Birthstones and horoscopes over a chi-square
Months with periscopes everywhere
Moon and Sun in shaded segments
Boon and pun in braided alignments
Spells and pleas yowling in the wilderness
Wells or seas swigging in emptiness
Thoughts wandering around
Droughts and dryness seething in a playground
Warmth or heat you nestled from scorching daylight
Cold air or dew drop sighed by moonlight
Wall clock that restricts your borrowed time
Or unseen counter that predicts your stolen dime
Each day that passes by
All day you ask without a bye
Each night that crawls in the dark
All your might you grope behind a scalded bark
Shadows that follow you
Wedge pillows you never had that haunt you
Tales in dreams that smother you
Puzzles in reams that harrow you...
Why bother when there's none to fear?
Fear only God who's able to hear
Your qualms will never leave you
Only until you believe they're never yours that weave you!
The cat has your bone structure,
it also sashays and allures.
In an alcohol-fueled reverie
it turned up
as thin as a velvet spider.
However, it died
before our love did.
Pets are obtrusive, not conducive
to good or bad memories,
they play the field
demanding to be relevant
long after their passing.
Your cat considers me a villain,
it lingers on as some kind of
a stalking succubus,
the very model of your character
reminding me (as if necessary),
of your everlasting disapproval.
I overhear that damn cat,
positively purring when I am feeling sad,
and on a good day
its sexually vexatious yowling
warns me
never to take
a good cat for granted.
Wounded, woeful woman.
Hostage of hindered hope.
Yowling, yearning, for you.
*1408 Acrostic Triplet Poetry Contest
*Sponsored by: Brian Strand
*Entered on: 08/31/2025
7/14/2025
Oh, how could this have ever happened here?
A free naton with baseball, movies and beer?
Those days when other nations cry against the USA…….DIE?
I think on tha, when we turned far left… America’s very soul died.
Those who so loathe and hate our free nation.
Created conspiracy theories,like…boll weevils.
They would do anything to destroy this nation and make America evil?
None of us realizing, how this would divide all of us.
A necrotic snake filled some, like decaying green pus.
And the proof is in the yowling streets of PA is heard .
Of misled shouts of hate, like some insane, hysterical, mysteriuos birds.
Many people died but many unaware, people could care less!
They much prefer riotinh and lies and walk in a state of mental undress.
Our streets full of both USA and Israeli shrill haters.
In masks and flags,green flafs~ such insane, victim baiters.
That “religious” mantra shouted aboard the 9/11 plaines,
Rings in my tender ears, like an exploding, crashing train.
Sleepless
Dogs are howling.
Cats are yowling.
Stomach's growling.
Just want a nap.
Mowers mow.
Blowers blow.
Planes are low.
Please, a bit of kip.
A fly astir .
An AC's whirr.
Roaring roadster.
Just forty winks.
Telly's off.
Party's over.
Almost aslee...
Have to pee.
-Grim
Yowling and howling late at night
Meeting of cats by the bright moonlight
Wild yipping and one long scream
Coyotes cornered something by a stream
It might be a cat, it’s a sacrifice
Excited yipping announcing it is nice
The food chain is alive down my country road
A long black rat snake just ate a toad
it sounded like a car door slamming shut
All three dogs begin the howling yowling bark
Then they run to mama
I am mama
I look out the window
to make sure a delivery man has made his escape
no one is out there
Open the door and they race through it
as if they are on the scent of six serial killers
it takes us a while to get inside
Every dog finds a place and flops.
Bam!
Another car door.
The chase begins anew
Yowling and howling, snarling and snapping
Came in through a window when my husband was napping
It sounded like a sound off, I was sure a cat would be dead.
My own cat bounced in moments later, his fur stand-up red.
What is going on out there? I asked, for now I heard low growls.
The cats were ready to fight, as snappish as Turkish towels.
Fred dove head-first under the bed and stayed until it was over.
Rolling his eyes about it was my St Bernard named Rover.
Some people don’t hike through the wood,
especially on All Hallows Eve.
Ghosts of boys and girls of good
float at the campfire, if you believe.
Elves and pixies dance through the trees,
with taunting, mocking, and leering.
They swing and sway in the brash breeze,
their faces frighteningly jeering.
What was that? The crack in the wind
unleashes demons and banshees!
