Apr 2020
These are poems about dogs and doggerel about dogs...
Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch
Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though mostly he plops on my chest.
I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.
Epitaph for a Lambkin
by Michael R. Burch
for Melody, the prettiest, sweetest and fluffiest dog ever
Now that Melody has been laid to rest
Angels will know what it means to be blessed.
Amen
This Dog
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz ation by Michael R. Burch
Each morning this dog,
who has become quite attached to me,
sits silently at my feet
until, gently caressing his head,
I acknowledge his company.
This simple recognition gives my companion such joy
he shudders with sheer delight.
Among all languageless creatures
he alone has seen through man entire—
has seen beyond what is good or bad in him
to such a depth he can lay down his life
for the sake of love alone.
Now it is he who shows me the way
through this unfathomable world throbbing with life.
When I see his deep devotion,
his offer of his whole being,
I fail to comprehend...
How, through sheer instinct,
has he discovered whatever it is that he knows?
With his anxious piteous looks
he cannot communicate his understanding
and yet somehow has succeeded in conveying to me
out of the entire creation
the true loveworthiness of man.
My Dog Died
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My dog died;
so I buried him in the backyard garden
next to some rusted machine.
One day I'll rejoin him, over there,
but for now he's gone
with his shaggy mane, his crude manners and his cold, clammy nose,
while I, the atheist who never believed
in any heaven for human beings,
now believe in a paradise I'm unfit to enter.
Yes, I somehow now believe in a heavenly kennel
where my dog awaits my arrival
wagging his tail in furious friendship!
But I'll not indulge in sadness here:
why bewail a companion
who was never servile?
His friendship was more like that of a porcupine
preserving its prickly autonomy.
His was the friendship of a distant star
with no more intimacy than true friendship called for
and no false demonstrations:
he never clambered over me
coating my clothes with mange;
he never assaulted my knee
like dogs obsessed with ***.
But he used to gaze up at me,
giving me the attention my ego demanded,
while helping this vainglorious man
understand my concerns were none of his.
Aye, and with those bright eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd gaze up at me
contentedly;
it was a look he reserved for me alone
all his entire sweet, gentle life,
always merely there, never troubling me,
never demanding anything.
Aye, and often I envied his energetic tail
as we strode the shores of Isla Negra together,
in winter weather, wild birds swarming skyward
as my golden-maned friend leapt about,
supercharged by the sea's electric surges,
sniffing away wildly, his tail held *****,
his face suffused with the salt spray.
Joy! Joy! Joy!
As only dogs experience joy
in the shameless exuberance
of their guiltless spirits.
Thus there are no sad good-byes
for my dog who died;
we never once lied to each other.
He died, he's gone, I buried him;
that's all there is to it.
Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch
When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.
First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”
Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.
Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).
Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch
I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
—Alexander Pope
We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)
They’ll never catch Us napping —
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.
But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.
The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew
who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.
But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter
and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery *****
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.
Wickett
by Michael R. Burch
Wickett, sweet Ewok,
Wickett, old Soul,
Wicket, brave Warrior,
though no longer whole . . .
You gave us your All.
You gave us your Best.
You taught us to Love,
like all of the Blessed
Angels and Saints
of good human stock.
You barked the Great Bark.
You walked the True Walk.
Now Wickett, dear Child
and incorrigible Duffer,
we commend you to God
that you no longer suffer.
May you dash through the Stars
like the Wickett of old
and never feel hunger
and never know cold
and be reunited
with all our Good Tribe —
with Harmony and Paw-Paw
and Mary beside.
Go now with our Love
as the great Choir sings
that Wickett, our Wickett,
has at last earned his Wings!
The Resting Place
by Michael R. Burch
for Harmony
Sleep, then, child;
you were dearly loved.
Sleep, and remember
her well-loved face,
strong arms that would lift you,
soft hands that would move
with love’s infinite grace,
such tender caresses!
...
When autumn came early,
you could not stay.
Now, wherever you wander,
the wildflowers bloom
and love is eternal.
Her heart’s great room
is your resting place.
...
Await by the door
her remembered step,
her arms’ warm embraces,
that gathered you in.
Sleep, child, and remember.
Love need not regret
its moment of weakness,
for that is its strength,
And when you awaken,
she will be there,
smiling,
at the Rainbow Bridge.
Oz is the Boss!
by Michael R. Burch
Oz is the boss!
Because? Because...
Because of the wonderful things he does!
He barks like a tyrant
for treats and a hydrant;
his voice far more regal
than mere greyhound or beagle;
his serfs must obey him
or his yipping will slay them!
Oz is the boss!
Because? Because...
Because of the wonderful things he does!
Xander the Joyous
by Michael R. Burch
Xander the Joyous
came here to prove:
Love can be playful!
Love can have moves!
Now Xander the Joyous
bounds around heaven,
waiting for his mommies,
one of the SEVEN ―
the Seven Great Saints
of the Great Canine Race
who evangelize Love
throughout all Time and Space.
Amen
Mary, Mary
by Michael R. Burch
Mary, Mary,
sweet yet contrary,
how do your puppies grow?
