Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
King Panda Jun 2017
you had me when you
skinned my hide—the future
and present of squiggled
intestines tilting with the
rotation of earth.

I am macho—no nighttime.
the summer constellations
throw me a bone and big crunch
as my molars snap with my
jaw.

it takes a year to go around the sun once.
it takes a trawl to fish properly.
it takes a dog to chase the brightest
star.

*Sirius.
Gemma Apr 2018
A field
(Grass, mud, flowers, bugs)
One winter
(Hats, coats, scarves, gloves)
Was one of my favourite walks with you.
1,2,3,4 legs running full speed
Like they were designed to.
You were thirteen
and I know age is just a number but it means a bit more now there's something wrong.
Everyday your still mistaken for a puppy
but maybe it's because that's what age you are , forever, in my heart .
Who knew, cause I never did, that a dog could finally give a hectic family a meaning ?
Who knows , I don't know, whether when it happens I'll ever be able to pass the stage of grieving ?
You were always more than enough ,
more than a hug, a walk , a fuss
You are a part of the family
And you have served us love.
s Oct 2017
I think it's been four hundred days
since that innocuous defining phase,
But that's if we were keeping count,
and if numbers meant a thing at all.

For isn't time just ornamental,
perhaps even incidental,
when the commodity is sentimental,
or like love, a hypothetical
fundamental ?

Same page?, I ask,
tying to gauge flipping thoughts;
As if I knew where
my book was marked.
But pages, I can dog-ear,
to hold onto a moment
that would otherwise disappear;

An excerpt that I can savour
many moons later,
when love turns to favour
and leaves
a bittersweet flavour.

It's today
I'm looking for,
among shuffling tenses
but the focal lenses
are blurring
And my words
are slurring
for I'm too close
to your near perfect nose,
to find a reason
for why we chose
this.

I'm afraid this poem has turned
into a rhythm & blue,
or maybe it's an untimely cue
to write that song about you and me -
One that's been due
for a month or three.

A nonsense rune
with an infectious tune;
in the four chord beat,
where the lyrics
unfailingly repeat.

A rhythmic monotony
of a romantic comedy -
a stanza about you,
and a chorus about me -
a few things kept true,
and some made up for story.

Something about
wine pink shirts
and warm maroon shawls,
with just a few words
about unsaved phone calls.
A yellow lamp here,
an airport kiss there.
a night spent in fear,
of doubting you'll be there.
A white wall washed
in cinematic glory;
Two kittens tossed in
to make trouble & ***.
And then a pre chorus
about card tricks and foreplay
and the time in the bus,
we talked about a good day.
A few bits borrowed
from the last rhyme I wrote
and that could be followed
by one even before;
For what could I say
that I haven't already proclaimed
in ten odd poems,
gushing with love, unashamed
thegirlwhowrites Jan 2015
I have not grown accustomed
to the sound of your messages.
Their presence did little to assure,
nor did their absence cause unsettling.
Today, however,
I must admit
that I have waited for that bell.
My heart salivated
at the sound of passing bicycles,
hoping finally it was you
remembering the love
you have left waiting.
I wonder:
How could you have conditioned me
to anticipate something
that has never been constant anyway?

for j.e.
*013115
VENUS62 Jul 2014
Do you want
to hear
a story droll?
About a dog
with a kind
soul

Outside,
that night,
I heard the winds howl
Inside
was the sound
of an intermittent growl

I opened the door and he
slipped out
Some time later, he
came back with a pout

Reprimanded he was
for coming back
with a muddy taint.
Remorseless,
head raised, he
stood there defiant.

“Okay, Scot!
Let’s see what you got”

He gently
dropped
his big scowl
and Out fell,
in my palms,
a baby owl!

Apparently he had
peeped far
from his tree hole
When Scot was
beneath that tree
sniffing a mole

Frightened but fine,
the owlet
was a bit choosy
So we went,
to put him back,
in his tree hole cosy!
Dev Aug 2018
Wet nose, four paws, and a wagging tail
follow right beside me on an uncharted trail.
We're exploring, but just what for?
National treasure or maybe folklore?
He doesn't know and neither do I.
On a day like this we don't need to ask why.
I stop for a break and he looks right at me.
"C'mon Dev. Let's make it snappy."
I can't disappoint those big brown eyes.
He never complains, frowns, or tells lies.
His only intention is to insure I'm happy.
So I stand back up and give him a patting.
We march on in search of who knows.
Through the highest highs and the lowest lows,
There is always an adventure just around the bend.
He's not only a puppy - he's my hairy best friend.
zebra Mar 2018
I'm a black dog
with a torn heart

you
are carved out of light
heavier then rocks

my bowels
a crumbling fortress
dire

in my emptiness
you
make my blood run down dark gutters
to the city of your legs
pooling at your soft pink feet

