For this week’s prompt, write a poem somehow influenced by an animal. The animal could be the title of the poem, the subject of the poem, a bit part in the poem. Dive into what it means to be animal or non-animal. Have fun.
Here’s my attempt at an animal-influenced poem:
“Squirrel”
Nobody knows branches
the heart of this tree
dangers from above
and below
the way I do.
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huntin’ seahorse
by juanita lewison-snyder
there be sharks circlin’ ‘neath all them horses,
how they whistle and shy at first sight.
beauty tastes sweet in their razor-sharp teeth
while blood clings like briny tiaras
’round forelocks deep in the sea.
© 2013 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
RECALL
In the parking garage, in our little Honda,
the old dog sleeps with his head
under the worn drape of your wool jacket –
how he’s spent each visiting hour
since paramedics siren’d you away. His eyes
are sad as a dog missing his old
master. Come, he calls from some-
where under the beloved scent of your arm-
pit. Come back, he calls, come home.
LIME JUICE BLUES
( c ) 2013 – G. Smith (BMI)
———————————-
You won’t get nothing but lime juice from a lime;
You won’t get nothing but lime juice from a lime;
You might wish for grapefruit juice but, every single time,
You won’t get nothing but lime juice from a lime.
You won’t get nothing but roses from a rose;
You won’t get nothing but roses from a rose;
You may find a thorn or two, but everybody knows,
You won’t get nothing but roses from a rose.
The robin sings the robin’s song,
Every morning and all day long;
The cheetah wears the cheetah’s spots,
It’s the only coat the cheetah’s got…
I don’t get nothing but heartache out of you.
I don’t get nothing but heartache out of you;
You tell me several stories, and none of them are true;
I don’t get nothing but heartache out of you…
No, I don’t get nothing but heartache out of you.
Maple Manners, a tritina
Greedy Guts, you balloon your cheeks
again! Your paws are yanking seeds,
my maple fruit, my whirlybirds,
and all the while you flip the bird,
your bushy tail. You’re filling cheeks
with Bloodgood fruit, ripe reddish seeds
you dig into my yard, my seeds,
instead of leaving them for birds.
Stuff one and then the other cheek.
I’ll say! Some cheek! My seeds, bird you!
The Lion
Sufficiently endowed
with brains, heart
and plenty of pride
(on occasion),
still sorely lacking
the courage
to brave
but a single
step
along that
golden path,
minus the
company
of his most loyal
(and courageous)
companions…
Squirrel Chaser
A dog lives there in that house
by the two hickory nut trees.
She’s about our size and the same
color. She thinks she owns the place.
Just play along, run when she comes
chasing out the door. It doesn’t hurt
for us to give her a little thrill. She’s
cute, but dumb as a tree limb. She
doesn’t get it that she’s been chasing
us all her life and never been close.
Poor dumb animal. Here she comes,
you two run and I’ll watch this time.
This dog cracks me up!
Sounds like our backyard – funny
I am not beast,
he said clawing at the ancient
sky,
under which he has found himself
suffocated and extinguished.
When was it that the darkened expanse,
fitted behind the sun,
became an anchor
and the sun itself
became a portal
to a turgid world of reckoning?
Does a beast, eyes red and soaking,
teeth yellow and bared,
dare think these thought?
It had been a long time since he had felt
pain.
It had been a long time since he had seen
his own blood flow into the time-carved
rivulets in the ground below
and gather into
small puddles under his feet.
He couldn’t remember how long he
had sat on his throne.
His memories faded to smoke faster than
the fire had been built,
and he was laying face up
into a scrying glass.
He had taken the throne,
gladly,
upon murmurings of discontent.
It had been easy,
he thought, and he thought again,
and even smiled at this thought
that he had been the one to puncture the
delicate tapestry of long-established formality.
How fitting, then, that
his blood spelled out a new tapestry,
but did nothing to contain the heat within him.
The draft blew subtly over his body.
He could feel death come soon.
His throne, no doubt now filled,
sat solidly under him for as long as he cared
to remember.
