Reindeer prancing rah rah rah
pawing the snow with a paw, paw, paw
following each other in the frost
pulling Santa at an unhealthy cost
doing their crazy reindeer dance
tapping out a fancy prance, prance, prance
Reindeer prancing rah rah rah
pawing the snow with a paw, paw, paw
Wicked little eyes
Considered the path of attack
Always keen for a game
She pounces when the time is right
Stalking and biting
She practices her art
Jumping and leaping about
She is still very young
Tache is the imp I mean
A stray black and white kitten
She even now tries to distract
Pawing at my pen
Sitting on my chest
The purrs of contentment
Rattle her very fibre
Sleep now my temptress.
Ode to my cat Stormy
She is my alarm clock
Waking me earl
When she hears the plough
To clear the deep snow
She jumps on my bed
Looks out the window
To see what is there
Then jumps to the floor
To lay on my be
Stormy makes me laugh
She makes me smile
She cheers me up
When I am upset
Stormy is vocal
Stormy announces
Everywhere she goes
She meowed loudly
She was in the basement
She was in darkness
I followed her sound
She was telling me
She was in darkness
I went down the stairs
I turned on the lights
I went downstairs
I saw her pawing
For a favourite toy
That was out of reach
To reach for her toy
He dims the light
for a mystic boe
to enter in glory
gently panting
and pawing
the crystalised earth.
Slowly he kneels
with the majestic beast
before a smiling babe.
my dogs were maniacs today
they had not seen me since Wednesday afternoon
It is Sunday morning
the little one’s claws dug into the inside of my left arm
he did not mean to hurt me
but he could not stop pawing me
with those long sharp claws
he was thrilled to see his mama
the older dog was crying, he does that when he is happy
It was good to be home
Jenny leaned against the counter, counting the stitches where Ariana’s arm had been severed, each segment arranged in clinical precision beneath the glass. The overhead lights hummed, sterile and white, reflecting off the muscle striations, the fine marbling of fat. The attendant, masked and impassive, weighed the cost. A rib’s soft curve. A shoulder blade, gleaming. “Is this enough?” she asked, voice catching in the cold air.
Ariana’s skin, rolled tight like butcher’s parchment, was pressed beneath the scalpel, measured by the inch. Each cut—exact, economical. Josh preferred the delicate portions, the leanest tissue, the parts that held the least resistance. He inspected the yield, thumbs tracing the tendon’s taut line, fingers pressing where nerve met bone, the quicksilver exchange of possession.
Outside, his boots clapped against wet pavement, the rhythm steady, expectant. Jenny imagined his hands pawing through the parcel, the slow unfurling, the practiced hunger. The body, greater than the sum of its parts, was dissolving into the transaction.
The register chimed. A cat licked the wrapping paper. Steam rose from an open vent, curling into the streetlamp glow.
silly little cat
pawing bubbles from my beer
as I laugh out loud
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.
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.
Christmas colt felt pawing at his feet
I am being patted down he told his mama.
She said, “Those are kittens, aren’t they sweet?”
Not when they get older, said a knowing llama.
Christmas colt thought they were adorable, fun too.
He shook out his foot and he said, “hello you!”
The kittens were excited, they played around his feet.
He agreed with his mama that kitties are pretty sweet.
a battalion of horses
prancing around in my mind
snorting and pawing
make my muse crazy with happiness
mice run through their feed
she loves that, it gives her a start
I roll my eyes
not fond of rodents
adjectives on fire ping themselves in my musings
the usual suspects
some I have used so often
I have embarrassed myself
persnickety and prissy being two of my favorites.
redundant I use them so often
I want to use prissy again! Trixie says
I back off; she can be a very unforgiving muse.
Monochrome winds fantail snowdrifts.
Fleck-churned sparks maw feathery flights
and a howling backdraft
spikes matted fur.
Pawing winds spring traps clenched,
injurious icicled haunches hollowed.
A smothering whiteness whistles
through yellow teeth, a smoldering
witness from snow that isn't snow,
(one homeless person's jaw drops, he looks up,)
I wolf down yogurt that drips off the plastic sides,
whitening the Los Angeles sunshine
where some homeless rest on the reflective sidewalk,
all but one, the nimbus of his mouth quakes.
Excited to be given freedom to play,
I run to my art studio and begin dabbling.
I have already created thirteen new
canvases – penned and ready to fill in with paint.
My dogs are pawing at the glass slider, wanting entrance.
I allow them to come in, but warn them they will have
to sit. Buddy, my large puppy gets under my arm,
flinging it into the air. I let him back out.
Sophie Helen, my cocker is twelve years older.
She lies down, because she wants to stay.
Buddy knocks on the slider and I let him back in.
The dogs lie rear end to rear end, not facing each other.
I telephone some friends, listen to them on speaker
while I paint. My heart is singing. Painting is my meditation.
It is a terrific time to listen and encourage others
while I play, and it makes my dogs happy.
The ocean beast leaps forward,
Then slinks back, lying in wait.
It tosses its billowy mane, and,
With a snarl, springs up and pounces
On the slippery black rocks of the jetty,
Frothing at the mouth and
Pawing at the slick wet stones,
Sending a shower of salty spray
And spume foaming over the seawall,
Drenching the cars creeping by
And the slicker-clad pedestrians.
The sea, raging in its fury,
Reaches me in that secret place
Where anger and frustration dwell.
I stand on the shifting sand,
Wave my fist and shout into the wind,
And the untamed wildness shakes out
My carefully tended hurts and slights
And tears open scarcely mended wounds,
Washing them clean with antiseptic
Sea and salt and sound and sight.
Tomorrow my wayward thoughts,
Just like the beach, will be swept clean.
The sea no more an angry beast!
A newborn day will find the bitterness
Dissolved in early mists of morn,
And my spirit once more lightened,
Free from petty gripes and fears!
The sea will sparkle in the rising sun
That glitters, dancing, on the waves.
And, deep within, there will be peace.
riding the shoulder, standing
right with the movement
is my boy lil Wooly Dog
surfing waves on the rocking chair
coming in from the back
he holds his paws in place
as if pawing into the whitewash
getting ready to settle in
then barreling into the blanket
where it is cool and calm
with a nice breeze blowing over
he closes his eyes for a nap
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