Short Curs Poems

The war-dogs chew at the throat of Man,
Killing as canines can,
With drooling jowls and fetor that fouls
The air, with harrowing warrior-howls--
They herald the End with their yelps and yowls....

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Dogs
                   loyal, friendly
             licking, playing, rescuing
     companions, sentries, threats, enemies
             barking, biting, mauling
                   mean, mangy
                        Curs...

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Tap, tap, tap-
sudden flash,
ripping of air-
crash!

Tap, tap, tap-
wheels forever-
a'turning,
encaged-
crash!

Tap, tap, tap-
constant tapping!

Curs-Crash!

Cursed tapping!

Caged fate,
tap, tap, tap-
Crash!

There is no rain......

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Jagged like spurs, harshness of curs
Relying on instinct
Spewing slurs, heart’s radiance blurs
Roaming ego’s precinct

We flounder in stupor
Rabid desires anchor 
Enmeshment in rancour

Ragged
Jagged

11-September-2021
Quietus...

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Catch for us the foxes,
   the little foxes 
that ruin the vineyards, 
   our vineyards that are in bloom.

Identify the sons of *itches
  Those littered curs
Whose gluttonous manner
   Leaves naught for us and ours.

Catch for us the greedy
   The avarice few
Who take that which is earned
   collectively with toil and tears....

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Femur sighs, given a break and transformed by love.
— by poet (inspired by Ira Byock)

What’s worse than an illness, an accident?
Imagine with me
helpless in the abyss…
Open to the curse of curs.

No warm or cold compress
No caress
No handkerchief

No matter how hard you have it,
if surrounded by compassion,
you’re not as broken....

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In an hour a thousand pass
Doctors, lawyers, truck drivers
Small and fat,
A straggly cat.
Six ladies in elegant furs
Two little boys chasing curs
A tottery, old man with a cane
The same scraggly cat again.
The local newsboy laden down
Big and small,
A runaway ball,
The corner cop awaiting the strike
Five o'clock, the rush hour jam
Wondering who I am
What I'm doing--...

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As times have grown yet still unknown the boundaries of our excistance, we are all alone. From death to birth we remain on the earth to understand what our life is worth.  Midlife crisis, cuts and gashes, midnight sky curs, and turns to ashes. Is it a dream? Or is it a lie? From what I have built up, Im going to die.  Thinking grasps the loop of which reality sways, back and forth in our dreams confusing my days....

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Sunday Morning 

Puddles on cobblestones
 Had a film of spent 
rainbows,
 clouds rested on rooftops
 and tear streaked windows misted; 
dejected curs  
sniffed the air as a damp army 
of washing hung limply on balconies. 
Church bells peeled  
the faithful prepared for mass, 
unseen and 
under arches the tormented
 waited for the bar 
to open and release them 
from the agony of 
their lonely inferno....

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Within a catcher, dreams do scream
feathers redeem 
man's sullied soul
sweet dreams the goal

Within their vanes they transfix
each demon lick
each channeling's
imaginings

Within the web they flutter, curs
nightmare mutters
beaded offerings
each feather sings

Poet: Debbie Guzzi
Contest: Just a Minute!
Date 10/20/12

*It is believed that the origin of the Native American dream catcher (or Indian dream catchers) is from the Ojibwa Chippewa tribe....

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No? You don't have pity on me? You should!
   I'm sure you'd rather be a stick of wood
Food that doesn't smell so good, if you could
   ~ Rather than be me ...

Spend your days rained on, snowed on
   Hailed on, stepped on -- why stop here? --
Spat on, urinated and dumped on
   ~  Sniff my coat of rancid beer

What I've suffered, what I have endured
   From yellow rivers to cursed curs' turds -- 
The very thought of it all is too gross for words...

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