There were nights when the throne
withstood the stolid rocking of hips.
There were times when that throne
witnessed the split sides and throats
of the outspoken.
There were moments when the throne
was engulfed in flames.
His throne will stand
while he slowly drains into the void.
It was quick when it happened.
He was asleep in the middle of the women.
That’s how the king always slept.
He would miss that.
But, there was something odd on the air.
There was something less than kind.
The slow knife kills swiftest.
It was dark when the end pierced his side.
He could only see the whites of his eyes
before he fled into the woods.
The chase was long.
The sun wouldn’t be up for another few hours.
The snow hadn’t stopped falling.
He had lost too much too quickly
and now he lay in the middle
of an alabaster coffin.
I am not a beast.
I do not belong on the ground
with the leaves, and the grass, and
the dead!
And in that moment, his soul
departed.
His throne sat a new king
and his body became
like all other beasts,
determined to build a tree.
Seven do exist
The unthinkable not
To be handle like a tryst
Sloth
Gluttony
Jealousy and more
Pride and Greed
Lust and Envy
Are not a chore
But most god like of them all
Wrath of a society as a whole
What animal does exist that drinks
The blood of a son
To wash away what was undone
A human
This has a raw quality that I really like about it. I had a similar vision of the “animal” within for this prompt.
Hear the Roar
Wild is his heart
his roar like none before
guarding all that lie in his circle
stars that shine down
glisten in his eyes
that sparlke
Ruffed up hair
that encourages her stare
eyes that are so powerful
prey in his path
looking on at him
eat his way through
it looks awful
King of the jungle
mauling the kill
circle of life
this is how it is done
feeding the cubs fill
Lioness looks on in pride
his tail so strong
as it waves at her
in a flirting glide
He protects her
like no other
after all
she is the queen
she is the futures mother
Run like the wind
faster than the prey
there he is
off on his way
Hunter of the day
he waits patiently
he will catch it
he won’t let them stand still
in the haze of the suns rays
Strength of the time
roaring all around
unsettling fear
fills the safari
stillness sound
One of our most memorable moments was in the lion house, San Fran zoo. Tenders got the big cats roaring – you could feel the roars in the reverberations of the concrete building “unsettling fear” yet fascinating. Awesome creatures – nice write.
Who?
The sky is our race way, haven’t you heard
We arrive in many shapes and sizes
Because we are birds
Many have the ability soar way up above
We migrate all over the world, show one another love
So what, I ask questions and at night I’m on the prowl
If you looking for wisdom give me call and ask for “Miss Owl”.
Our Dog Duke
On the loveseat by the window
He watches people night and day
And he waits for an invitation
To go to the park where we play.
His loyalty is ours to keep
And he watches over us while we sleep
His love is gentle and sometimes tough
But I can never get enough
More and more he is turning gray
It is so sad to know some day
In peace with the angles he will lay
And in our hearts he will always stay.
I can’t imagine how much it will hurt
When I drive home each night from work
And his face in the window I will not see
Because in heaven is where he will be.
By Gerrie Roholt
Dancing Hippos
(An Ode to Sandra Boynton)
Animals are for children.
There is a line of books
that I quite like to read,
I read them to my children
they use to beg and plead.
There were elephants in pajamas
and various barking dogs,
monsters with horns
and dancing hogs.
There were pajama parties
and snuggle puppies too
and lonely hippopotamuses
and one about stinky stew.
They’re still up on the shelf
and I’ve been known to sneak one down,
like just a few seconds ago
when I needed to turn my frown.
Animals are for everyone.
Lots of memories in those books too..nice
A FLY IN MY HOUSE
There is this fly within my house.
An annoying pest, much like a mouse.
When unexpected he’ll buzz your face.
He’ll do it fast, without any haste.
A swat of the hand, but missed again.
The thought of his demise, I snicker and grin.
But how to prevail? A quest now at hand.
Should I sit and wait, or quietly stand?
As I look to find this annoying pest.
He suddenly comes and lands on my chest.
A raise of my hand in a motion quite slow.
Then a slap to the chest, and away he did go.