With sugar and spice
and everything nice,
and Mama Beth loving them so!
Lady’s Favor: Ye Noble Ballade of Sir Dog and the Butterfly
by Michael R. Burch
Sir was such a gallant man!
When he saw his Lady cry
and beg him to send her a Butterfly,
what else could he do, but comply?
From heaven, he found a Monarch
regal and able to defy
north winds and a chilly sky;
now Sir has his wings and can fly!
When our gallant little dog Sir was unable to live any longer, my wife Beth asked him send her a sign, in the form of a butterfly, that Sir and her mother were reunited and together in heaven. It was cold weather, in the thirties. We rarely see Monarch butterflies in our area, even in the warmer months. But after Sir had been put to sleep, to spare him any further suffering, Beth found a Monarch butterfly in our back yard. It appeared to be lifeless, but she brought it inside, breathed on it, and it returned to life. The Monarch lived with us for another five days, with Beth feeding it fruit juice and Gatorade on a Scrubbie that it could crawl over like a flower. Beth is convinced that Sir sent her the message she had requested.
Solo’s Watch
by Michael R. Burch
Solo was a stray
who found a safe place to stay
with a warm and loving band,
safe at last from whatever cruel hand
made him flinch in his dreams.
Now he wanders the clear-running streams
that converge at the Rainbow’s End
and the Bridge where kind Angels attend
to all souls who are ready to ascend.
And always he looks for those
who hugged him and held him close,
who kissed him and called him dear
and gave him a home free of fear,
to welcome them to his home, here.
Buffy
by Michael R. Burch
Buffy is fluffy
but never stuffy.
Though she runs forever,
she never gets huffy.
The perfect puppy.
Prince Kiwi the Great
by Michael R. Burch
Kiwi’s
a ***-wee
but incredibly bright:
he sleeps half the day,
pretending it’s night!
Prince Kiwi
commands us
with his regal air:
“Come, humans, and serve me,
or I’ll yank your hair!”
Kiwi
cries “Kree! Kree!”
when he wants to be fed ...
suns, preens, flutters, showers,
then it’s off to bed.
Kiwi’s
a ***-wee
but incredibly bright:
he sleeps half the day,
pretending it’s night!
Kiwi is our family’s green-cheeked parakeet. Parakeets need to sleep around 12 hours per day, hence the pun on “bright” and “half the day.”
Keywords: dog, dogs, canine, love, loyal, loyalty, friendship, companionship, bark, barking, soul, soulful, sweet, bossy, angel, angels, heaven, Rainbow Bridge
Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch
Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though mostly he plops on my chest.
I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.
Epitaph for a Lambkin
by Michael R. Burch
for Melody, the prettiest, sweetest and fluffiest dog ever
Now that Melody has been laid to rest
Angels will know what it means to be blessed.
Amen
This Dog
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz ation by Michael R. Burch
Each morning this dog,
who has become quite attached to me,
sits silently at my feet
until, gently caressing his head,
I acknowledge his company.
This simple recognition gives my companion such joy
he shudders with sheer delight.
Among all languageless creatures
he alone has seen through man entire—
has seen beyond what is good or bad in him
to such a depth he can lay down his life
for the sake of love alone.
Now it is he who shows me the way
through this unfathomable world throbbing with life.
When I see his deep devotion,
his offer of his whole being,
I fail to comprehend...
How, through sheer instinct,
has he discovered whatever it is that he knows?
With his anxious piteous looks
he cannot communicate his understanding
and yet somehow has succeeded in conveying to me
out of the entire creation
the true loveworthiness of man.
My Dog Died
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My dog died;
so I buried him in the backyard garden
next to some rusted machine.
One day I'll rejoin him, over there,
but for now he's gone
with his shaggy mane, his crude manners and his cold, clammy nose,
while I, the atheist who never believed
in any heaven for human beings,
now believe in a paradise I'm unfit to enter.
Yes, I somehow now believe in a heavenly kennel
where my dog awaits my arrival
wagging his tail in furious friendship!
But I'll not indulge in sadness here:
why bewail a companion
who was never servile?
His friendship was more like that of a porcupine
preserving its prickly autonomy.
His was the friendship of a distant star
with no more intimacy than true friendship called for
and no false demonstrations:
he never clambered over me
coating my clothes with mange;
he never assaulted my knee
like dogs obsessed with ***.
But he used to gaze up at me,
giving me the attention my ego demanded,
while helping this vainglorious man
understand my concerns were none of his.
Aye, and with those bright eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd gaze up at me
contentedly;
it was a look he reserved for me alone
all his entire sweet, gentle life,
always merely there, never troubling me,
never demanding anything.
Aye, and often I envied his energetic tail
as we strode the shores of Isla Negra together,
in winter weather, wild birds swarming skyward
as my golden-maned friend leapt about,
supercharged by the sea's electric surges,
sniffing away wildly, his tail held *****,
his face suffused with the salt spray.
Joy! Joy! Joy!
As only dogs experience joy
in the shameless exuberance
of their guiltless spirits.
