"beagles" poems
We walked amongst the ruins famed in story
Of Rozel-Tower,
And saw the boundless waters stretch in glory
And heave in power.
O Ocean vast! We heard thy song with wonder,
Whilst waves marked time.
"Appear, O Truth!" thou sang'st with tone of thunder,
"And shine sublime!
"The world's enslaved and hunted down by beagles,
To despots sold.
Souls of deep thinkers, soar like mighty eagles!
The Right uphold.
"Be born! arise! o'er the earth and wild waves bounding,
Peoples and suns!
Let darkness vanish; tocsins be resounding,
And flash, ye guns!
"And you who love no pomps of fog or glamour,
Who fear no shocks,
Brave foam and lightning, hurricane and clamour,--
Exiles: the rocks!"
4.2k
afternoon hanging heavy,
caressed by a tomato soup fog,
tired carpet, fleshy velvet couch
both aching for validation.
ten photos of the same dog
speak Latin all at once
a desk in utter disarray,
fishbowl walls slimy
and coated in shame
a bookcase crammed with
stepfather books,
trying too hard, too much, too soon
giant cilia lined lungs swing from the ceiling,
******* in and out and in and out and in and
all of the oxygen and
it has already been an hour,
$150,
a check is fine,
see you next week.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
At eight weeks old, she was our newly rescued mixed beagle pup.
Noah named her Daisy. Not a name I would have chosen, but certainly as sweet as
memories of Grandma's homemade molasses
bubbling in the old iron kettle brought out from the smokehouse for only one day each year on a crisp fall morning.
By sixteen weeks it was evident that all involved in the rescue didn't know squat about Beagles. After a frantic thirty seconds on Google, our mistake was quite clear in the form of about five hundred red and black and tan photographs. We were the proud but red-faced and slightly shocked owners of a **** Dog". Yep. And Daisy was her name-o.
Two years and seventy pounds down the road, I sat in my morning solitude spot this day with a good mug and a good book watching the nut hatches, house finch, and Black-capped/Carolina Chickadees tearing that special blend seed up as Daisy patrolled the yard for squirrels with one eye and her nose to the sky watching for the lone and clever Rock Pigeon scout that always precedes the flurry of flying rodents raiding my feeder. I can't help but to smile as Daisy glances at me through the deck door glass to see if I am admiring her skill and diligence. I am.
This being a Sunday before the dreaded M word day, I tend to lounge lazily around the house in my worn Clapton pj bottoms and hol(e)y Langley T-shirt. My shadow follows me from comfort to comfort spot knowing that I leave a trail of odd snacks from my kitchen perch to living room couch to study to lazy bed, and back again. She is showing a bit of winter fat.
To be continued....
r ~ 9Feb14
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
I looked on as an elderly man was painting an old farm house in oils, surrounded by trees dressed in their autumn finery. The house was shown as an aged and faded white surrounded by a low picket fence that had fallen into disrepair and long since been forgotten. The old dilapidated barn in the distance was expressed in varying shades of grey and peeling red paint. I was enraptured by the image I was seeing unfold before my eyes. It appeared to be such a simple piece, but it grew in complexity the longer I viewed it. Its underlying tones were of sadness and loneliness, time, and things forgotten. I balked at that, finding my initial assessment woefully inaccurate, this was not a lonely place, a forgotten place; this was a place that had seen life and heard stories! I knew the man had not yet finished with his painting and would not be so for some time. He was quite meticulous, as if he was paining the memories of his life. Every stroke of the brush had its designated place, its own meaning, and the way his hands grabbed absently at the different brushes seemed as if they had been pre-selected before he ever began. As his story was being narrated in layers of paint and hue, I found myself thinking about what life might have been like in that place he was creating. Who might have lived there? The colors in the painting boasted an autumn season, and though they were warm to the eye the season would have been cold, the growing…slow. No, it wouldn’t have been planting season, it seemed more likely that it would have been hunting season. I imagined game animals in the surrounding hills and a man in a flannel jacket walking silently through those amber colored woods, with rifle in hand and beagles in tow. The frost of his breath echoing the smoke that whispered from the chimney of the house. It would have been warm inside, and maybe children played by the hearth in the day’s early hours before they went reluctantly about their chores under the watchful gaze of a firm, yet loving mother. My thoughts darted to and fro about this painting in the most ridiculous of fashions, seeing people I would never meet, living events that never happened. But I was held to it long enough to allow my imagination to escape, and for a while, frolic freely with the idea of something beautifully simple. I left the elderly man to his work as I carried on about my day, thinking to myself all the while that if a picture is worth a thousand words, a painting is an unread novel.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 6:43 AM UTC
This is about the frustration of being a father, after a divorce
In between
In-between
These alternating saturdaze
my children whirr . . .