i strain in prayer
for your love
a black dog in panic

i run seven miles a day
to **** you
my body lean and wire muscle wet
women look on dreaming
as i search for you in their faces

i run killing myself
till your dead
all curving sadness
and broken creel

a hallowed
crypt of desolation

you
a sword through me

farewell
Paul Mar 13
Over the bed, a ceiling fan revolves
elliptically. The yellowed walls speak
of anxieties archived by the lungful.
From his fingers the snaking upward blue
smoke of burning tobacco describes tumult.
She has gone back into the world. Alone
in their aftermath he inhales like a figure
growing distant in a cinema purged
of heroes. The worn sheets rope about
his ankles and recall an inmate’s noose.
She'd been inside. And for years. How she assumed
her role in the act, face to the wall, silent, work-like.
It was a thing they laughed about. Her parting
glance was inscrutable.

He drew deeply, and a ring
of orange fire bloomed, briefly proclaiming love
remained a chance. Who could know? The arhythmic
rocking of the fan beat the hot air back
onto him, the lone smoker, smoking blankly.
The curtains billowed into the parking lot
like some great tongue, wildly, mute. And under
the window, in the shadowless heat, a dog,
limp with thirst, laps at the drips that drip from a pipe.
a re-write and re-post. I've strived for meaningful enjambments and a sense of metre while attempting to sound contemporary
Rowan Deysel Mar 2016
Fresh from the kennels. A whole world away.  
Companion conversion for a young castaway.  
A darling of distraction with irrational fears.
The clumsiest canine with ever aware ears.
Guardian of gourmet. Suspect of all sounds.
He'll catch himself someday, spinning around.
A tug of war here. A muddy mess there.
A lick to the face of the humans in his care.
How thrilled his tail and tremendous his teeth.
How dug up the planet from paw underneath.
The running for fun. The claiming of trees.
The car window ride along - face full of breeze.

--------------------------------------------------------

But now he's a master of "Stay!".
His eagle ears succumbing to gravity's sway.
Napping much more, barking much less.
Now rarer the cuddle, the clean, the caress.
Patch protector. Owner of no debts.
A veteran of various villainous vets.
Birds as trivial as the tennis ball is far.
Eyes now as hazy as the indistinguishable stars.
A howl at the moon. A loosening tooth.
An ode to memories of a modest youth.
They still love this pup. He still loves them back.
May he long be remembered as he faces the black.
Brody Blue Sep 2017
Brass plays a sad tune
Over the motors of the pontoon.
I was lost; now I'm found
Rescued from the Dog Pound

Mama! Mama! Go get a doctor!
Send forty days of rain
And a kettle of copper.
Ride that train! Hurry uptown!
That ol' blue norther's pourin'
At the Dog Pound

Well, it's hard to be humble
In this land by the sea
But it's so easy here to stumble,
Ain't it hard livin' free?
Hear that train? How sweet the sound...
That Burlington's a-blowin'
At the Dog Pound

Rally! Rally! Creepin' up the alley!
Rope that heifer! No slack on the dally!
Make her now become a cow
And milk the puppies at the Dog Pound

And with the storm well on its way,
Back and forth the breakers sway;
Fools rush in, makin' their rounds,
But the muzzle has 'em puzzled
At the Dog Pound
A song about a train robbery
Osiria Melody Feb 26
Wish I  was a cat
Agile legs of naïvety
Ignorantly shifting                                               incongruity off
                             unsuspecting decorations of
the infuriated fireplace’s   shelf
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                    
L s  e  i n       to the commotion of   s h a t t e r e d  
  i  t   n     g
vases and idiot mementos that
very much costcheaply, but lookexpensively

Wish I was a cat
Defacing the beauty of toilet paper
Aggressively clawing
     miles of fragile, snowy roads                                
whilst overthrowing the throne that we                                  
know as a freaking   t    i  e    that   f l u s h e s  
                                      o   l   t
the—mind you, number 1 and number 2
very much dumbannoyingly, but hystericalhilariously

Wish I was a cat
Meow the life out of myself
Causing uproar of vexation                                                   endless hours of incoherent
                                             and w n  e r u l
                                                       o   d   f    smiles of delight,
statements like a clash between two hard-boiled,        e g g h e a d e d   lawyers
very much mundanespeakly, but expressionfreely