Again he eluded the wrath of my hand.
It’s time to have a more elaborate plan.
Instead I’ll stand idle, and stay very still.
In search for this fly – this fly to kill.
Ah-huh! – A fly swatter to assist in my quest.
I look all around, to the east then the west.
Soon he approaches, and lands on the wall.
I lunge – ker-plop, and to the ground I fall.
Success or failure, could he really be gone?
Then a familiar buzz – like a laughing song.
Now on a mission of this flies grave demise.
His fate soon to be – a swat till he dies.
I lurk through the house – no fly to be seen.
Then across the way, on the patio screen.
He’s now taunting me, just walking about.
So, I open the screen door- and shooed this fly out.
Off he flew, and now here I stand.
Mission accomplished, with swatter in hand.
Pup’s old
It’s unbelievable how Bella sleeps,
the same bursting free girl who chased for years
sticks, balls, frizzlebees—foaming meadow greens
until her muscles cramped, and her peaked ears
rounded, and her tongue pierced and pierced the breeze,
which always roves in when the sun covers
itself under hills. In the aftermath,
a walk home, a deposit scooped, suppers
all around, and everyone gets a bath.
For some, that’s a chance to earn a few treats.
The eternal puppy exhales dog breath.
She mouths her stuffy and shares tugging games,
but no longer levitates off the earth,
snapping for a toy or a bite of lamb.
The cold weather affects the Bootsky’s knees.
Shall I warble “Sunrise, Sunset”? I am,
thanks to her, never going to be the same.
Moving on
the matriarch
knows when it’s time…
elephant graveyard
My Puppy
mom’s little angel
the mischief that lies behind
those innocent eyes
To Howl Down the Night
Swifter than moonlight leaves the sky
The beta weaves his way through
The woods, his coat the colour of bark
Upon the trees in winter, he is shadow
He is smoke, here then gone, moving
With softly padding paws that barely
Leave a mark, he covers the snow
That quickly – when the moon is fully
Risen and he has arrived atop the hill
He is silhouetted as clearly as a cliché
When he throws his head back
And howls down the night with eerie
Ululations that are original and his alone.
“Beautiful Vulture”
Soaring through summer air
blackness bird of grace
soaring and searching
for the unfortunate many
who did not make it through,
many laying on roadside
near rivers or forest bottom,
now the cycle is complete
for mother earth thanks you
beautiful bird of blackness
SCAT
So close to home, a sign that Fox passed by:
his tarry signature on sandy road.
What do we make of it, this secret code
of goings-on in dark beyond our eye?
We miss so much. We theorize and sigh
and think we’re masters of the heavy load.
So close to home, a sign that Fox passed by.
This tarry signature on sandy road
might make the fabler in me question why
he blessed me with his passage. Night-wind rode
beside him. Now he’s gone. Who writes an ode
to scat? Do old mythologies all lie?
So close to home, a sign that Fox passed by.
BETWEEN EARTH AND SKY
Freckles stands over her second-born –
her first lamb, last year,
snatched by the Great Horned Owl.
Look at his small splotched face,
pale marks drawn
symmetrical across his soft dark
muzzle – marks like scribbles, partial
thumbprints, or what
the owl might write with its talons.
Sheep-statue, Freckles stands
as if struck in joy-fear, wondering
perhaps if this child, its birth hardly dry,
might be swallowed whole
by winter grass. A lamb so tenuous
between earth and sky.
The weeks prompt can be viewed at this link
http://proseofmellifluous.wordpress.com/
This weeks prompt can be viewed at this link
http://proseofmellifluous.wordpress.com/
Flighty Bird
Like a flighty bird building her nest
I poke in yarn, cloth, string and straw,
But can’t decide on what I like best,
Putting in cotton, then lace withdraw,
Motivated by some perfectionistic law.
On fickleness, let not my strength be spent
But build with what I have and be content.
Love this, Connie. It has such wisdom.
GIRAFFE
Don a necklace
Hide secrets
Glance out into the far beyond
Engage your thoughts on each one of your spots.