Some telephonic conversation point
They, hazy fantasy . . Half Imagined lives
Now . . Mummy and daddy
Don't play husbands and wives
Anymore . . Each has
Like carrion for seagulls
Stashed Respective Legal beagles
To one side
as incisive as their fickle knives
And Baying for partition
Crave To slice the final pieces
From this pies remaining lives
So . . This is here
where we are now
No more catch up at the days end
Not tucked to bed
Not kissed goodnight
No stories nor
No prayers to send
There's nothing not
Nor can I do
To make this feeling mend . . . .
Since Each has their part
in this narrative marked,
Queued slots in time
All's written down, agreed
Is for the benefit of all
Is legislated for, defined
so . . . . we wait . . . .
Each flicks their counter stick
days become hours as
Slow minutes tick
by and by . .
Then when I see them at the weekend
I tell myself the biggest lie
That some piece of the pie
Is better
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
A sullen , blue eagle sentry patrols stone fruit orchards
Black and tan beagles braying for the hunt filled morning
Orange Alabama horizons , China goose down caught , drifting south
Collard pods rattle white -washed homesteads , pollen entombs tiny towns with ragweed ferocity , cattail gardens and fog induced rainbows ...
Dove mourn blackberry winter , dew washed back roads drift quietly into lake country ....
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
Fractured light cascades in.
Flowing, ever wider, ever wilder
with each passing moment, leaving
great pools of heaving color on the desk by
the notebooks I refuse to keep.
I.
There stands a building, overrun
by the very nature it once fought
so proudly to keep out.
It's walls hardly more than crumbled
stone, it's staircase, hard white concrete
interspersed with moss.
You keep a cozy home here.
Your beagles run about, guiding
lost or lonely travelers to your
warm and inviting den.
II.
The hallway was long, dark and
under water. The people floated about
still trapped frozen in the moments
that must surly have been their last.
At it's greatest spots the roof is so
high, the tile so dense that it
seems like a subway, a train station.
The blue lips of the people around me
seem to whisper pleasant lies.
Seem to call me, as though a touch
could wake them from forever sleep.
The sun's rays do not touch these places.
They do not know my works.
How could they? Why would they? They don't belong.
The light breaking in are from the passing ambulances, cabs
and cars. Sounds I have learned to ignore.
III.
We are never more pathetic than when we
are swinging. Each time we hang back, we let
our heads dangle. It feels like that moment
when we lean our chairs back in class.
Proudly stride on two legs, and know
absolutely know that we are very near
to death. We reach through the world around
us, bending the color and light, forcing the
air from our skin and our bones and we hold
on to each other. We are so very near death.
We are so young, so close.
We swing on, and we open the same door,
again and again, only to find it still
closed.
IV.
My teeth are falling from my head.
They are healthy, they are wonderful
bright and shiny white, like they never
are, and they are falling from gums.
New ones grow in, without the irritating
itch that I remember from my youth,
but with bursting skin and a lack of blood.
They come in immediately. When I look up there is
food. So much food, the smell is so good.
But my teeth, my new teeth They are
too dull to chew. Soon they are falling out
as well. I shove them back in, pushing
them hard through the broken gums
but they won't stay. I don't know why
they won't stay.
When I open my eyes to the dull buzz of the alarm
My head swims, my brain reaches for the
last few remaining images. It tries to put them in order,
tries to make sense of them. But nothing seems to fit.
There is only me, the light, and the desk. My works are in order.
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 6:56 PM UTC
Sugar frosted sorghum fields , icing on divinity branch , conjures
a few borrowed phrases scrambled in a Croaker sack . At latitude with
a blue tick coonhound sneaking a peek through the brambles that twist through the hedgerows at a meek , timid mink with a playful eye on morning snow ..
Curious Crow concerned with which way the wind blows , Eastern gray's curious as to why their shadows grow , chasing one another without a care at all , relax outside their sweet gum abode ..
Milkers in the onion field led to proper pasture ..Cowbells break the chilly silence , Red rooster performs willy-nilly atop the pole barn .. Guineas spinning yarns about the other end of the farm , lively geese turning heads for miles around ..