Melody
2/26/19
(Please read this poem in landscape if you're on a mobile device.)
Cats are rambunctious.
Alan S Bailey Apr 2015
I was a dog, I was a plane, and then I became insane,
I blew my top, a volcano as a prop, and found out
There awaits a train. It took me places far and wide,
It showed me mountains, what's inside, It gave me
A place to go each year, and it left me Mad ness
Death, and fear. I'll never outgrow my random poem,
Bit by tidbit you should be careful, I'll warn you of this
Only once, you shouldn't EVER read it all alone!
I actually had to type to write this, hope you like it!
Purcy Flaherty Jan 2018
I spend all my hours crying and crouching in dark despair, consumed by self pity; neither living nor dead, my mind poisoned by grief, ruined, undone, bitter and broken; my love wrenched from me.
My dream smashed into a billion pieces.
I'm finally ready to embrace the black dog with all its teeth and fury, fearless, numb, exhausted, done.
I'll gladly drink down any poison, to end this state of loss, to open my flesh, to let out my blood with glass or steel and to let the cold waters draw me down into the ocean with pockets full of stones, anything to stop this intolerable feeling!
I am nothing but empty!
I’m sick and tired and at the end!

I’m content that but a few will remember, until I'm completely forgotten.
Confused, broken down and in a dark, dark desperate place!
jane taylor May 2016
running by your side
divinity colliding
sparks my soul anew

©2016janetaylor
writerReader May 2015
When I was
young
I had a dog
She had a
crooked tail
and a
twisted tale
laura Jun 2018
i think im being gaslighted
‘cause i can’t remember why i
feel this disgusted with myself
whenever i’m around you

lately i stopped believing in the magic
of being disobedient of other’s rules
every time there’s pieces of my
belongings scattered and hidden

you with a knife ridge smile
and no sign of grieving for the waves
you stole away from me
i need to run away but i don’t know how
guy scutellaro Feb 2018
when I walk towards the dog his eyes follow my every step.
eyes  blue like hard candy. lips curled above white fangs
smile at me with a smirk of someone who has awakened
from a bad dream.

I think I hear him sigh and as I kneel beside him. His cold eyes catch some light from the pulsateing drum bar sign.
"what do you see?" I ask. "what can you feel?"

Inside the bar I order a shot of bourbon and as I put the bourbon to my lips I see the dog standing on a barstool next to the fireplace. His lips are contorted tightly above its teeth and his eyes pulsate red light. After staring in disbelief the impossibility of situation dies. His eyes flash quickly several times. He knows me .

I order 2 shots of bourbon and walk over to were the mutt was sitting. He is not there and I'm beginning to wonder if I have imagined the dog when I feel something ice cold rubbing against my leg,  I look down. The mutt winks at me. I crouch down to put the glass of whiskey in front of him. Then I touch my glass to his.
"I've learned to moan without making a sound. " I tell my friend as his stiff tongue stubbornly licks up the bourbon.

He slowly turns his big ****** head towards me. "Out of the lowest the highest reaches his peak,"  his hoarse voice whispers. Causiously I stroke his head. He growls but it is not too menacing. it becomes more like a contented humming. The faster I caress the louder the droning becomes. His eyes dilate and I become mesmerized watching them grow from a warm yellow radiance to a terrifying hot white.

And with a vicious snap the dog sinks his teeth into my hand.

I **** my hand loose. Quickly I stand up and punt kick the little ******* into the fireplace. My wounds are deep but bloodless. A cold numbness  travels up my arm, into my chest, and down to my toes.

And just when I 've lost all feeling. I begin to burn. The fire is burning me from the inside out so no one knows how I feel.
Instead I stare at the dog in the fire place as steam rises from his head. His eyes flash at me three or four times.

I give him the finger.

When I walk into the poolroom, I put quarter on the table. It is a crowded room of tired faces unable to radiate any light of their own.

"The fire has consumed me. The true believer of snow and sad faces, I am a shell."

I am confused, frightened. I hear the words as if they are my thoughts. But then across the room hidden in a dark corner I discern the silhouette of the mutt. His eyes are shut but I can faintly see his subtle smile.

It's my game so pretending as if nothing has happened I select a pool stick. A tall man in a leather jacket comes over and tells me it is his game.

we argue.

And the dog's voice groans, "No matter what you dream it'll end in ashes or ice. Hit him with the pool cue." The next thing I know I'm slamming the pool stick into the man's face. Blood rushes from his wound. People rush from the shadows. hands grab me. Punch and kick me. I'm dragged to the door and tossed into the gutter.

Semiconscious, sometimes dreaming, I roll over and face the dog.
From the shadows someone comes behind me I try to roll over to see the voice but cannot.

"What does this world consist of?" The voice whispers into my ear. "Empty lots, a dead dog, and visions of the night."
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Your past, your romantic past, is a shadow. Like all towns, Port Angeles was a combination of rain and clouds, sun and mist, with a chamber of commerce, barrooms and boards of directors, the known and unknown. No one of course is completely unknown. I was known for my tragic love life. She had found another man, a backwoods man, living on the land but not above a night on the town, who according to her would wipe snot on his pants, a statement of poverty or thrift or anger against the niceties of society. All of us heated our hovels with wood but only the rich burned hardwoods, me and probably this guy were softwood gatherers.

