The beach hosts a frenzy of sights and sounds
from frisbees to seagulls doing their rounds,
a cacophony of shrieks and clatter
as the children howl like a pack of hounds.
A yellow sun sparkles like a citrine
hung above splendiferous shades of green,
and I cool my sunburnt skin with a breeze
that smells of sweat and barbequed cuisine.
I revel in the dog days of Summer
set to the beat of a laid-back drummer,
for this unhurried pace is hypnotic,
although summer's end can be a bummer.
(Rubaiyat)
9/5/2018
Star of Sirus
Sparkling brightest
Aligns with the sun in Leo
Night darkest night
All year she’ll await
Bright star so bright
On August eight
Dog days of summer
Rising on the horizon
Nile flood
Taking life away
Lyon hungers for blood
Devouring his prey
Gatekeeper’s trust
Opens the portal
Shades of deepest orange
Evoking energy
Open your heart mortal
Flames of fire scorching
The doorway closes in
Mid-August
Energy in abundance
The lion doesn’t hesitate
Leo the Lion
The fire sign
Courage and pride soar
The lions gate
Confirming presence
Intentions roar
Dominance
Eastern sky
Opportunity awaits
August eighth
Leo’s alliance to the star Sirus
Opening Lionsgate
Sun is in Leo
Enter the higher dimensions
Layers of energy peaks
Opportunist the lion does not hesitate
Enter the Lionsgate at own risk
Creative Writing was my love,
a passion I thought highly of.
A freshman, I felt I could shove
one course in my school year.
Assignment 1 - simple indeed:
"Who broke your heart and made it bleed?"
I felt I nailed it; Prof agreed
(or so it would appear)...
I think I wrote convincingly -
"Winter is not my cup of tea,
it casts its bread upon the sea,
my saddest time of year.
I call a halt, enough's enough!
I clench my fist and call her bluff,
and frankly, speaking off the cuff
I wished summer were here.
"Dog days of summer make me smile
when, grinning like a crocodile,
my smiles are wider than the Nile -
Elysian Days with you.
With bated breath, I'd greet the moon
and croon you some soft summer tune
until that wretched day in June
when you dealt me a blow.
"My love, you had me on cloud nine,
now casting pearls before the swine,
you ran into his arms, not mine;
my baptism by fire.
You left me there sadder than sad;
there may be balm in Gilead,
but you left me stark, raving mad,
about to go haywire.
"To add insult to injury
you said I barked up the wrong tree
and so I sailed on glassy sea
I hope I'm not too vague,
or should I spell it out for you?
In light of your foul witch's brew
I should do as the Romans do:
avoid you like the plague!"
Thus it went on, emotions raw.
I hoped my prof would be in awe -
My last line was the coup de grace:
I know this, too, shall pass.
My gentle prof, he had his ways
of pointing out my bland clichés:
"You do enjoy a well-worn phrase!"
I learned a lot that class.
// Reminiscing on my patient Creative Writing professor indicating my over-reliance on tired phrases //
written 16 Aug 2020