******* jack beagles bray for the edge of the soybean field with no desire for corncake and hot cereal ..
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
seeing for the first time, any colour
other than metal or white,
eyes wide with suspicion,
smelling for the
first time, any scent other than
a chemical cleaning product,
noses a quiver, wet then dry then wet again,
waiting
to move, uncertain, unsteady legs
then
touch...
touching for the first time, the ground
with blades of grass, pointed and poke
between the pads, calloused pads,
wobbly steps and attempts to run
with stumbles upon the green grass of freedom,
under a blue sky of hope, no shadows
from the stainless metal cages, and a stark scientific
horrific place of pokes and needles and loneliness
a Lab, no a Labratory
but we are Beagles, and OUT to prove it.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
Mr. Hopsons polished , placid pond surrounded by dark green July corn , teeming with mud and flathead catfish , dairy cattle call on clear blue , bucolic afternoons .. Black tadpoles crowd her tall vegetative shore , hoof prints riddle lonesome trails , killdeer chirp atop Elizabeth rose fence lines , paddocks come alive with abundant , fragrant wildflowers of every shape , color and size ..
Beagles cry for their midday meal , songbirds vivaciously work the white barn homestead , Rhode Island Reds gather for Noon feast , Embden Geese patrol East seeking the blacktop , waddle noisily along the gravel drive , forever curious , even a touch boisterous and foolhardy from time to time ..
Charolais bulls command the molasses lick , working salt blocks , lay
without fear beneath tin topped field shelters ..
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
*Hot sassafras tea and shortbreads
Served by weathered , loving hands
Beagles introducing the postman
Water Oaks shedding their color
Dirt roads went on forever* ...
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 7:18 PM UTC
Early morning in Putnam county , blue , pink and yellow sky at daybreak on a frosty November morning , freezing temperature exposing our breath as we alert the beagles of our presence.......The beagles know !!!!
Shot gun loaded , dogs released into thick Georgia pines and water oaks , depth perception and distance obscured . Within minutes the baying of the hounds begin , long and drawn , further each second filled by high pitched whimpers signaling the start..Song of rural Georgia , my Uncle and I on guard , the pack alerts the hunter of the cottontails arrival ....
We double time in the direction of the baying , the quarry is returning from start ,frozen ground crunching beneath our boots ....The dogs have returned , a single shot is fired and the contest has ended for now but repeated several more times that day....We return red faced from the cold , the smell of gunpowder and tobacco . The beagles at rest , we prepare our harvest for a feast at a later date ....Back indoors , coffee and a good day of hunting !
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
The morning fires of Ola have resumed
Leaves are whisked across rested -
pastures and workable fields
The bells of Hereford and Charolais announce the -
sunrise meal
The lick is filled , the trough watered ,
the herd counted , the busy day plotted
Orpingtons pick cracked corn , barley and
grit
The first firing of the tractor , the beagles -
leading the farmers rowdy contraption in -
hopes of a stirred rabbit or a covey of game birds
Ola's country air is thick with new- day diesel ,
fresh harrowed field and wild onion , thickened
with pine an fresh hewn hardwood ...
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 9:08 PM UTC
Another Mother,
please
don't bother
The Bird buddy
such anger
management
for the human,
we are____
((Free birds))
Locked the
Queen Parliament
All humans\//
are the caged ones
(Tweets) fanatically
insane feet
Bird Fever
twiddle dee___*
her satin sheets
(fiddle me)
Mr. Brando bird can see??
Bird front
breasted docks
Cardinal Pope
flocks of Coo
Moo clocks
Commando Crumbs
Crows feet heavy
metal big bro beat
Angry tears of a clown
The tweet's on twitter
Rap brother
Big! brother Nomad
named Conrad_______?
The kiss it never
felt like this
(Ann Margaritas))
Polly crackers
and French Brie
Terrible two
tweets/ angry-fits
All she does is sit
High flight buns
poppy seeds
I'm a free bird.
Please, no cages
Holy **** wages.
Conrad Birdie
the
army got
you now.
Diamonds
bird created
Rubies
Billy Crystal
bye, birdie.
Got stuffy
Pyshco bird
shower but___
She eats like a bird
zombie pantry.
Those breadcrumbs
4 seasons
Bird feet seedy
The Gordon Fisherman
Starfish in her girdle;
Angry dogs of beagles
Jewish Bagels from
Brooklyn cream
cheese and lox
What a bird **** puddle.
That security guard he
pecks and nibble
The bicycle she still
peddles at Peddlers
A whole bird village
Pa. Ha Ha
Papas and the mamas
There slowing me down
turtles imagine
me and you I do.
