Long Dog eared Poems
Long Dog eared Poems. Below are the most popular long Dog eared by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dog eared poems by poem length and keyword.
There’s a billy on the open fire
Piles of beech wood by the door
Smokey stains adorn the iron roof
Wax drips on bench and floor.
Old cobwebs drape the windows
Dog-eared cards upon a shelf
The half a dozen Readers Digests
Will fill the evening by yourself.
Outside the rain is pouring down
As you brew your cup of tea
A candle betrays a subtle draft
But you're warm and quite comfy.
Bunks line against a single wall
You see where mice have chewed
Checking socks upon the mantelpiece
Again enjoying the pleasing mood.
As you sign within the guestbook
A chance to read the travellers tales
Of epic journeys, in stunning land
Huge success and classic fails.
Lives saved by simple shelter
To casual stops along the track
Unplanned stays for many a day
Seen as palace, a villa, and shack.
And to you this place is special
It’s a place you just adore.
And though you’ve never visited,
You know you've been in here before.
*The NZ Department of Conservation manages a network of over 950 huts of all shapes and sizes. They provide unique places to stay, refuge from bad weather, or rest and recover while experiencing the great outdoors.
A metal desk, dog-eared books, peeling shelves,
a teaching job I took in spite of myself.
Desperation. No time to think, just sign and go
across the state, no chance to know.
What waited there: dust, barren land, and desert heat~
Ninth graders entered with eager smiles and respectful feet.
Their nods so quick, their hungry eyes so bright
masked a language gap and a wall of fright.
August heat burned like molten brass; the A/C died~
we fled outside for relief in the desert wide.
Across the desert three dust storms spun like signs of death
El Diablo trae mala suerte! they shouted in horrified breath.
They spoke in a language I didn’t understand~
Oh dear! Their English vocabulary I must expand.
Not books, not curriculum~I’d have to take a stand.
I’ll use comic books! became my secret, unconventional plan
Seventh-grade books replaced the rest;
my students gave their all, their very best.
The risks were high, the stakes bold and clear,
but desperation sharpened my goals, sincere.
My students learned; their English skills grew
from stumbling words to sentences true.
You may find the memoir vignette I wrote about this event by going to: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/la_profesora_de_ingles__13610
When they died,
it was not only a heart that stopped,
nor merely a voice that fell silent.
A library burned.
Not the kind of library?built from stone and timber,
with catalogues and numbered shelves,
but one assembled slowly
from years of seeing, wondering,
remembering.
Whole aisles vanished at once.
The exact shade of evening
on a childhood road.
The joke that grew funnier
with every retelling.
The face of a friend
whose name no one else could recall.
The lessons learned from mistakes
never written down.
Volumes collapsed into ash.
There were books on grief
annotated by survival.
Books on love
dog-eared by devotion.
Books on ordinary days
that seemed forgettable
until no one remained
who remembered them.
Some shelves held facts:
birthdays,
addresses,
recipes,
directions.
Others held things
for which no language exists—
a mother's glance,
the weight of a hand on a shoulder,
the private meaning of a shared silence.
And though a few books
had been copied,
lent out,
quoted to others,
most existed nowhere else.
Now the doors are closed.
The lamps are dark.
Dust settles where stories once stood.
We gather what fragments remain:
a sentence remembered,
a photograph,
a habit inherited,
a tale told secondhand.
Yet we know that countless
volumes are gone forever.
For every person who dies
takes with them a collection
that can never be rebuilt—
a singular archive
of a singular life.
And so we mourn not only the one who left,
but the unwritten histories,
the unshared wisdom,
the irreplaceable library
that disappeared with them.
~Johnny Adicks
2026.06
Inspired by what my wife Cindi said, “When a person dies, that library of knowledge dies with them”.
__________________________
With all the bravado of its president Trump, America is increasingly getting exposed as a paper tiger in the world today.
______________________
O ye paper tiger,
Dare me not with your sham roar,
I know your horoscope in full--
From which tree pulp you’re made,
By which mill, to what grade,
Why me, all the forest knows this,
You were made from old papers,
From dog-eared books recycled,
Your yellow shade bares all that aloud,
The dull stripes your family root shows,
Brag not nor wag your tail,
Keep it tucked to your hind,
False bravado no one’s esteem wins,
Go deep in wild forest
To know what it means to be a true tiger
And what, just a paper tiger.
Anyone can twist your tail, ride on you,
Stop that goat-like mien, it only reveals you.
Should ye still for a fight spoil,
I will, to burry you deep in soil
To give you a rare chance
To grow as fresh green tree in a wood,
In woods dark and deep, true tigers flourish,
Not a recycled pale tiger like you.
___________________________
Happenings |16.07.2026 | forest/wood, tiger, satire, USA, free verse
across the busy mossy counter
servers wear alligator smiles
so large, they’re almost heard.
the espresso machine hisses
to launch smells of fresh brewed java
that weave into the scent of baked lemon muffins
tasted by charmed watery mouths.
