"dogged" poems
*No
land **
for you.
Doomed
expeditions,
oblivion,
Only
a wreck's
inevitability,
Yet
soggy,
dogged,
Your
floating
cheer,
Echoes
in childhoods
infinite,
At water's
origin, paper's
invention...*
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.
I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.
But it was Cold in that water! It was cold!
I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.
I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.
But it was High up there! It was high!
So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love--
But for livin' I was born
Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry--
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.
Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!
5.9k
This day is like the pouring rain, heavy falling and hard to swallow.
Dark as the memory of an old embrace,
Cold and mellow, like the cousin of a summer day.
Yet within this rain we are unchanged, just not the same.
I see the water as it cascades,
And floods the streets, to wipe the dogged dirt away.
It’s in my ears, it's on my mind, like a booming sigh.
The raindrops on the soggy ground.
Flooded I am washed away, but not far enough to leave this town.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
I know the feeling
very well - its mutual.
To be ****** and dogged
cowardly. It's an
unwelcoming
situation. All bottled up
with emotions
and consumed with rage.
At your breaking point
and at your peak of going
over the edge.
Licking your flesh wounds,
but calculatingly plotting
your eventful
revenge.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
I worked for a woman,
She wasn't mean--
But she had a twelve-room
House to clean.
Had to get breakfast,
Dinner, and supper, too--
Then take care of her children
When I got through.
Wash, iron, and scrub,
Walk the dog around--
It was too much,
Nearly broke me down.
I said, Madam,
Can it be
You trying to make a
Pack-horse out of me?
She opened her mouth.
She cried, Oh, no!
You know, Alberta,
I love you so!
I said, Madam,
That may be true--
But I'll be dogged
If I love you!
3.4k
All summer we moved in a villa brimful of echos,
Cool as the pearled interior of a conch.
Bells, hooves, of the high-stipping black goats woke us.
Around our bed the baronial furniture
Foundered through levels of light seagreen and strange.
Not one leaf wrinkled in the clearing air.
We dreamed how we were perfect, and we were.
Against bare, whitewashed walls, the furniture
Anchored itself, griffin-legged and darkly grained.
Two of us in a place meant for ten more-
Our footsteps multiplied in the shadowy chambers,
Our voices fathomed a profounder sound:
The walnut banquet table, the twelve chairs
Mirrored the intricate gestures of two others.
Heavy as a statuary, shapes not ours
Performed a dumbshow in the polished wood,
That cabinet without windows or doors:
He lifts an arm to bring her close, but she
Shies from his touch: his is an iron mood.
Seeing her freeze, he turns his face away.
They poise and grieve as in some old tragedy.
Moon-blanched and implacable, he and she
Would not be eased, released. Our each example
Of temderness dove through their purgatory
Like a planet, a stone, swallowed in a great darkness,
Leaving no sparky track, setting up no ripple.
Nightly we left them in their desert place.
Lights out, they dogged us, sleepless and envious:
We dreamed their arguments, their stricken voices.
We might embrace, but those two never did,
Come, so unlike us, to a stiff impasse,
Burdened in such a way we seemed the lighter-
Ourselves the haunters, and they, flesh and blood;
As if, above love's ruinage, we were
The heaven those two dreamed of, in despair.
3.2k
I've sang for you
Danced for you
Bled for you
Bowed and curtsied
Dogged and *****
I've fought for you
I've won countless times
Ribbons and plaques
Handshakes in the dark
The game continues to play now
in my head
for you
Apr 24, 2021
Apr 24, 2021 at 8:56 PM UTC
Plenty of poems from broken hearts who got loved then dumped.
Women writing poems about wanting a man back after he ***** dogged her.
Don't take rocket scientist to know something wrong with that picture.
Clue to men who ain't going to stay put even if he put a ring on it.
He's flirting with everything in a skirt, He ain't attentive after he hit it,
You gotta be the one always calling, He don't call unless he wants to hit,
He gets defensive when you want to know why he wasn't where he said he'd be.
Those are signs he's c-h-e-a-t-i-n-g and so are the ones coming up.
You catch him in lies and he makes you think your losing it.
He closes window of his computer when you enter the room.
All his is password protected and he wont tell you his passwords.