Their hideous yowling will send
even the bravest to their knees.
Ghosts and goblins arise from their graves,
harmonize in a cacophonous chant.
Don’t try to hide in the darkened caves.
They’ll find you in their raucous rant.
They’ll steal your bones with giggling glee
and make toothpicks with your ribs.
Quickly now, turn. Run, and flee
before they find you and call out “Dibs!”
Thunderous storm
Taking form
Black cloud
Dark shroud
Dogs yowling
Wind howling
Dusty ground
Swirling round
Grasses curl
Leaves twirl
Trees rustle
People hustle
Animals flee
Kids glee
Umbrellas out
Mothers shout
I stand
Raised hand
Loving power
Heavenly shower
Lightning flash
Thunder crash
Babies cry
Mothers sigh
Up higher
Tree fire
Go hide
Inside
Watch rain
Through pane
Safe, warm
Raging storm
Passing by
Blue sky
A bad winter
the worst since the last one.
The camp had lost its children and horses
now the owl sees her last step.
Separated, not expelled in disgrace,
but her tribe disenthralled,
deprived of care
by deaths unremitting cull.
She, the last to stumble away
from the brow-beaten village
knowing there were no more paths
for her in this bleak land.
Only the moon was not cruel,
its wane glow
lit her up like its own shadow
in the yowling dark.
Now only the owl does not hunt her.
She knows that if she ever saw herself,
so weary and close to the bone,
she would think of herself as prey,
She would let fly one last arrow
for a piercing end, and
let the owl see what it may.
Roary Raccoon was dazzling in his orange banded witch’s hat.
Are you now a warlock? Asked his nemesis, Mr. Busybody Cat..
Roary’s loud sigh was not enough hint for this big buffoon.
Whose yowling is annoying every night next to the moon.
I am a stylish raccoon, Roary informed him in his plain way.
I can be an astronaut, physicist or physician any old day.
This hat does not make me a warlock, you fuddy fiddle fee.
Please take your busybody habits with you far away from me.
Starry nights,
laying wide-awake;
lost in thoughts dark and deep.
No one sings lullabies
by your bedside
to ease you to sleep.
Cold nights,
curled up in woe;
starving to the core.
No one cares
if you need a repast
or sleep with an echoing stomach sore.
Thunderous nights,
yowling on your knees;
feeling hopeless in a pit.
No one holds you
while you break,
so you fall apart bit by bit.
Full moon nights,
numbing yourself with nicks and cuts;
hoping your hurt will wane.
No one cares
or tells you its going to be okay,
so you go insane.
Every morning you still get out of bed,
when all you want is to be dead;
after living through nights of hell.
No one applauds
or pats your back,
for the times you rose after you fell.
But it’s time old soul
to hum your pacific lullaby,
kill your anti-hero hunger
and stitch your own tatter.
It’s time to pat yourself from the back,
parade your self-love;
for you need no one
to tell you that you matter.
Two cats yowling and screaming
Facing each other neither submitting
Staring and hissing, tails rapid flicking
Warnings signs of impending butt kicking
Tufts of loose fur flew through the air
Two territorial felines, a vicious fight flare
Exposing retractile, razor sharp claws
Penetrating bites - flesh torn by their jaws
They stop for a moment to gather some strength
New positions held with a guarded new length
Ears flattened down - body arch pose
Poised for new battle, next swipe to their nose
What seemed like hours this fight carried on
Neither was yielding both screaming cats song
Someone shouted and gave them some chase
Startling both cats whom scattered post haste
Silence now golden no sound could be heard
Not even a mouse or hoot of owl bird
When suddenly screeching echoed nights air
Two foxes mate calling - a date flirting pair.
30.08.21
My sonnet has the temper of a screaming child
because I'll not allow it to run free and wild
Mired on a pad, it damns me. "I want to fly free!"
"You're not ready," I whisper. "Put your trust in me."
It cried, trying to hold on to its pregnant dreams
blaming me for aborting expressive rhyme schemes
"Ask your muse to find more decorous selections."
On her advice, I began to make corrections.
I purged all the rhetoric and made a new start
resulting in the birth of a sonnet with heart
I danced for freedom I'd granted to my verses
No longer do I hear the yowling of curses
I will continue to write with a pliant quill
and an open mind with the ink I choose to spill
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