Long Hound Poems
Long Hound Poems. Below are the most popular long Hound by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hound poems by poem length and keyword.
Not long ago, one midwinter day
The sky was bright blue, not dull winter gray
It lured me out, from my hiding place
For a welcome but needed, much change of pace
Heel-hound in tow, we made our way
into the woods, that clear winter day
The old path we knew, still cloaked in leaf
Lost gold dropped by, last autumn's thief
Hardwoods were sleeping, silent and bare
Fresh winter jasmine permeated the air
Large hawks were watching, small critters play
Each was enjoying their warm winter day
Through woods, through meadow, then 'long the creek
The harbinger song of a distant grosbeak
A rare flock of turkeys ordinarily at bay
Dropped in for a visit on that winter day
As the day and the sun, began to tire
My companion and I, headed for the home fire
Relaxed and refreshed, no longer blase'
We owed it all to one warm winter day.
1-9-2019
It's a cold dark objective fear.
His face loose folds of jowls,
a sagging half squinted eyelid
and a lopsided woeful expression,
that hides cunning manipulation and brutality.
It's a rancid stench of flies
and faecal matter and musty mothballs,
that clings to the throat and nasal passage.
Entering the box white cottage,
one up one down, dark steps into
an eternity of mundane atrocities
and mass genocide of blue bottles.
A frozen winter, but not bone cold,
the neighbours say he starved and froze,
ate soil with his hands,
stripped wood panels from the wall.
His bulky frame denied starvation,
insanity maybe, greed undoubtedly,
as his hands grasped screw driver, plant pot
and bread knife rapidly stabbing,
bludgeoning, punching with frenzied violence
the face of an old woman.
Force and trauma and a wad of cash.
Now three square meals a day,
a warm room and cigarettes.
His lopsided blood hound face stares blankly
from BBC news.
I think of him at night,
walking across the lawn from his house to mine.
I think of him in the barn,
dank, dirty, a lonely space in time.
The darkness of man gapes,
and sits comfortably outside the window.
In fleeting amusement, hair of sunlight
and brown cinnamon, powder scent soft skin,
rosy cheeks and freckles on her little nose;
runs round and round, behind curtains
and furniture, knocking down pictures;
chased after by her hound in waves of laughter.
A faithful and constant companion,
lingers in a questionable expression.
He raises his ears and cocks his head
and shivers as he hears his name in confession.
She wrinkles her nose;
her little lips began to quiver,
tears pool in her eyes soon shimmer
evanescent, a face of pure innocence
faced with the consequence.
In the corner, she sits,
rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.
A faithful hound beside her.
"I'm sorry I made a mess."
A difficult predicament.
She pulls on heart's sentiment,
a little girl so sweet and innocent.
2/18/2020
Time … to open
My eyes…
Time … to finally realize
I am the monster … glazed in guise
Time … to take responsibility
Of your slow demise
Of your haunting, screaming, aching unconditional agony
Time … has stopped
I am horrible
Hyperventilating, breaking…
Crying—smiling, faking
Time … to see where the snake slithers tonight
Smirking in its venom of spite
To see myself crawl in its loosened skin
And become one with its kin
The slits of his eyes frighten me
But I welcome his sick visions
Who made these sticky decisions?
Time … to do something
To help you—to break me to pieces
I am the slime where you have broken through…so revolting
Time … to shake the sand away
To relieve the burning eyes from the blindness
Time to dip them in the cool water of action
Time …
To close up again
I wimper in the dark like a lost hound..
I am so afraid
Lost … but always found
There are no more shackles and no more chains
The muzzle is gone, like Trump’s derailed train
Naptime is over, and this bulldog is up
When will you learn to behave, you silly pup
If you keep poking the dog, he will take a bite
You should be aware he’s not afraid to fight
This growling dog is not your average hound
He patrols day and night, guarding this ground
And doesn’t care if the so-called law was sent
His opinions, like yours, are fetid excrement
I think you two make quite a querulous pair
You both stir the soup pot and blow hot air
You’re not great poets, I’ve seen your best
If you mess with the bull… you know the rest.
______________________
What the New Year foretells? America still plays a key role in what might happen in the world. And America is Trump as of today. Rather than making America great again (MAGA) he seems to steer it back. Yet, there seems no option but to suffer his idiosyncrasies, unless he pushes himself down under the quicksilver of his own making. What the New Year, Trump, America and would look like? Read on… some Clerihews.
__________________________
What do stars tell of the New Year?
Fights, frustrations, and added fear.
Not equal to his tasks
Trump would cause some new gasps.
What of him and MAGA?
Not much beyond his big-mouth gaga,
Forget America’s greatness,
Better, the world worries of the left-over mess.
For a true-blue German Shepherd hound,
(And a migrant), nothing seems out of bound.
So, swat stomach butterflies,
And swallow his patent lies,
To nightmare may turn MAGA dream,
Beware, no system seems safe from him,
He and his deeds of overwhelming daunt
For long decades will all world haunt.
So, what’s one more year?
Grin and bear, you can’t go reverse gear.
Leopards are not known their spots to change,
Nor will he his ways so strange.
To tie him up there’s one string
The world calls it XI Jinping
With whom never works Trump’s clout,
Big mouths are no good for real bout.
Hope is he loses pop votes and base,
And he being he, will not change his ways.
From Quixotic ways he’ll not veer
In FIFA World Cup year, O where’s my cheer?
