He wears a heavy coat of rusty fur,
hunched and brooding in the coastal scrub.
They painted him a villain in the nursery tales,
a big, bad shadow waiting for the dark.
He has a hundred hollow eyes that never blink,
carved open by the jaws of summer fire.
A crooked spine, a fist of woody knots,
grumbling low curses to the southerly wind.
But who could blame his wicked, jagged grin?
He learned his roughness from the searing drought,
patrolling the ashes of a blackened world
while delicate soft gums slept in the canopy.
He is the grumpy elder of the heath,
bristling, thick-skinned, and unapologetic—
holding his seeds like stolen golden treasure
behind those silent, gaping wooden mouths.
Your dog bed is empty, so I should know you're gone.
All our favorite places are now too spacious—
The couch, the patio, and the rug that we’d nap on
Feel cold and lonely, as I become the one and only.
Just last week, you were anything but gone.
Together we stayed, all over we played,
Burying bones and patrolling the lawn.
Now, the squirrels can't believe their sudden reprieve.
You’re not with me, so I should know you’re gone.
At first I didn’t fret; you’d only been taken to the vet.
And now here I am, watching a new dawn
Without my best pal to boost my morale.
These days feel dark, so I should know you’re gone.
No more silly drama, no more bark-o-rama.
Under a silent burden, the house feels withdrawn;
Without you, our big bone just isn’t fun to chew.
Every day, I must face the truth that you’re gone.
Our human's attention is the sole prevention
From dismissing each day with a yawn . . .
Receiving belly rubs and comforting hugs
Is the glimmer of light helping me see
How there still is a purpose for me.
Boxcar graffiti travels from town to town
It's the eye candy of someone handy, sown
In the sunshine or the rain
It travels on on the train
To all passersby it is known
Nothing short of a museum display
Nothing short of a Fairey
The colors dance
The colors romance
For all who have come out today
We've see your art in different ways
I heeded the message that it portrays
Not to be out done
It's etched for everyone
I've got my lawn chair out to save my place
When I hear that whistle blow
I look outside my window
There for me to see
The glamorous artistry
It's time to start the show
So when it comes into view
It is time to imbue
Winter, Spring, Summer or Fall
Palate, paint pen or aerosol
A boxcar reserved for me and you
Then the eerie sound sight
Of a train whistle at night
Gets my mind rolling
Memories start patrolling
I'll live forever in my minds flight
CANINE KING
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He was a dachshund extraordinaire,
a canine king with a luxurious coat most fair.
He ruled our neighborhood with nary a care,
his tail wagging wildly, his ears flapping in the air.
His little legs moved swiftly,
patrolling the streets quite deftly.
He sniffed and snuffled with a curious mind,
chasing the squirrels with harmless malign.
He barked at strangers with a fearless din,
growling and showing his teeth like a sharp mandolin.
He ruled the streets with an iron paw,
protecting and serving with his loving, doxie law.
He licked the faces of those he knew,
reigning gently while enjoying his doggie chews.
He was a master of mischief with his charming ways,
nudging with his nose, his way of begging you to stay.
His barks were music to my ears, his wags a delight,
dancing and prancing with a carefree spirit, light.
He was a dachshund extraordinaire,
a neighborhood hero and loving arbiter.
‘Live in the moment’ they say
but it's hard on a winter's afternoon,
inside, warm in a comfortable chair
when the mind drifts, wanders off
to find a park somewhere
at the end of a childhood street.
Dragonflies patrolling the hot, pine
scented air and sunk in the shade,
an abandoned stable thick in spider
webs and behind a half door,
a long, dark, menacing silence.
I never went in, held back
by tales of ghosts and the fear
that something lingered there
who did not like to be disturbed
by the trespass of small boys.
I would sometimes throw a stone
into its dark reaches and listen
for a stir or the sound of movement
or call out - is anyone there ?.
The air always bore a chill.
In my mind I still lean over
the half door and look in.
The dark has thickened
into an even deeper silence
and I can feel its cold touch
brush against my skin.
There are times I swear I can see
a glint as if something was caught
in a blink of light.
I call out - is anyone there ? -
but no-one ever answers.
To visit the Gulf of America,
In case you get the notion,
You might fly over what’s now called
The Mar-a-Lago Ocean.
Be sure to click your seatbelt,
For when using this portation,
(The “trans” has been removed)
You’ll pass a bright red once-great nation.
Get your brand-new passports ready
For the agents are quite brusque
And you might just get deported
To a planet now named Musk.
What once was Mars is filled with
Crowds of migrants (oh, such noise!),
Lining up to use the bathrooms
Clearly labeled Girls or Boys.
There’s a huge arena filled with
Those with polio or mumps,
For there are no more vaccines,
Which Junior argued were for chumps.
While back on earth, the military
(Minus gays and gals)
Is patrolling Mar-a-Gaza,
Filled with Donald’s kiss-ass pals.
And in Congress, the Republicans,
With joyfulness, cavort,
Knowing that, no matter what,
They’ll have the backing of the Court.
For those of us remaining,
We can mutually mope
Or reclaim the Gulf of Mexico,
With just a thread of hope.
Miles past the nightstand
over the plastic water bottle.
the Ambien pill dispenser
and the soul-bruised eye shades.