I think about you every
Rooftop twittering
I need a lighter
No birdy littering
Wheres my bird waiter
Dorothy Rainbow
lorikeet
Brother, we
don't need to
escalate
Robin Red Breast
The Ladybirds braveheart
Solomon Island
movie part
The Rainbow
Lorikeet
She swept him off
another tweet
Down to the rainforest
Purple Prince
looked at her feet
girls so bitter
Her coffee
Freely and lightly
He went over to her
and said
Your coffee is
for the birds' sweetie
She said tweet tweet
You'll never be my bird
Angry is the word
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
*From South River Hill the lights of Alabama shone
Beside a meandering Chattahoochee I once stood alone
To catch sight of a river dancer or skip a stone
To catch a new stars arrival , the howl of a wildcat or
a glimpse of the orange setting sun
Her beauty effervesced , brown waters teased the
muddy banks , an Egret flew low overhead , the calm
surface echoed smallmouth feeding explosions
Becalmed riverwoods silvered in the coming night
Nocturnal songsters peaked on cue
The red clay trail home illuminated , voices of bobwhite quail serenading , the braying of beagles at the hillside , the alarm call of Embden Geese gathering at the whitewood fence line* ..
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
*Young Beagles walk disoriented in changing
winds , sixteen year olds are no different with the car keys
Competing odors , night lights tantalize in every direction ,
the road home combined with myriad , compelling -
alternatives
Food to the left , a deer to the right , a garbage can
dead ahead , aroma of chickens coming in from behind
Hanging out here , headed out there , always that guy
who's old enough to buy beer , the bar that will let anyone in
Keep one eye on your "pups" on breezy Friday nights ,
Lest they stray from the path by the light* ...
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 9:59 PM UTC
*Find a guitar for it is the sun , wind and rain
Frets are the tumblers unlocking one's pain
Music is the stair step to higher being
Harmonize with windsong as your mind is freed
Tones that touch the heart of thine enemy , mimic
the heartbeat of Jehovah , crashing wave chorus ,
thunderclap above , the flight of eagles , the braying of young
beagles , the coo of turtle dove , laughter of a child , whispers
of love
Perform with eyes ridden with tears , with unbridled fear
Before the committed stockade with reason held captive , before
the downtrodden and the betrayed , before the hopeful and the vain
In the backdrop of freedom , against the folly of state induced reason
In thy greatest hour of grief , atop the mountainous relief* ....
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
*The first cup of morning joe to the music of vamping crows , the songs of tattletale bluebirds and homesick geese
Frost glows in the sunshine , lighting pasture stubble and winter greens
Woodsmoke covers the valley as gray squirrels multiply their -
tally
Beagles burr in the naked hardwood , a feisty swamp rabbit up to no good* ..
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 5:15 PM UTC
A great man once said demonstration speaks louder than conversation.
So instead of talking about travelling the world with you,
how about I just take you for a vacation?
A trip into the depths of my mind.
I think like no other person does,
I'm one of a kind.
Kind of you to even consider loving me knowing the amount of people you must have left behind.
The certainty in your actions make me believe that if time offered you a chance to rewind,
you would still choose to be mine.
A woman like you is a rarity,
losing you would scare me.
The missing piece to my puzzle,
you fit in my life perfectly.
Your attributes are admirable,
your achievements are legendary.
You've got the intelligence of a scientist,
just as well we got chemistry.
The way you inspire me to be better,
only you could bring that out of me.
Transmuting a man from copper to gold,
that's your definition of alchemy.
As you stare out over the balcony seeing falcons and eagles,
hearing seagulls and beagles,
the animal kingdom appreciates that you're the queen of the jungle.
There's no reason to mumble,
be loud and proud about it.
You have a bright future and there's no doubt about it.
Alleviate my stress.
Let me levitate on your compliments. Complementary like condiments.
We don't have time for arguments,
we break down issues and build up tents of security.
Your vocal tone is filled with purity.
Soothe me with your lexicon,
your vast range of vocabulary.
Communication in a relationship is necessary.
Let me introduce you to my dictionary.
The emotions you elicit from me are beyond extraordinary.
I can feel the love in the air like its the middle of February.
Can't call you my better half because you're more than whole to me.
I know what you're capable of and it's time for the whole world to see.
Thoughts coming through my head right this second telling me to let you go.
But how could I ever do that when you're the person that helps me grow?
I know it's forbidden love but rules are made to be broken.
If I dream that we get married, I pray that I'm never woken.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 8:27 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Logosophiamag.com
Hellopoetry.com
Fellowshipandfairydust.com
A Field Guide to Fields
Watermelons, sunflowers, field corn, sweet corn
Sweet potatoes, green peas, butterbeans, squash
Cabbages, purplehulls, lettuces in rows
And across the fence, red clover in glorious clouds
But the most glorious field is in midsummer hay
Green-dancing beneath the benevolent sun
Crosstracked by beagles, terrapins, foxes, and rabbits
And little boys off to the fishing hole
Those little paths across farm fields, you know
Lead to happy memories of the long-ago
Jan 20, 2023
Jan 20, 2023 at 10:33 PM UTC