________________________
Happenings | 26.12.2025 | America, humour, New Year, political, limerick
On the south-western side of the old mission school,
near the corner of First Street, where blackberries grew
a field claimed by youngsters was crosshatched with tracks.
It was riddled by gophers and, nettled with fox-tails
and the children's bare feet had constructed thin trails,
cupping deep paths that were littered with smiles,
deep in the amber of tall weeds and dry grass.
It wasn't too far from the patched wire fence
that hemmed the backyard of my Grandmother's house.
Westerly whirlwinds would rattle the ragweed,
while seeds of the bull-thorns, that prickled our toes,
would spread with the tumbleweeds, now tossed into rows
like last winter's snowmen, worn to the bone
There were traces of honeysuckle mixed with wild rose
from Grandma's old arbor, that loomed in the distance
A rusty old weather vane like a merry-go round
would spin like a top that might never stop
The ivy was overgrown, and a sleepy old hound
would snooze by the clothesline, in shade he had found
But, deep in the field, was a land of our own
A place we called 'Neverland', a loft in this poem
In the yoke of one tree, with the help of our dad
was a fort built of scrap wood, from piles by the shed.
And by hook or by crook, I would take all commands
While my brother's brewed brainstorms, and his black plastic hook,
assigned him the Captain, while I was the crew
of a ramshackle galleon, brought to life from our books
While I dangled in air, from a tired old swing
"Tinker", my name...in this masculine game..
I would push off, while he pulled me, right up to the sky
and into the branches, with leaves in my eyes......
I would fly to the depth's of a steel gray-blue sky
I would grovel, and shovel, to have his approval........
for he was much older, much wiser than me
I would play like a tomboy,.....shove doll-drums away
Such sweet summer days,......while bright splintered rays
of hot summer sun, would spotlight our play.
We would stay until twilight, to watch the sun die
Defying all gravity.......I could see to eternity
Tootsie Pops clung to the tip of our tongues
while the sun of the twilight, dipped over the dunes
and the call of our mother, slipped over the moon
____________________________________________________________
- - - - - - -
I once had an old calico cat
She was born in a barn
On a farm down the road
She would race around the new mown hay
Chasing mice at play
Putting on a wild display
She was known to be a shrew
Several chickens she pursued
Was known to chase an old hound too
A bit of a brat
She thought herself a Super-cat!
My intentions were genuine
Deep with affection…
I had just seen a movie
About a man with the gift
He would whisper to horses…and turn them into bliss
Well, I thought I will do this!
Tame this feral kitty’s angry hiss!
I would whisper ever softly,….
And teach soon her to love me
Domesticated out of nature
She would stretch by the stove
As the tea pot tune's a-whistling
She would put on a pot of bristling
She could not be held
Even by me
She was not for the weak
Or the meek of heart
She would pick and choose
Who would win, who would lose
A limb, an eye, or a piece of her mind
Yet sometimes….even I…was deemed
With the privilege of her esteemed
Company
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Miracle highways
Years that passed
The days of TRAILWAYS, INC. and GREYHOUND LINES, INC.
Competitive standards
Sharing the byways
Day and Night then
Trailways, Inc. Eagle eyes
The Greyhound Dog stretched distance being wise
Towns and Major Cities know well
Both companies had their own strategies to show
Journey and explore
Just observe throughout
Trailways, Inc. had the mileage trail
Greyhound Lines, Inc. functioning on acceleration without fail
Both soared into the distance with destination in mine
Trailways being a name to reckon during those foggy and otherwise sunny and clear skies
Trailways and Greyhound rolling wheels kept rolling
However, something went wrong in the Trailways operating factor
Trailways, Inc. was going through issues having a name that had uncertainty to continue to operate
Worried wonder
Would Trailways suddenly fade in the sunset?
Greyhound saw opportunity being the hound to everywhere never gone before
It was agreed that Greyhound would take over and merge with Trailways, Inc. in forming one big motor coach company of the best of both worlds into one
The Trailways, Inc. name no longer was an independent company, but swallowed up by Greyhound Lines, Inc. family
History made
Impact commodity
Eagle out and Greyhound in.
We are happy about the music,
a Mozart serenade that is not too dangerously deep.
Somewhere in the night
angels are falling off their nightmares,
black horse escaping on an ebbing tide.
Mozart is a skinny youth, his pink bubble gum
is happy, you can tell by the way his tongue pokes
through it, how he snicks the goo through
his front teeth.
Trick cyclists and other men in white tights
hold us spellbound, we beam happily
upturned faces shinning like full moons.
It is good to be radiantly irradiated from doubt,
cajoled by endless bouts of happiness.
The music is remembered as it plays
within the small organic organs of our love.
Good that everything fits now with no sharp edges.
Good to be smoothly functioning
in such a non-challenging way.
A harlequin struts, then bows obsequiously,
we are happy that his triangulated
three pronged hat can ring its little bells.
It is good to stand in the shallow end
and never feel the need to swim, sink or drown.
Good to rely on the orchestrated
dispensing powers that be,
good to be this happiness
measured out in prepackaged cups
for ease of use and no unsightly waste.
The devil is in the very fine print,
nobody reads it, and the Cosmos of All Other Things
snores on. Happily, we sing of he and thee,
run to the television screens for reassurance,
choose only the finest upholstery
to keep us from sagging for another year.
Let the soothing play on
our world is not perfect, but its serenades
are largely happy, and do not hound us out of our joy
like other darker compositions do.