#bark
fear assists another fear just to get in me
at 1 am midnight why are you scaring of a bark
in this desolate coffeehouse
invisible faces nightly forces lighting celebration
orange
it’s dark swamps of Zen appear
no person is under authentic self, night glows through
this is so jazz
Dec 27, 2025
Dec 27, 2025 at 5:29 PM UTC
Why did they love Cleopatra’s kohl,
but not the gold that reeked of ore?
Those Pompeii frescoed walls—
a veil of Isis, untouched, unloved.
In their eyes, the rough bark hides the sap;
Helen’s grace shapes destiny, not ruin.
Through every lens, the surface glows—
old mirrors ignored , there cracked reveal too deep
Through us to you, and whole—
beauty never fades,
but it will.
Nov 10, 2025
Nov 10, 2025 at 6:14 AM UTC
i bark, and
i lap up vinegared wine from my bowl
laden with sprinkles of fruit flies.
my collar is on
but my leash, real long.
i’m not in earshot, but
i don’t stray too far.
Jul 17, 2024
Jul 17, 2024 at 12:05 AM UTC
Another tough day in the life
Of a dog like me can’t you see
My humans are ill-trained
So waking them requires several techniques
Laying on their heads to get them up
Or pulling the covers off works most days
Then I take them out for a walk
This is annoying as I often have to go ***
They eat more meals a day than I do
This requires me to monitor them while they dine
Looking up at these beings giving them the evil eye
Sometimes guilt’s them into sharing
Getting them to play is often a task
Pretending to be interested in playing ball tedious
When napping I often keep one eye open
This ensures they don’t leave without my knowing
Upon their returning to my home
That I let them share with me
I jump up and down trying to look enthusiastic
This makes them feel good, so I do it every time
Generally speaking I have trained these two well
Mostly they behave but every once I have to bark at them
I rescued this pair at a shelter
So I wasn’t sure what I was getting myself into
Andreas Simic©
Mar 15, 2022
Mar 15, 2022 at 10:08 AM UTC
Blankets of verdant emerald over fallen limbs,
Crooken arms,
Enclosing up and over and under,
Walk, sting, stop, puddle,
Ankle deep in laughter and brown, murky water,
Joy spread across our faces,
Mud smeared up our arms, legs, hands and hats,
Indestructible powerhouses with totally vulnerable feet,
Like ducks and foxes and rabbits.
The spongy bark or mighty trees fills me with hope,
That my wounds will heal.
Jul 31, 2021
Jul 31, 2021 at 8:29 AM UTC
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 pee-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 pee-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
Dec 12, 2024
Dec 12, 2024 at 3:20 AM UTC
Social media's intent was to spread authentic information among people but a few motivated by their selfish motives used it to generate those flocks which easily form conjectures just on the basis of baseless accusations disseminated from unknown sources and keep on barking with profanities on others.
Sep 30, 2020
Sep 30, 2020 at 8:13 AM UTC
I don't bite...
Hell.
These days
I don't even bark.
No bite, no bark, nothing.
Being tired tires you.
Plus.
I got nothing to bite.
May 30, 2020
May 30, 2020 at 12:44 PM UTC
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 pee-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 pee-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
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 6:02 PM UTC
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.
Keywords/Tags: dog, soul, soulful, snuggle, snuggles, love, bark, barks, barking, passion
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 6:21 AM UTC
You live where you die
and die where you live.
You give what you've got
When that's all you have to give.
Don't be afraid to feel like a star looks; so light, bright, high as a kite.
And remember if you feel someone's bite is worse than their bark, the bark is usually worse than the bite.
Dec 23, 2019
Dec 23, 2019 at 8:37 AM UTC
Reading some of my poetry, she said,
“Are you barking up the wrong tree?”
I knew what she meant,
for this art is not something I had learnt.
Tearing up a bark is easy,
matching words made me queasy.
I knew what she meant,
yet I was not ready to vent.
Dreaming is a daily ritual,
writing needs to flow as natural,
I knew what she meant,
yet I had a thoughtful bent.
I started to read more,
bark became paper to teach me some more,
I knew what she meant,
yes, a slight nudge from her has been god sent.
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 3:42 PM UTC
Oh, tree...
Please listen to me?
You don't have to do anything...
Just listen as I sing...
I've no idea what I should do...
I can only talk to you...
I wonder if I can wrap my arms around your bark...
Maybe then I won't feel so dark?
If I take one of your leaves will you be hurt?
Will your roots dig deeper in the dirt?
Jan 30, 2020
Jan 30, 2020 at 6:50 AM UTC
What is a dogs life
Eating, pooping and barking
Waiting for you to arrive
Checking out the garbage cans
Hanging around on the couch
Sleeping, sleeping and sleeping
Asking you to please pet me
Can we go for a walk now
Answering the door with barks
A joyous FAMILY member
A beautiful soul
Dog backwards is God
Very appropriate name
Cherish your together time....!
Brian Hill - 2019 # 238
Sep 22, 2019
Sep 22, 2019 at 9:56 AM UTC
Never ever call me that name again ever
Understood, poacher ?
You know ! This is one reason
I mark my territory,
I don’t give my flesh out easily
I have too much pain associated
With my birth name.
Write it down in capital letters
My name is PANGOLIN MUSE !
Want me to spell it for you ?
P – A – N – G – O – L – I – N M-U- S - E !
PANGOLIN MUSE!
Stress on the first syllable just as mandolin, please !
That’ll be it for phonetics !
And don’t call me ever something else
whatever, will you ! I’m serious !
Weaned I am not yet !