            There were few aspects to my life. First, I can remember a nook in the kitchen of the house I shared with a beautiful faceless woman who wore a ring in her nose where I wrote and watched flocks of unidentified birds comb a tree for seeds. This particular day the sky was blue with clean pillowy cumulus clouds floating toward Puget Sound. I believe all the poems written in that nook have been forgotten by their author.

            Nights, for entertainment, I would wander the aisles of the supermarket, admiring everything and buying nothing. I had no money. The fluorescent lighting, clean straight neat shelving and floors, warmth and the fact I could identify nobody attracted me. I lived on cream cheese and honey sandwiches eating them leaning against the kitchen sink. Thinking go back to New York City which is what I ultimately did. Drove cross country nonstop three days and three nights seeing and feeling nothing.

           This was during the Reagan recession inherited from Carter. I'm unclear how presidents affect your life but good or bad, democrat or whig, alive or dead you've got to get a job, which I did. I supervised the living arrangements of developmentally disabled adults in what I thought were humorous contexts that gave no offense. They were beautiful and incorrigible having regular *** without protection. Normally harmless they'd sometimes have altercations with their neighbors. I balanced the checkbooks, paid the bills. Supposedly teaching living skills, I had few of my own as evidenced by my sleeping on the floor, I had no bed. One mature woman colleague judged me a short-timer living a useless fantasy about big cities. Still lost in my own history, still didn't know the calculus.

            I had a dog, Shade, black lab, leftover from my near-marriage until she realized I had no economic prospects, no interest in further *** or her logger boyfriend, and a complete inability to translate or imagine nesting and gestation. My homework comes to me in daily disconnected increments. Shade lived in my gray van, a Dodge slant six, which I could never afford to fix. Once the driveshaft disconnected from the rear axle and I tied it on with rope. Drove 60 miles on a knot. Shade was hyper and sad, both. He smelled bad but was a good dog with a lonely heart. When my wife who wasn't a wife finally found a boyfriend who wouldn't wipe snot on his pant leg they took Shade to British Columbia where I believe he runs free on a vast estate by the sea. I once beat Shade like a slave because he attacked a small dog out of frustration and loneliness and until I had kids and started saying and doing things just as bad to humans it was the lowest meanest moment of my life. The farmer who saw it will never forget or forgive it.

            Having confessed all this there's just one last fact to tell. The mountains were cold, the waters clear, deep snow and shadows.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Stephen E Yocum Dec 2014
The day crept by, we all held our breaths.
Tip Toeing on egg shells,  
Doing our collective best.
Holding to forced hollow,
politeness and meaningless small chat.

Avoiding the family elephant in the room,
Our painful history of misdeeds and misuse.

The tree was lighted, the room gaily decorated with
all the colorful Christmas props of our childhood.
Mom cooked her best guess of each of our,
once adolescent favorite foods. My two sisters,
my older and younger brother and me too.

And Dad bit his tongue and tried to stay hushed,
as Mom had pleaded for him to do.

Half way through dinner and a few Hot Buttered Rums,
The small talk turned serious, and just like that, we were
all truly back home again.

Grown adults quickly reduced to sniveling petty children
sitting at their domineering curl Father's dinner table.

Old wounds opened and bleed upon Mom's best-treasured
table cloth. Food grew cold for lack of interest, eyes flared
and oaths of profanity mingled with cheery Holiday Music
on the stereo.  Belligerence ensued and our Father raged
as he verbally listed his disappointments at our many failings.  

Judy's new husband took a swing at Jason and the women
protesting their loutish behavior, separated them.

Earl and his small clan fled out the door and drove
straight back to Emeryville with not one word,
Of goodbye having been uttered.
Even leaving the kids presents behind.

In tears, Sandy ran back up to her old room and discovered,
That it had been turned into an "Exercise Parlor and Sewing
Den." All her things gone to the Goodwill or garbage bin.

Dad went to the cupboard and got his bottle of Scotch
and the rest of us all quickly adjourned.

Mom started to cry and never stopped.

The Dog Days of Christmas had commenced,
And all the Kings horses and all the Kings men
could never put our Castle back together again.

I donned my helmet, swung a leg over my Hog
and headed for the mountains, leaving Christmas
in my rear-view mirror.  "Peace on Earth and
Good Will Towards Men", don't work for everybody
friend. Hopefully, maybe next year we'll try it again.
Not everyone has the good fortune to rejoice
in the happiness of home and hearth. We are all
different, come from varied backgrounds and
family situations. A conversation with a friend
was the seed of this write. Some are not as
lucky as others. And I think we can all relate.
Perhaps the flip side of what we imagine and
want it to be. . . Family stuff is complicated.
Repost 2013
Next page