He's getting and receiving text messages he wont let you read.
He leaves the room when he gets a call.
If you answer his phone you get hang ups, phone rings until he answers.
He wont let you meet his friends or his family.
He starts arguments so you wont go with him when he leaves.
Men don't get ****** cause I'm ratting you out. Read one too many
heart break poems to be sorry for truth telling on my gender.
Men think about *** when they not having it.
If he don't want to hit it he's hitting it else where.
Coming up is ones to skip and avoid.
You can skip the ones who look at your cleavage and not your eyes.
You can skip the ones who live with mamma.
If he wants you to hurry up and quit talking or makes you feel like you
can't do nothing right, skip him too ladies or you gonna be bawling your eyes out over him.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
The owl-car clatters along, dogged by the echo
From building and battered paving-stone.
The headlight scoffs at the mist,
And fixes its yellow rays in the cold slow rain;
Against a pane I press my forehead
And drowsily look on the walls and sidewalks.
The headlight finds the way
And life is gone from the wet and the welter--
Only an old woman, bloated, disheveled and bleared.
Far-wandered waif of other days,
Huddles for sleep in a doorway,
Homeless.
2.3k
A truce was declared last night
we all saw a remarkable sight
the dogged bruiser sleeping sweet
then rubbing all around my feet
his eyes were saying come on mate
no stared disdain, no smoldering hate
so carefully I lifted Haggis
scared he might take it amiss
I wanted so long, I did it at last
I cuddles Haggis the King of the Cats!
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 1:06 AM UTC
Eulogising was a challenge
under constant bombardment
from falling masonry.
But the gathered crowd deserved the effort.
There was Honest Bob,
whose cut-price bricks
had won the tender
and built the edifice behind us.
Slick **** the concrete king
fresh from an industrial tribunal
and ready to pay tribute.
Fat Larry, the glass magnate,
dodging the shrapnel
from his wind-shattered panes,
just like the rest of us.
I raised my voice
amidst the crash and crumble
to praise the architect.
There were those who had forgotten
the terrible designs
that had been *******
by her dogged determination,
Her clarity of vision
(here, I was interrupted
by three roof-tiles in succession,
smashing at my feet),
her strength of purpose
(nine bricks and a length of plastic guttering)
and her shining conviction.
But here, in the shadow of the teetering mass,
we could all acknowledge
her unforgettable legacy
with pride and gratitude.
Champagne, truffles,
and off we all went,
helicoptered to who knew where
happily leaving others
to clear up the mess.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 5:14 AM UTC
_
On
Goolwa Beach
the waves are
dogged
bounding
puppies bouncing
excitedly around your feet
Greyhounds sprinting in to nip your
ankles Labradors wet nosed gambolling
slobbering Rottweilers snarling slavering
knocking you off balance in packs hard
on the heels of the leader *** crazed
sniffing the one in front mounting it
mad things collapsing foaming retreating
whimpering spent on the sand cowering like whipped curs
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 2:03 AM UTC
I screamed at my mother
until my voice hurt
I knew I was crazy
but I was so scared
she looked at me
like I was
her cup of coffee
that had spilled
I’m afraid
I can get in trouble
for being afraid
following the dog days
when you dogged me
in all ways
nothing kept me grounded
I forgot about the earth
heart was electrified
need for sleep unrecognized
I walked towards
who I left for you
hoping that if
I slept with him
you'd hear about it
you’d be jealous
when you called me
button
you were really saying
you couldn’t join two parts
without my help
now you can only
text me when
you’re alone
unlike when
you needed me
to keep your hole
from tearing
apart
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
On a cold, grey Bronx September day, an old man stood on the Courthouse plaza.
His palsied hand reached out to touch the monument to his life’s sole drama.
He’d just turned nineteen when the A.E.F. had been ordered to assist the French.
Near Chateau-Thierry He helped hold the bridge without the safety of a trench.
“We Marines fought like devil Dogs” He whispered softly to the rain.
“The Germans came, wave after wave, but only the stars and stripes remained.”
“Paris was spared and the foe was impressed by our Marine’s defiant dogged defense.”
“My best friends died, but I survived to keep them in remembrance.”
“We stopped the Germans at the Marne.” He felt an old familiar pain.
