Short Patting Poems
Short Patting Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Patting by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Patting by length and keyword.
Doggie paw patting
My leg under the table
Notice me, love me,
Give me a sweet treat to eat
Don't make me have to repeat!
Packing clothes
in my suitcase,
patting them down lightly,
so they will fit
and not cause any wrinkles...
destination: Hawaii!!!
Comforter
bare ready
fluffing, patting, throwing
the finishing, touches,pillows
bed
A nudist appears very jolly,
but only when patting his collie,
the dog's on his lap,
but not for a nap -
she's licking his bits like a lolly!
Baby powder soft,
warm security comfort -
worthiness restored.
Rocking, patting my back cures -
Maternal gifts give lifelong.
Pussy cat pussy cat
Your growls and your yowls
Your calls and your mauls
Patting me down
Making me into a nest
Your jaws and your claws
Ouch pussy cat!
Abandoned alone the cold winter night,
Hungry, confused and without a shred to keep him tight,
Head on his knees, alone he weeps,
For a caring lap,
Where his head he can keep,
And gentle patting hands,
To put him to sleep.
And gentle patting hands,
To put him to sleep….
Fatty doggy
Happy sleepy
Witty
Greedy
Pulsing
Patting
Thumping
Hugging
Trendy
Friendly
Watching
Dreaming
Barking
Chasing
A friend
At hand
Ever ask your mind
if hes controlling your fingers
and he shrugs
nope not me
or words don't stay where you them put
Them are us and so are they
Improving disapprovingly
Slowly changing to the same
and driving the insane sane
No way out
welcome to my brain
I'm Brain and so is my wife
I must have been a cat in a former life
basking in the sun
playing with yarn
being coy
chasing flying things
patting my mistress down as a nest
then again
I am not regal or royal
I do not huff off in a haughty rage
Do not expect to be fed by servants
do not frighten dogs
Maybe I was never a cat
Under the Clown's Hypocrite's Masquerade of Virtue.
When is the patting on the back to end?
False truth is out in public world and penned.
Based on deception stupors,
fools spellbind with horse blinkors
don't see the deeper deceit, or pretend.
12/28/2017
blinkers
Mourning tools
clasped, and woven
directing
nailed fine pointers
marking place
tapping tunes now
knitting lives and braiding hair
Birthing tools
glorious signs
passing words
keeping all time
patting cheeks
rubbing wet eyes
fingers steeple and crown me
Contest: The Crown of My Body -- A Whitney
Date: 6/18/12
A sudden downfall
Of rain in life
Sways me to swirl & befall
With each drop I came up to live.
The pit patting melody
Of rain, chatter in zing
The nature expose her attire muddy
Cricket chant the chords calming.
The sound accompanied by
Jumping off in the rain
Escort contentment and joy
Impregnate the sight in vein.
It was a great happiness to dine
With you Oh! Knowledge Divine;
Many squares, triangles did entwine
With you in us in our class nine.
Explanations, appreciation fine
As you always praised our sign.
Thank you for patting in shrine.
Helping our creativity you define
New definition of promoter in decline,
So grow as big as an oak and pine
Is the wish of students and mine.
A
Cat loving ladies
A ministry of cat care
To hungry felines.
B
Each day. Unfailing
Feeding your chosen creatures
Making us feel good.
C
I see and I ask
Why are these animals here?
Someone must love them.
D
Tabby. Persian. Black.
Each and every day they’re back
And their carers smile.
E
I try patting her.
Snarling she runs off frightened.
I’m not her lady.
I'm just an old shovel, who loved spooning around
Scooping up and over again, the same old ground
I’ve handled jobs, few others would call profound
Always piling high, and patting down a big mound
Some folks leaned on me, if no seats to be found
Then gave me a shoulder, when homeward bound
When on the scrap heap, I never made one sound
Got shafted damn good... but, I’m on the rebound
thankful.
that the child sitting in the
playground
many years back,
who kept his hand
under a heap of moist sand
patting some more over it
with the other,
and then pulled out his hand
slowly and very carefully,
so that
his castle could have a
perfect and ginormous entrance,
didn't know
that this life is a tough crowd.
that someday it'd be so hard
for him to find happiness
in a heap of sand.
-Vipin Pratap
Sailing on the sweet river Shannon.
Ireland's river ways central vein.
Sleeping soundly on a river barge.
Listening to the pit patting rain.
Stopping engine to eat each evening
Gazing at a flamingo pink sky.
Making many friends in local pubs.
Until it is time to say goodbye.
Rising slowly when at every lock.
Chatting happily with other folk.
Out on their daily riverside walk.
Who like to stop for a little talk.
The mothers spread a plum stained blanket
under the tree,
and lay the babies down,
patting their backs.
They listen for the sch,
dedh, t-te sounds
of plums dropping through leaves
and hitting the ground around them.
Then they stand
and gather up the ones-
Soft, some slightly split, bursting-
The perfect ones and eat them,
plum juice staining their mouths
and fingers.
They laugh
and spit the pits away,
like the boys do.
Clouds puffy white teddy bears drifting above
Colliding then separating, dancing it seemed
The sun tired now, sinking into the horizon
But not before sharing its glorious hues
Fiery red, goldenrod yellow, streaked with azure
Like the most vibrant of rainbows
Her children sat on the beach patting turrets onto sand castles
Pebbles in pails of water, glistening in the wet
Black, rust, and pink granite
Souvenirs of a hot happy summer day
I have these age spots decorating my hands now.
I smile at them, in a welcoming way.
Glad to have them.
Happy they are here.
My hands are starting to form into my grandmother’s hands.
She was an earth angel.
Always putting everyone else before herself.
I remember her beautiful loving hands.
Hugging
Patting
Coaxing,
Soothing,
Gentling
Cooking
Baking
Hands that always thought of others first.
I smile at my grandma’s hands.
I stepped out on the sidewalk.
Each slab a solid stone.
My feet went pitter patting
as I went on alone.
Ahead the path seemed narrow.
The pressure on my legs.
I struggled with my footing.
My eyes greased back like eggs.
The journey now a day-dream.
A moment for my time.
The wind upon my ear-drums.
My mind nowhere to climb.
With runners on the surface,
my instinct not to talk.
A grime upon my soles.
A sticker for the walk.
the push to be
productive,
the measurement of
oneself by standards set up
prior to the obligatory feeling
making one do so,
the absence of
patting on the back
(replaced with the constant
beating---pick a tool of
self-abuse),
the will to be what others
want for a quicker way to the
top,
the destruction of what had been
happiness for the possibility of
security &
safety---
all in the name of
what is
expected,
as a “fully functioning,”
&
“law-abiding”
citizen.
has it been worth it?
NOT ON THE LIST
I assumed the mantle of an entitled snob
Pushing toward the bouncer in a tuxedo
Some bruiser of a guy, but it’s just a job
I suspect that he had an unsatisfied libido
Patting down the girls for guns and stuff
But I wonder, why does it affect me so
After a few minutes I had seen enough
I stepped forward with my clenched fist
Hoping after all, that he wasn’t so tough
He smiled that satisfied grin and hissed
Sorry old fellah, you’re not on the list