Or I’ll Flame you with my stinky fluid,
Secretive scent from way over down there,
From my solitary underground burrows !
Or I’ll flame you with my sticky tongue,
Whoever you are
Under the bark !
Or I’ll flame you with eyes wide shut
You know I can hypnotize !
I’m no nocturnal Delicacy
I’m no red hot ant !
Wanna please me ?
You know what ?
Call me just Muse
And put yourself in position;
One Two Three
Scales in
Four Five Six
Scales out
Seven Eight Nine
Curl up
Ten Eleven Twelve
Roll baby roll
Let do the ant and pangolin dance
Stick that tongue out
And try to reach the furthest you can
but first are you willing to hear that old lullaby ?
Eyes naked
Claws Naked.
We have just started the initial steps.
Step one :
We are fully dressed still.
You’re the ant, I’m the pangolin, today !
Tomorrow, vice versa ! Or you’d rather try the contrary ?
Or you’d rather toss head and tails ?
On top or under the bark ?
Horizontal or vertical ?
Perpendicular or Parallel ?
We’re both the visitors of the same bark
Faraway Feathers of the same Wild Wordsmith
Who dreamt once ant and pangolin
So let’s start that ant and pangolin dance.
Now let me slide into you
Like a thirsty moon-mosquito
At the nape of your neck !
Or you’d rather have me
Dive into the very abyss of your niples ?
Let me soothe you softly with my wings of fire
Oh I’ve been yearning for so long
For those pomegranates of you
To quench my thirst
On those purple pillows.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 2:40 AM UTC
It's too early to bark, I told my dog
The neighbors are sleeping, like a log
Let's not wake them up, for a little while yet
They like to sleep in, or did you forget
Sleeping in is a challenge, for some, but not all
I like to rise early to see that new ball
Colors of the morning are often, grandiose
If you sleep in you miss it, and I need that first dose
Brian Hill - 2019 # 186
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 7:41 PM UTC
Ode to Dogs...To Dylan
Playtime is what it sounds like
But the methods of play can change
Sometimes it's the ball, but oh my God
It's often, quite often, really strange
They run and run then plop on the ground
Panting away all their stress
They rise up and bark, then run some more
And that wears us out, I confess
How do they do it, I want to know
Stealing our hearts so complete
It's as if they know and require so little
And that fact, I know, is concrete
They sometimes require a patient hand
And sometimes that hand is stern
They learn so much and love so hard
What can we give back in return
All they do is love us,
And all they want is our joy
To know it is so simple,
Has to be some kind of ploy
Dogs are special, in all sorts of way
From service to the saving of lives
How could one such creature have all of these traits
And not even stop to think twice
To say your dog is family
Is always the way go
They come to our lives in so many ways
But leaving is harder you know
They do not fear much of anything
Except fireworks and thunder for sure
Death is not, something they fear
Because life to them is so pure
When it's time for them to leave us
And go over ”The Rainbow Bridge”
The fear of dying is not on their mind
It's the journey they take to the edge
Brian Hill - 2019 # 166
Dedicated to Dylan, (blue scarf) our 13 1/2 year old Goldlendoodle who went over the rainbow bridge today
1/31/2006 - 7/8/2019
Jul 9, 2019
Jul 9, 2019 at 8:59 AM UTC
Does your dog bark, ours sure do
They bark and bark then go find a shoe
They sleep all day in the cutest position
It’s hard to explain their crazy exhibition
What is it about them that steals your devotion
It’s the way they love, without thought or commotion
Time spent with dogs is certainly sublime
They make for a full life with love that is blind...
Brian Hill - 2019 # 157
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 9:19 AM UTC
Our names carved,
With a rusty penknife,
Into the bark of a random tree;
Just words on paper, really,
From me to you; and you to me.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 3:27 AM UTC
In the window
Waiting for her day
Wishing for someone to come soon
And take her home to stay
The room quiet and still
Sitting in the dark
Alone and always thinking
Of the leaves, the trees, the bark
Patience, faith and will
Day turns to night
Hope desire, strength
Darkness turns to light
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 10:27 AM UTC
I press my ear against her soft bark,
Damp and darkened by the cloud’s tears.
I hear an echo that envelopes my mind-
A familiar voice, without a face or a name- she is a vibration, she is a feeling.
Looking up, i watch her branches split the sky like an earth quake shattering the heavens.
Spanish moss drips down like solidified rain drops, frozen in time.
I sit upon her roots and dig my barren feet into the cool dirt
Amongst the acorns and shedding of her hair.
My nose is met with an earthly scent- a reminder to breathe.
This old tree watches lifetimes pass as the sun descends below the Earth, the moon rises into the ether, the stars wink at sleeping flowers, and the planets watch us dream.
I stay beside her until twilight cloaks the sky.
This old tree wears wisdom like a silken robe,
So beautiful in every crack and crevice of her body.
I count the stars with her until numbers turn to the sounds of beetle’s banter.
We all laugh together,
And fall asleep in the embrace of existence
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 7:52 PM UTC
Dogs have habits, you bet they do.
They run and play, then eat and poo.
They Sleep all day, zoom, zoom all night.
They bark and bark, at something in sight.
They wait at the window or wait by the door.
To say hello to their people with eyes we adore.
Let's go for walk, they seem to be saying.
Really, oh really, that's my kind of playing!
They love without boundaries, they give the same way.
They are really true family and never, never betray.
Without them we are lost, so much that it hurts.
Pay attention to their habits, life with them, JUST WORKS.
Brian Hill - 2019#42
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 10:14 AM UTC