Thus there are no sad good-byes
for my dog who died;
we never once lied to each other.
He died, he's gone, I buried him;
that's all there is to it.
Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch
When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.
First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”
Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.
Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).
Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch
I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
—Alexander Pope
We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)
They’ll never catch Us napping —
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.
But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.
The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew
who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.
But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter
and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery *****
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.
Wickett
by Michael R. Burch
Wickett, sweet Ewok,
Wickett, old Soul,
Wicket, brave Warrior,
though no longer whole . . .
You gave us your All.
You gave us your Best.
You taught us to Love,
like all of the Blessed
Angels and Saints
of good human stock.
You barked the Great Bark.
You walked the True Walk.
Now Wickett, dear Child
and incorrigible Duffer,
we commend you to God
that you no longer suffer.
May you dash through the Stars
like the Wickett of old
and never feel hunger
and never know cold
and be reunited
with all our Good Tribe —
with Harmony and Paw-Paw
and Mary beside.
Go now with our Love
as the great Choir sings
that Wickett, our Wickett,
has at last earned his Wings!
The Resting Place
by Michael R. Burch
for Harmony
Sleep, then, child;
you were dearly loved.
Sleep, and remember
her well-loved face,
strong arms that would lift you,
soft hands that would move
with love’s infinite grace,
such tender caresses!
...
When autumn came early,
you could not stay.
Now, wherever you wander,
the wildflowers bloom
and love is eternal.
Her heart’s great room
is your resting place.
...
Await by the door
her remembered step,
her arms’ warm embraces,
that gathered you in.
Sleep, child, and remember.
Love need not regret
its moment of weakness,
for that is its strength,
And when you awaken,
she will be there,
smiling,
at the Rainbow Bridge.
Oz is the Boss!
by Michael R. Burch
Oz is the boss!
Because? Because...
Because of the wonderful things he does!
He barks like a tyrant
for treats and a hydrant;
his voice far more regal
than mere greyhound or beagle;
his serfs must obey him
or his yipping will slay them!
Oz is the boss!
Because? Because...
Because of the wonderful things he does!
Xander the Joyous
by Michael R. Burch
Xander the Joyous
came here to prove:
Love can be playful!
Love can have moves!
Now Xander the Joyous
bounds around heaven,
waiting for his mommies,
one of the SEVEN ―
the Seven Great Saints
of the Great Canine Race
who evangelize Love
throughout all Time and Space.
Amen
Mary, Mary
by Michael R. Burch
Mary, Mary,
sweet yet contrary,
how do your puppies grow?
With sugar and spice
and everything nice,
and Mama Beth loving them so!
Lady’s Favor: Ye Noble Ballade of Sir Dog and the Butterfly
by Michael R. Burch
Sir was such a gallant man!
When he saw his Lady cry
and beg him to send her a Butterfly,
what else could he do, but comply?
From heaven, he found a Monarch
regal and able to defy
north winds and a chilly sky;
now Sir has his wings and can fly!
When our gallant little dog Sir was unable to live any longer, my wife Beth asked him send her a sign, in the form of a butterfly, that Sir and her mother were reunited and together in heaven. It was cold weather, in the thirties. We rarely see Monarch butterflies in our area, even in the warmer months. But after Sir had been put to sleep, to spare him any further suffering, Beth found a Monarch butterfly in our back yard. It appeared to be lifeless, but she brought it inside, breathed on it, and it returned to life. The Monarch lived with us for another five days, with Beth feeding it fruit juice and Gatorade on a Scrubbie that it could crawl over like a flower. Beth is convinced that Sir sent her the message she had requested.
Solo’s Watch
by Michael R. Burch
Solo was a stray
who found a safe place to stay
with a warm and loving band,
safe at last from whatever cruel hand
made him flinch in his dreams.
Now he wanders the clear-running streams
that converge at the Rainbow’s End
and the Bridge where kind Angels attend
to all souls who are ready to ascend.
And always he looks for those
who hugged him and held him close,
who kissed him and called him dear
and gave him a home free of fear,
to welcome them to his home, here.
Buffy
by Michael R. Burch
Buffy is fluffy
but never stuffy.
Though she runs forever,
she never gets huffy.
The perfect puppy.
Prince Kiwi the Great
by Michael R. Burch
Kiwi’s
a ***-wee
but incredibly bright:
he sleeps half the day,
pretending it’s night!
Prince Kiwi
commands us
with his regal air:
“Come, humans, and serve me,
or I’ll yank your hair!”
Kiwi
cries “Kree! Kree!”
when he wants to be fed ...
suns, preens, flutters, showers,
then it’s off to bed.
Kiwi’s
a ***-wee
but incredibly bright:
he sleeps half the day,
pretending it’s night!
Kiwi is our family’s green-cheeked parakeet. Parakeets need to sleep around 12 hours per day, hence the pun on “bright” and “half the day.”
Keywords: dog, dogs, canine, love, loyal, loyalty, friendship, companionship, bark, barking, soul, soulful, sweet, bossy, angel, angels, heaven, Rainbow Bridge
These are poems about dogs and doggerel about dogs.