Stand erect and impart your wisdom
Run fast, defeat the masses
Feed from the fat of the land
Let your call comfort and rescue the wild.
LaSteph
I might be biased because the giraffe is my favorite animal, but I just love this poem.
Buzz
The fly that zoomed the president
at his inauguration was empowered
to raise comment from journalists
across the nation—fine young writers
bored with talk of politics, economy,
of hope and loss and fiscal cliffs
and opted for more autonomy
in picking subjects people want
to know about in times of woe,
stories that cover social things
like shoes and the first lady’s bangs
until media is abuzz with
what this or that person does
and whether Republicans know
who put this fly up to the task
to light on presidential nose
at such a lofty important time.
Investigations notwithstanding,
we do not know the insect’s name,
but he got coverage and acclaim
when with a gentle wave of hand
that put in flight the errant pest,
the foremost man in all the land
admitted that we’re still oppressed
by circumstances beyond our scope,
and interrupted his speech, all shruggy,
to say, “This fellow’s starting to bug me.”
From Down Here
From here, on the floor
you may think
I can’t tell
that your marriage is in trouble.
Who will I live with?
We dogs have feelings,
not expressed
in your way.
If my bark grows weak, eyes moisten,
you’ll know I’m upset.
Christmas Stallion
By David De Jong
The young stallion, born on a cold winter’s night,
No shelter, no warmth, except for mother in sight.
Clear was the sky, as the stars gleamed in a dance,
The heavens knew the awaited birth, was not by chance.
King of the wolves, told of the birth, feared his reign,
Sending his evil army; to search and kill all in vain.
Mother and colt sleeked through the forest, following a glow,
All scents and signs covered, in a sudden Christmas snow.
An old cowhand, looking for strays, camped for the night,
His herd gathered, his sorrel hobbled in sight.
Coffee on the fire to warm an old man’s heart,
When mother and colt approached, it gave him a start.
A dry blanket over the newborn colt, warmed him fair,
Last of the sorrel’s grain, strengthened the tired mare.
First light they parted, sure no one would believe, even if told;
The mare, her foal, sharing his fire, nothing close ever to behold.
A night remembered each Christmas, especially when it snowed,
There was no debt, it was a gift, Christmas love bestowed.
Years later, searching strays, on that snowy range,
The air was different, there was a welcome change.
It was spring, wild lilies abloom, new life abound,
The old cowpoke moved slow, yet missed their sound.
That pack of wolves; still mad for death, demanding fresh blood,
Teeth lashing, evil blocking the trail, six abreast they stood.
He whispered a prayer, fearing for his life and his mount’s as well,
These demons of night surely would drag them both straight to hell.
Soft in the shadows, a familiar form he saw appear,
It was that stallion; all grown – broad – magnificent – up on rear.
He took on the pack and bid the sorrel take flight,
“Take your rider, and flee – with all your might!”
The furred demons; stripped the stallion his valor and brought him to the ground,
Killing with laughter and glee, their unwarranted Christmas prince finally found.
The old cowhand; holding fast to his steed, galloping new strides of flight,
It was a ride like no other, his mount ignoring his commands, try as he might.
As the sun rose on the third morn, past that horrid attack,
The old cowboy placed the last of his camp in his pack;
The bull elk bugled – as thunder arose!
The trees trembled – and shook off the crows!
Across the meadow – galloping – in a glow!
The stallion – back from death – his scars to show.
Sunbeams followed as he approached the old cowboy still at camp,
A vision of glory; mesmerizing, his coat and mane – glowed, as a lamp.
Then the cowhand saw something he had missed before,
That white stallion had a mark that the old cowboy wore.
The mark, that blaze on the stallion’s face, looked to be a star, tall,
On second look, it was the cross, the cross He bore for us all.
So at Christmas, when you think of the babe, and remember the star,
Think on the cross, what it truly means, for all mankind, near and far;
Life – given in grace
Life – spared in mercy
Life – Forever — no matter where you are.