The door swishes like a beacon
signalling its opening and closing
as customers enter and leave
curiously viewing the cafe’s hive like activity
I listen to voices buzzing orders
watch digits dance over phones and keyboards
and voices engage in animated pantomimes
cordiality is served with my espresso
and cranberry orange scone
as I forage through dog eared books -
‘for your reading pleasure’ the sign declares.
sipping my brew a voice asks -
“do you mind if I sit here?”
I answer too quickly,
welcoming the company
of their companion-
a large black shepherd like dog.
The irregular pulsing rhythm of
clicking laptop keys begins
fingers fly, the flow interrupted by
an audible slurp, followed by
more staccatos on the keys
while my company drools
on the coffee table
where a blueberry muffin waits.
autumn shakes threadbare
spent leaves loosen from brown stems
each clings to the bough
waiting for the tug of wind
to show buds in leaf axils
one leaf lies pressed flat
between pages seldom turned
kept from rain and light
its veins mirror buried roots
grounding what the leaf recalls
wine darkens the glass
one mouthful remains untouched
thirst catches its shine
sweetness ripens when restrained
the tongue leaves a taste behind
on dust-silver shelves
each book keeps its well-thumbed leaves
spines remember hands
binding what the years recall
in their dog-eared aftermath
names fade from old cards
ink gives way to the humdrum
old contacts grow pale
what I leave for others' eyes
means nothing to their kind ghosts
leaf settles on leaf
each layer hides another
last in, first recalled
gathered from one's only life
their weight growing underneath
neither dusk nor dawn
can deceive me about leaves
I shed, keep, forgo
forget, give away, hold back—
each leaves something of a life
It has been a rough week.
Monday was dog-eared and dozing.
The world ended on Tuesday -
so not a great start.
Wednesday, not surprisingly,
did not know how to break the news.
The planet carried on being essentially global
while millions of people seemingly not to care
that they were no longer there.
There were many afterlife tragedies,
rumors of leaky unsustainable beliefs,
suicides were tried but to no avail.
Everywhere there were catastrophic failures
of restroom facilities.
Thursday dissolved quietly
unwilling to confirm or deny its existence.
Those still able to crawl to work
did so in their dreaming skulls.
Friday absentmindedly tried to begin again
then remembered.
The few who thought it might only be
a cosmic PowerGrid blip
were assured by ghostly astrophysicist
that the world would return
and apologized for all the fuss.
However, as happened,
the weekend really was the END.
Lord,
You see me as a saint
While I see myself a sinner
You see me on the next page
As I'm stuck on this one dog eared
You see me as beyond myself
I see me where I'm at
You see me like nobody else
Please help me to grasp that fact
Lord,
You see me through your sacrifice
I fall down on my knees
You see me through the breath of life
In you I need to breathe
You see me in pure love
A love I'd love to have
You tell me that you are enough
Please help me to grasp that fact
Lord,
You see me in eternity
I see myself finite
You see me beyond the veil of humanity
I've yet to turn on that light
You see me as your greatest creation
I see all that I lack
Over me you have elation
Please help me to grasp that fact
Recycled Wisdom Lost
by Odin Roark
How common to recycle today
bottle,
cardboard,
can,
or bubble wrap.
How rare the regard for pleas from
mind,
heart,
memory,
wishing also to amend anew.
How satisfying,
To arouse the sleeping heart,
thrusting its comfort-beat
upon new rhythms made aware,
ensuing musical notes of clarity
not yet upon the staff of boundaries,
affording dissonance where only
harmony's familiarity once reigned.
To revisit memory
offering bygone experience,
wiser tools of perception,
scrambling dog-eared indexes
cross-referencing fact and fabrication,
allowing waste to fall free,
encouraging truth to persevere.
To sort through mind's many strategies,
discounting some,
discarding others,
dismantling exhausted cogs that
advance little the unknown begging at the door.
Such is…
To complete one's desire to remain conscious,
allowing distinction for that worth rebirthing
from chaff heretofore but a friction urging resolve.
How obvious to some:
the take-to-the-curb days of consciousness.
How misunderstood by others:
the smothering effect of effort
to treat excess destined as garbage.
How aware
those who
like the winged flights on high
weave today's nest
from yesterday's exhausted remnants,
knowing well the destiny of permanence
is but to replant where burnt forests once thrived.
And yet…
We often think recycling is confined to aluminum,
plastics, glass and other fabrications of man’s intellect,
but what of...
Unstain
As I reach for fresh paper
In the hopes to start over
I dog-eared that chapter
Yellowed in time
Seeped in tea
Sepia to the tee
You stained me
Like old photographs
From distant memory
You can’t stain without sanding
I can’t stay withstanding
Waiting in line
If I don’t stand down
You sand me down
I’m stripped, then sealed
Am I oak or ash
Did you even ask?
If I want to be finished
How many coats will you cover me?
Before you could no longer see
What I used to be
Strip the grain
You cannot stain over stain
My skin light
Rubbed raw
But you’re overstaying
Your welcome
You’re welcome!
I've asked you to stop
And yet you strip me
Of my colors
With even strokes
You wipe away what’s left
You didn’t leave a trace
Of the woman that I used to be
How many times will you coat me?
How many quotes till you let me be.