Long Pawing Poems
Long Pawing Poems. Below are the most popular long Pawing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pawing poems by poem length and keyword.
It was Christmas Eve, not a soul made a sound,
And not so much as a mouse could be found,
The children had hung their stockings on the hearth,
As a quiet, peacefulness gently fell upon the Earth,
My family were all asleep, their heads full of dream,
Of Santa's arrival with his eight reindeer team,
Father in his nightcap, slept soundly in bed,
And Mother in her nightgown of green and red,
When all of a sudden I heard a commotion,
And jumped out of bed with a curious notion,
I ran to the window and pulled open the curtain,
I thought it must be Santa Claus for certain,
New fallen snow shone bright below the moon,
Giving the illusion of daylight in mid afternoon,
I looked out my open window despite the cold,
When a sight met my eyes, wonderous to behold,
A lively, old gentleman aboard a great sleigh,
With eight tiny reindeer leading the way,
As quick as a bolt of lightning out of the sky,
He called to each one as they rocketed by,
"Now, Donner! Now, Vixen! Now, Dasher and Dancer!,
On, Cupid! On, Blitzen! On, Comet and Prancer!,
Leap up to the wall and onto the rooftop,
Dash away all and let us make our first stop!",
They flew through the air with much ease,
Like dry autumn leaves on a sudden breeze,
The reindeer landed so smooth and swift,
Along with Santa and a sleigh full of gifts,
I heard their hoofs pawing upon the shingle,
And joyful laughter from that old Kris Kringle,
To be continued in Part 2....
It was a hot and dusty day
the crowd fidgets as it waits
bull dripping sweat in shute bay.
howdy folks the announcers say
Raging Tornado in shute awaits
it was a hot and dusty day.
Saddle slipping this and that way
only held in place by weights
bull dripping sweat in shute bay.
R.T. chews on his cud of hay
pawing the ground in anger waits
it was a hot and dusty day.
Flies out of shute now comes what may
saddle slips man evacuates
bull dripping sweat in shute bay.
Riders distract bull hold at bay
while man slides out and valuates
It was a hot and dusty day
bull dripping sweat in shute bay.
PUPPY LOVE VS TRUE LOVE
Sad puppy love
Begging
Yelping
Pawing
With those brown eyes
And turn of night
I know we’ll make a home
We fight
With passion
We love
Stand strong
Hold hands
Admire the view together
See ourselves from afar
Those moony eyes
Drooping ears
Lonely years
Sowing oats
They see us far off
Like a distant planet
Like we’re from Jupiter or Mars
Two old farts
Just an ordinary day
But they can’t see the memories
The pounding of our hearts
The sweet kiss on lips
Feel his arms around me
Protecting me always
But I can see them
I call it cute
This puppy love
3/25/2017
Every now and again we go nuclear
Two archaeologists dusting off the past
Hurting with words as sharp as swords
It’s all over for twenty-minutes, dead.
Then the air clears and red mist departs
You smile at me and I laugh with you
My head's on your legs, hand in my hair
I’m insecure, pained, afraid, a baby
For a month or more, we understand
Not a cross word, a team, united together
Then pressure of our closeness, routine
Another nuclear clash no-holes barred, war
The peaks so sweet and troughs excruciate
Harmony reigns we are king and queen
Inseparable, colossal, two towers of strength
Me by your side and you by mine forever
Both stubborn as mules, immovable frown
Digging our heals in, pawing the ground
Me Aquarius, you Taurus, death, not surrender
You’re the adversary, you’re love, you’re friend
Can’t live without you, won’t live without you
Afraid of losing you, afraid of keeping you
You’ll never control me, I’ll never rule you
Christ, it’s all quiet now on the western front!
David Cox 04/09/20
Criminal
waste,
critical mass
materialized warfare
city dumps pile-up and fall
burnt offerings amid
clumps of Caesar salad.
Roman Empires of crud
that roam no more.
Walmart still spills over,
parachutes hung from pot-belly roofs;
air-drops from a plastic heaven.
A few old men
are found asleep at the wheel
of long buried cars.
Homeless are the pigeons
that carry a crusty canker
from pit to heap,
pitiful the pawing fingers
that pounce now upon
the once new branded,
yet more paltry
the poached mounds
of porch-pirates,
their petty ill-gottens
all unpacked alike as empty nests.
When the sooty dark
fumes and blankets,
then rust will clang
in the yawping mouths
of tin-cans,
aluminum bells that clatter.
Then the rodents,
the red-eyed night-shifters
will comb through the tangled beards
of threadbare dreams.
Then withal,
just as the ditched dross have fallen,
dregs shall rise again.
The full moon and milky snow illuminate the nighttime landscape I found myself lost on the mountain.
I have to make a choice. Looking for the North Star I placed a stick pointing north to direct me to the closest destination when I rise in the morn dawn. To the North one hundred fifty miles to the nearest cabin hoping that it is supplied with stable foods and a warm place to stay until rescued, or south two hundred miles in the other direction where a trapper lives all year round.
Over my shoulders I carried my rifle and survival equipment and begin the one hundred fifty-mile hike to the cabin. Walking through spruce, hemlock, and lodge-pole pines and eating a variety of berries.