Wow the images are so powerful. Reads like a novel
Strawberry Chocolate Kittens
By David De Jong
We walked the trail
Carrying a pail
Of strawberry chocolate kittens
We found a stork
Holding a fork
Eating waffles and mittens
We talked to a giraffe
Building a raft
To sail across the creek
His spots would surple
Then turn purple
Whenever he would speak
He gave us a ride
With just one stride
Chasing polka-dot lamas
Then to our surprise
What came to our eyes
But pigs in green pajamas
It helped them to hide
From the squirrely snide
Who lived in trees of trumpets
So we hurried back home
To our snow-globe dome
And had some tea and crumpets
Grandma couldn’t believe
Our story we retrieved
Calling it just a fancy tale
Being old yet very keen
She’d never heard nor ever seen
A thingamajig called a pail
Animal
Flame red, shag rug hair
he wails drums
for the gold-toothed doc
Love this!
SIGN AT THE TURTLE BACK ZOO
“Despite 25 million years
of aquatic living,
the otter remains,
unmistakably,
a weasel.”
But couldn’t that be said
of many people
down the shore?
Animation
Some lays of land attract the eye
framed by the trees, a lake, the sky,
sometimes with seasons new adorned—
blanket of snow on a winter’s morn
or greenest green abloom in spring
or aflame in autumn’s final fling.
Sometimes we want to stand and stare
Be washed in changes’ gentle care.
Now this one, out my window frame
is familiar, but not the same
in varied light, for it’s reborn
on every day with some new form.
At dawn and dusk, deer come to graze
where cattle later pull at hay
bails made so very big and round,
they’re left for cows who are winter-bound.
Now cows and horses forage there
tucked into greening pasture’s ware,
and there field mice and groundhogs run
from hole to hole to feel the sun.
And every season has its birds,
so beautiful I haven’t words
to tell you how they decorate
this lay of land; they animate
what otherwise might be mistaken
for backdrop, or as earth forsaken
of life. Every Eden’s destitute
bereft of animals where its fruit
lies rotting, wasting, falling down,
no feasting heard for miles around.
What good is that when land so fair
is meant to stir us into prayer?
Amen!
The Pasta of Life
Some advice: don’t eat spaghetti
in the company of Yeti.
He’s abomináble, yet he
easily can quote Rossetti.
###
*grin*
I am huge and aloof
And somewhat waterproof
And to tell you the truth
I was even big in my youth
I sleep while standing
Dangerous for my trampling
The distances I can travel
Are truly outstanding
Intelligence is a trait
That I possess so great
I also eat a lot
But in no way overweight
My ears make me famous
Although in a way not shameless
Because of a fictional character
Who shall remain nameless
I have a great memory
I’m desired for my ivory
My skin is quite leathery
I’ve been around since early centuries
I carry a trunk
That contains no junk
Some say it should point up
To bring about good luck
I am the largest mammal
Of all land based animals
My versatile appendage is impressive
With all that it can handle
We are socially blessed
We like to touch and caress
We care for our injured
And grieve for our dead
The wild is our native nest
In zoos we feel compressed
So now I must digress
So I can express
Perhaps suggest
Maybe
Even
Request
Please free us
And return us
To our natural inhabitance
Sincerely
The Elephants
My fav of all animals at the zoo. Cute poem.
That may happen when they begin flying. Love that word, “inhabitance.”
Oh, this is wonderful!
Turnaround Farm
I moved to a farm
That is upside down
The kittens they fly
and the eagles lay down
The pigs moo in their stall
While the dogs munch on corn
The sheep say neigh
The cow crows all morn
We get milk from the horses
And eggs from the sheep
The butterflies go buzz
While the pup goes peep, peep
Chickens lay by the hearth
And bark at the moon
Here the coyotes bleat baa
And wake the raccoon
We eat pizza for breakfast
Oatmeal is for lunch
My fav is the supper
and eggs that go crunch
Don’t travel the highway
Or come here by car
Ride on a donkey
Follow the day star
Very, very nice!
I’m an animal
acting on instinct
I pursue her
she looks
too late
I pounce
she is under me
and I take her
as she relents
when we’re done
smoking the same cigarette
she asks “what took you so long”
ON PATROL
When I was young and watched the pigeons fly,
I worried about a whitewash in my eye.