An arrhythmic clock
knits needles of silence together.
Turning on the lampshade,
its circle of yellow light
attaches itself to my night-blanked face.
a damp mattress
molding heavy thoughts
that struggle to climb
dream-tossed blankets.
On its four arthritic legs,
the nightstand's
tour of duty continues
patrolling
one old man's conflict
with doubt and faith.
Up they bubble ,demanding their day
Every appetite in disorderly competition
Blindly leading the body frenziedly
To let them rip and have their way
That is the narrative of the id.
Who am I? How do I look to others?
Some days I like to be on my own
Others regard me as the life and soul of the party
Until I am overpowered by my passions
When the id dictates to my ego.
I am the gatekeeper
Patrolling the boundaries
To maintain a healthy balance
Between narcissism and impulse
In today's world that is a rocky road
Where it is a free for all
To take all you can get
Without consideration for others' dignity
Boundaries no longer exist
It's a thankless task being the superego
White fire, ever glowing, clothed in nature's forms.
Such beauty in creation - Satan writhes and squirms.
Gardens of Elysium, robed in endless spring.
We shall walk in a new Eden, free from fear and suffering.
Bright-hot spark within the soul as it beholds its Lord,
warmed by the rays of his only son, the Way, the Truth, the Word.
Soothed by the breezes of the Spirit, rising on thermals of joy.
We shall worship in a temple that nothing can destroy.
Walk the path with love - not fear -
but know the consequence is dear -
For in cold, dark caves, lost in the abyss -
God's tears fall upon those who've forgotten how to kiss.
Each of them rules an island in the depths,
patrolling unseen borders with arrogant steps.
So hurt and broken and lost and afraid,
too proud to admit the price they have paid.
They stick to the shadows, dodging the light,
because it's their way, surely it's right ...
1 June 2023
Written during adoration at Nativity of Our Lord in Broomfield, CO
damage control
bliss beats rolling
patrolling thoughts
01-June-2022
Looking cool
Wearing blue
Fly through the air
Wingman as their pair
Patrolling the skies
Ready to encounter bogey lies
Like eagles they soar
On this speed tour
Landing on a carrier for air craft
Navy catches them, preventing a bath
Hearing political wrath
You see
It is we
Not I
We cry
Surviving the situation where one could die
When defending things
Spreading our wings
Together standing tall
Against evil forces who need to fall
Using a soft loosened grip
Respectful dialogue in our spoken script
In the reality human game
Glorified in deadly fame
Miles past the nightstand
over the plastic water bottle.
the Ambien pill dispenser
and the soul-bruised eye shades,
an arrhythmic clock
ticks like a bombed-out tank.
Of course there is the lampshade
(that lighthouse for the luminescent krill
of submerged consciousness)
that seems attached to my skin
whenever body parts want to cut ties
with a mattresses concave reality.
Secreted like a drugged shark
in the shallow recesses of a snaring drawer
a snubby barrel with six mad prayers
snugs up against a snoring bible.
The raven iridescence
of night-cats prowl a life leaking bed;
occasionally they look up
their eyes shining
as they search for an alien presence.
On its four arthritic legs the nightstand
watches;
its tour of duty still patrolling a far off
conflict of doubt and faith.
Time to turn over the hull of being,
upright any surface
with a legibly printed label,
then haul that address back in
from the far side of an arm’s reach.
Time to shuck whatever shell
still rolls unopened in the surf
of the tossed and blanketed.
The ocean welcomes
Jubilant waves rush to greet
Like a dear, old friend
It is a gray day
Yet this small, secluded cove
Is colored with life
From towering cliffs
To effervescent tide pools
True beauty abounds
Stoic pelicans
Soar in orderly fashion
Patrolling the coast
The beach is littered
Pink seaweed, mussel shells, kelp
Nature’s partied hard
My toes in the sand
I rest on a driftwood log
Breathing poetry.
People tend to overthink and overprocess this “love” thing and this thing called “relationship.” Somehow and for some reason, you want the “Perfect” relationship with “Imperfect” people.
Why does your mate have to be “PERFECT” when we are ALL imperfect, even you, including you, especially you?
A relationship does not consist of being “insecure” - Trust
A relationship is not obsession or controlling - Chill
A relationship is not separate this, separate that - Trust
A relationship is not yelling or arguing to get your point across - Chill
A relationship is not phone patrolling through your mate’s phone - Trust
A relationship is not overreacting - Chill
A relationship does not keep secrets - Trust
A relationship is patience - Chill
A relationship is not I, my, or me, but WE, US and OUR and when you both understand THIS, you will have a better, stronger, solid relationship.
Find the areas in your relationship where you need to “Trust and Chill,” and when you do, then Trust and Chill.
A perimeter with firm block seats
For teenagers patrolling the streets;
More needed to strengthen their gossips;
Jokes about Dads who wash plates in ships!
Seat blocks for kids from the Broken Home.
They might on them lie: consoling foam,
Dream of saving marriage blessed in Rome:
Their lost umbrella, Uprooted Dome…
But on this not a concentration
Of honked horns in ears penetration
Some of them flutists’ composition,
One or two ghostly exposition
Stating a warming disposition.
A driver’s wish you watch rolling tyres
So you don’t meet stretcher Risk hires!
Sub Categories
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.