Some might say that the old man cried, but he would say it was just the rain.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 11:20 AM UTC
I Saw Her In The Subway,
She Was Tall & Fair,
But Her Clothes Weren't.
I Saw Her Makeup Wearing Away Now,
She Had Her Clothes Damaged,
But She Was About To Say Some Words.
I Observed Her As She Stopped Her Sentence In The Midway,
She Recognized Me & I Recognized Her Too,
But I Walked On Without Being Dogged By My Past - The Angel Had Fallen.
I Discerned Over Going Back To Hold Her Hands Again,
She Needed To Be Helped By Someone Close,
But It Was Her Decision To Separate Our Ways - She Chose Disgrace.
I Agreed That Nobody Could Pull Her Out Now,
She Was Comfortable This Way Too,
But I Thought I Saw Her Eyes Glistening As She Passed With Another Customer.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 7:35 AM UTC
The mighty hand of God
pinches the valve in my heart,
blocking blood flow,
causing clots,
His fingers blot out the sun,
and close my mind,
to art and poetry,
His breath and mere mention of his son,
send me in to convulsion,
and I spring forth in revolution!
Garnered force during rest,
attacked at the weakest point of night,
this hand, your hand, coil around like snake,
sheathed in good graces,
appearance transforms to wolf,
dogged teeth reared, mouth foaming,
howling of justice, in a wild froth.
I have no choice but to cast forth the stones,
from bile duct, passed by my good graces.
Now a tired warrior,
I exist as a Devil in disguise,
my war paint faded,
as I'm touched by the longing,
I can understand the plight,
but I can't stand being poked and prodded,
by the Mighty hands that choke,
and they all Know the workings of valve and heart,
as they perpetrate
'His' artful form.
http://www.robross.ca
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 8:50 AM UTC
The difference between ‘this’ and ‘that’
existentially plastered and preparing for nothing
The Hadit and Nuit
Bored and lonely on a carpet and picking acne
The being in and for
The words of infinite relation and perspective
Horus and Nut
On Saussure’s lap dogged, tired, and deceptive
Gilgamesh and Inkidu
"And nothing else matters" Metallica claim
Yin and Yang?
All are the same
and different at the same time
built in illusion
'the paradox conclusion'
God written in Mathematics
And forgotten in words
The Nature of the universe is SO immature
Always sitting and waiting for life to begin
Looking for answers to moral and logical sins
A Non gendered third person pronoun, shin
Cough! and Cough! and sputter and Die!
Burnt by the spent life
Why?
We are but the glorious observers of such things
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
The outlined shadows of angel-like apparitions, and I'm soaked in anxiety like the wingless houseflies,
Where can I find peace in the midst of hell and nirvana?
My soul is torn apart and my body a rigor mortis,
I feel the blows under the baobab,
Where is the Lord? Where is the God that sheds light? Where is the God that resuscitates dead souls?
The devil has ****** my spirit in the dark hole, I'm now groping in the murk with my dogged effort,
I have been a survivor of many months, of the battle between the devil and the many generations, the way to find peace is to rest in peace, No! And what about my mama?
The divine lady who enshrines his son with a prayer, this woman tells me of how coward the devil is, she talks of the galaxies and the Hail Marys,
But I'm not dead yet, she is the reason why I'm still alive, and why I should live to 72
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 4:47 AM UTC
Here's something you don't see everyday. Although I've seen it a few times before on my street... A homeless man pulling a bicycle which is attached to the most astounding construct! Made of bicycle wheels and plastic webbing, chicken wire and aluminum piping, this huge mobile container for tin cans, and whatever this homeless individual can scrounge to resell, is almost the size of a garbage truck! And carries probably hundreds of pounds of aluminum cans.
In constant danger from cars and trucks, this is an outstanding testament to human ingenuity and dogged determination. The man marches on, stopping occasionally to take a container to dumpsters looking for cans. Whatever he can find.
I asked him if he needed something to eat or drink. He just smiled and shook his head. "I need to move on." And I realized he probably takes advantage of the nighttime to do his searching, as it is too hot during the day to do so. I smile and wave and wish him blessings.