But as I grew, I learned what pigeons are:
squads of squabs, all aiming at my car.
So true.
The animal reveals itself;
desire, in its truest form.
A burning need, so far from
what is right or good.
Shed your mortal constraints
and walk with me in
this dangerous delirium.
Eyes wide and claws
outstretched, it will
consume you before long.
love the unbridled passion
Revealing!
The Wallaby Way
I’m about to go all
marsupial
and just start putting
things in pockets. Keep
my children where I
can see them, hold
some hope for a rainy
day, tuck in a tendril
of time or two, for the
space continuum that
won’t slow. I know
things spoil if you
don’t let them grow,
but there’s something
to be said for dryer
lint and leftover wishes,
deep dark places
that have to be turned
inside-out
to see the light.
.
Love this! One of my favorites!
Gorgeous, De! <3
I love, `lint and leftover wishes’. Good one, De.
I love this too! Clever, engaging imagery….Bravo, De!
It’s a revolution they speak of,
but the hem of his robes continue to stay
an inch above the ground.
They always will, he thinks,
so long as the ground beneath him stays
beneath him, solid and sound
and tied to the spinning world.
It’s been a hard battle, he knows,
but these halls have stood and stayed
when the walls were burning
white and ashen, embers resound-
ing echoes of screams and
Hail Mary full of grace. This,
he thinks, as his robes swish and sway
bounding off the cobblestones
down and through and around
the myriad halls, is not the Crusades.
This is the death of martyrs and saints.
He falters, tries to catch his breath,
and leans heavily on a bust of a man slain
years ago in a fit of misunderstanding.
Power, he knows, lies in the hands of they
who seek to destroy that which amounts
to be a square peg for a round hole.
He can feel the first of many stinging
saline worries gently trace a path from
his eyes to his chin. His feet keep moving him away
from the doors of his cell to the doors
of the man who calls himself father.
Father. He repeats the word over and around
in his mouth. He can’t quite get used to the feeling
of it. Fa-ther. It has always been this way, he knows,
but every day the word seems more and more foreign.
Father, he says as he pries open
the solid oak doors, feeling the solid oak weight
of the words about to reach his lips.
My son, you are troubled.
He wonders why it is that Father could see, always see,
straight through to the other side of him.
You, Father, are correct.
He stammers. He pauses. He clears his throat.
The Father watches and waits,
knowing that patience is one of his gifts.
I have to leave.
Father, a protected shepherd of his flock,
seems to know this.
We all must, I suppose,
begin to walk our own paths
down our own streets,
under our own guidance.
What it is you do while you are
following your compass rose
is up to you.
Remember, my son,
that the point always faces north.
North, his cardinal direction.
For the first time, he sees the Father as a man.
He sees his aging eyes.
He sees his greying hair.
He hears the rasp of a man who had borne
the weight of a thousand prayers in his own
throat.
He is breathless again and the
urge to fight back his final vows
would soon overtake him.
He turns, his hem an inch above the ground,
knowing that it always would be,
and leaves.
A PLACE OF REST
(a shadorma)
Patiently,
she watches every
move, knowing
her moment
is near. Purring, she waits for
my lap to appear.
My cats do that too. ^_^
If you click my name it should take you to my blog…there’s a picture of Lucy with this poem, curled up on my lap.
So true. My dachshund thinks he’s a cat.
A dachshund works…but I used to have a St. Bernard who thought she was a cat!
Animal
He is out of control.
He screams,
berates,
never hesitates,
even when he’s wrong,
it doesn’t matter
(Get me my belt.)
what they’ve done
(There are spots on these dishes!!)
or what he thinks
(Who didn’t flush the toilet?!?!)
they’ve done.
(Why can’t I have any peace?!?!)
He acts like he has
power
over them,
mental, physical,
emotional.
He is strong and threatening
and his power seems real;
their bruises prove his strength.
They believe it, they are weak,
but sometimes there is a breaking point
even for the meek.