In the morning after the snowstorm, I woke to ski snow-powder steeps. A wolf rested on its haunches, inspecting my unprotected surroundings. I took aim, shot, and missed, and it turned and took off.
For days, I had the feeling that someone or something was watching me. I started seeing signs of bear tracings. I was almost out of ammunition for my rifle and decide to make a spear. I looked around for a suitable sturdy tree limb or sapling a few inches taller them me. Using my knife, I fashioned a shelf for the knife creating securing support for the knife and wrapping it tight with rope.
I had shot a three-point buck early that morning and dressed it out; when I heard woof, woof, woof, sounds. The brown grizzly bear came down on all fours and started pawing at the ground, then came at me like a freight train.
I wedge the wooden in of the spear between the rock and into the ground. The grizzle charged then stood up rising above me, impelling itself through the heart with the spear killing it instantly. His dead weight slumped falling limp forward on top of me trapping me under.
Tired and cold the pain disappeared by the time I amble down the pathway toward the summer cabin in the noon-lit dawn.
1/3/2017
I watch you prancing, pawing earth;
your eyes glow almost like a flame,
you toss your sculptured head so freely
and flounce, unchecked your flowing mane.
Born brother to the rolling prairies,
your spirit kin to earth's four winds,
I gaze at you and vainly wonder:
do you know how truly we are friends?
Do you know that deep within me
dwells a soul loving liberty
and a heart that yearns and hungers
to run as you do, wild and free?
Have you noticed I am a dreamer,
that my eyes see visions, bright,
and my spirit flies within me
a prancing, pawing steed of light.
Faye Gibson
Copyright, May 18, 2014
Have they yet arrived? The throng asked; they looked like a mob.
Who is it? The Queen Mother? Queried an elegant snob.
Better than that, one said as a limousine pulled up; a cat strutted out.
It‘s John Singer Sargent’s Madame X and Monsieur Z without a doubt!
Monsieur Z turned to give the commoners an elegant gracious bow.
Then he gave his paw to Madame X, who emerged looking like a wow.
The crowd went wild, throwing carnations and roses in their path.
They took their time, trying to ignore the cheers and aftermath.
Their evening out was the talk of all London, for it had been awhile.
The Examiner had the best photo now of Monsieur Z with a huge smile.
Madame X’s photographs were mostly of her sweet luscious behind.
Her satin black dress draped so low, these photos would be a find.
You are beautiful Madame X assured his comrade, Monsieur Z.
Expecting a forthcoming compliment, but it was not to be.
She did not want to give him false hope, for she loved another.
She was actually thinking of pawing him off on her mother.
He was seven years old, so in cat years that was forty-two.
Whereas she was twenty one, and had lots of living to do.
Let’s go home early, he whispered in her ear, with cat-like hope.
She thought it was a great idea; with her mother he could watch a TV soap.
"We two groove on moves around the Christmas tree and no one can see us for we are stealth itself." by Mati and Lacy FeLione
Mati and Lacy are frisky, feline critters
with intense beaming eyes and long whiskers.
We think our cats begin to Christmas plot
the second we bring in the first box.
They plan ways to successfully zoom-zoom
and conquer our beautiful tree filled room.
It's scary to see our felines eye the finished tree!
(I often think my cats are only sated
when they see us become aggravated.)
Wanting just fun from cat calamity,
we strive to relish their hilarity
and not feel anxiety about our tree.
I soon found pawing proof under the tree
where one or both had ribbon pawing glee.
Looking closely, I spied loose black colored fur –
ah, the Mati – Daddy needs to scold her -
and Mati, what debris is stuck on thee?
Did your tail drag the manger straw to our tree?
Later, the evening was quiet, even the cats still.
Chilling, we watched a Christmas show until
THUD – Lacy soars out of the Christmas tree
and sheds tinsel everywhere as she flees.
The tree topper wobbles, then falls and breaks.
A pity, it was new and now it's lost to a cat quake
We consider spray water therapy
but she will hide until there’s harmony.
Pondering what to place atop our tree,
I point and say, “The tallest stem I see
Is left of the painted pinecone and nut,
go find Lacy and I'll stick it up her ear.
That'll make the tree quite merry, my dear.”
But Jesus called the children to him and said, “Let the little children
come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God
belongs to such as these.”
—Luke 18:16 NIV
WHAT’S HAPPENED TO JORDAN
What’s happened to Jordan? He’s living proof
that a kid with sideways horns, pawing hoof,
saw the masses using imperfect tongues
with elbow grease, praising God with their lungs.
What’s happened to Jordan? He’s living proof
that letting the children come, is no goof…
that glancing behind, the aisles were well lit
with eyes and ears saint-bright; faithful, tight-knit.
What’s happened to Jordan? He’s living proof.
He pounds on the drums. He’s raising the roof.
He concurs with youth. Ears incline to him.
He married Wisdom. They’re verve is a hymn.
What’s happened to Jordan? He’s living proof -
though he stumbled, God made him shatterproof.
And as the saying goes, “God don’t make junk.”
No whiskey in hand - only Spirit-drunk.
What’s happened to Jordan? He’s living proof
that his progeny, raised right - not aloof.
He’s raising young men with Christian morals.
Hero, on white horse, unsung with laurels.