If I ever feel like I am put upon in this life, I should feel ashamed. This man has shamed me utterly. I've invited him up to my porch in the past. Giving him food and drink. He is a believer. And I've never met a more cheerful brother in the Lord Jesus Christ! But he doesn't take any credit for his outstanding ingenuity and Drive. He gives the glory to God. I have tears in my eyes as I write this. He was also an addict and finds it very difficult to find a place to live due to his past. So he sleeps on the streets and does what he needs to do to survive. And survive he does!
I say a prayer for this stalwart. His name is Ben. Will you join me in my prayers (good thoughts)? I think he deserves them, don't you?
♡ Catherine
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
When peace leaves, ever setting as winter
he bitterly tosses all chance beneath
her sun, howling madly while he pins her
mean like a crazy raver with claws sheathed.
What might to live steadfast in raging fire!
Pleading peace and fractions of smoky clouds
up after three, dogged she loves through ire
unrepentant, refusing to be cowed
while he looses logic bared of reason--
thunderous icicles with poisoned tips
cut fully in form ill-timed to seasons
of babies, bills, dogs, cats and sinking ships.
She whispers welcome to the stormy breach
wholeheartedly, forever out of reach.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:55 PM UTC
Round the path these wraiths walk
paced to keep the gears turning
save for a few this is Lady Justice
her arms holding even the smallest souls
sounds of buzzing and locks clanking
dominate above the incessant chatter
backyard handshakes hidden from prying eyes
dogged deals shaping these shatter lives
and the word of the day is always "waiting"
taking one last look at the hands of time
before that dreaded voice bellows through
then its the cold slap of flash on cement
these veal on twenty three hour lockdown
spinning their tales these jailbird tailors
lying to each other for stolen smiles
each in a different stage of the same life
bathing in the omnipresent light of fireflys
dreaming of a wisp of smoke or a hand stroke
whichever waits for them on the outside
they'd believe in the patience of the buddha
if religion were on their tapered tongues
as it is there's always faces against the glass
eyes peeled to savor the brief passing drama
apathetic to the other prison dog's plight
drooling for the next passing hour
as they count them like sheep herding sleep
cleansing their conscience in the communal rainshower
everyone praying for the wings of freedom
to fly them from these sullen gates
the others still suspended in solitude
letting one man tell them when to eat and wake
their voices becoming mere whispers of wind
poets robbed of their rhymes and words
grown accustomed to breathing processed air
measuring their time in months, weeks, and years
locked away with the shadow of their fears
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 9:50 PM UTC
My talent (or my curse) is getting lost:
my routes are recondite and esoteric.
Perverted turns on every road I crossed
have dogged my feet from Dover up to Berwick.
My move to London only served to show
what fearful feast of foolishness was mine:
I lost my way from Tower Hill to Bow,
and rode the wrong way round the Circle Line.
In nameless London lanes I wandered then
whose tales belied my tattered A to Z,
and even now, in memory again
I plod despairing, Barking in my head,
still losing track of who and where I am,
silent, upon a street in Dagenham.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 3:56 PM UTC
my heart is fragile
my smile is broken
my soul is tortued
my eyes have turned blind
my fingers got burned cause of cupid
my wounds are open
my throat is dogged up
the pain is flowing
my insides are burning
(let’s just keep going)
my mind is fidgeted
my thoughts are caged
my bloodstreams are bursting
introspective is weakened
unanchored sailing takes place.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
... ravening wolf's
blood-caked maw
explodes
plumes of condensation
to evidence exertion.
He guards his ****
with a dogged dread,
for I
am an
unfamiliar
predator.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
A yellow dog lies
in a yellow field.
Thinking of greener days,
legs twitching in canine dreaming.
Of fresh water, and tasty kibble,
a special stick thrown by its master.
Rusted stripe down his back,
a flag of sorts, dogged wisdom.
Ten years old, he still has some spry,
a spring in his lope, a point yet to fang.
Eyeteeth seeing all, pink nose knowing
the smells of this field.
Where the rabbits burrow,
where the squirrel makes it home.
The far off lament of distant freight trains running.
A yellow dog sleeps in a yellow field,
a small white cross marking his bed.
He will run forever in yellow fields,
Running, and dancing amongst the golden stalks.
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 6:15 PM UTC