Finally one day,
when he returns home
it is to an empty house:
no wife
no kids
no dog, even.
They are gone
and he rages.
Interstate flight
to far-flung-family
he does not know them
(never cared to know)
distant cousins of hers.
They are welcome
and they begin again.
It’s not too late to heal from
the damage the animal has done.
Diana Terrill Clark
Powerful poem, Diana.
Boutique
I don’t care what the neighborhood is saying,
you can call me a Newfoundland poodle
cross, you can call me a freak of nature,
you can call me Al, or Sir, or even
not talk to me at all. But I swear to Dog
I will bit you clean in half if you call me
a newfiepoo.
Newfiepoo. Hahahahaha!!!!
I HAVE A NEWFIE! I wouldn’t dream of setting her up with a poodle, but the word “newfiepoo” might just change my mind…
Ha! Good one.
Ants
Black Spots on warm
grey paving,
ever moving patterns pace to and from
grassy edges,
where hidden nests lie
undisturbed,
baked in the warm sun
workers heavy
with summer’s replete.
I watch them too, going to and fro. Beware should they come in the house though!! ^_^
Moment’s symphony -
to the frozen nature call
only hawks answer.
Love the theme, Robert! But I’m sticking to birds!
A day of inspiration to all!
Life on our hill
Is not always sunny
It’s not always still
Birds feed on our raspberries
and our lawn
or the cones hanging like Christmas lights
off our spruce and fir trees
Deer visit our garden
now and then
ignoring the neighbors’ dogs
A groundhog makes his annual appearance
under our woodpile
The raccoons file in from the trees
along the path where the bear sleeps
Small rodents visit daily
morning carnage on the deck
gifts from our cats
You needed an entire zoo, ha?
Loved the groundhog making his annual appearance!
The animals are everywhere, but not everyone notices them. <3
You notice raccoons when they break into your kitchen at night
Pet
My child,
with your short attention span,
the swift attrition of your love,
I feel reluctant to fulfill
your desire for a puppy,
a bunny, God forbid—a horse,
knowing exactly
who would feed, walk, water,
clean the cage
as soon as you grow weary
of the chores.
For now,
I’d rather teach responsibility
with storybooks,
after-school specials.
I might even walk you
out to the road
so you could see up close
exactly what happens to pets
neglected, ignored,
left outside to roam.
It’s true. Moms and dads get the burden, so if they are willing to do the care, they should go ahead, knowing full well who will do the work. LOL
Good Thing They’re Cute
(as a shadorma)
Should knowing
wiener dogs were bred
as hunters
of badgers
make me more tolerant of
how stupid they are?
(as a tanka)
Bred to hunt badgers,
Dachshunds are fierce and fearless,
but I wonder why
each one I get seems to be
so much dumber than the last?
DOG
Hey.
Hey.
Hey.
HEY!
HEY Ho!
HO!
Ho-HO-HO-Hey!
That’s all a dog says
when it barks. I know
because my dog
told me so.
~ Misky
Cute!
PUPPY LOVE
Huddled close, her nose
cold and moist voiced
in barks of soft contentment.
She was meant to be destroyed,
a fate that was avoided by rescue.
Timid and trepidatious,
rather loquacious
(in dogese) and the reason
we’re so blessed is that
this gentle Doxie; a foxy
schemer with a gentle demeanor
has been given a new chance.
With every leap or prance,
our Guinness has danced
into our hearts and life.
For this my daughters, wife and I
are completely grateful.
Be it ever so faithful,
there’s no other like a dog.
<3 this – you saved her life!
Murphy is a rescued Doxie, as well. My other dog, Marion, is a rescue from a junkyard, one of ten puppies. Rescues are best!
“Like Flies”
The ball of fire melts into the far peaks.
The boys of fall play ball. And no one speaks.
And bumping into each other like flies,
the boys see no future, and hear no shrieks.
The ball kicked high into the pregnant dark,
shines bright, just for a moment, like the moon.
It’s fall. The icy wind slips in the black.
Soon a halo…from river of maroon.