"poodle" poems
She introduced herself, as
Sunset.
Batted her lashes not to be flirtatious ,
But to hide that her eyes were wet.
All around me were blurred, but beautiful faces.
Yet, my eyes only focused on hers
The first that I noticed.
*When I bought my first camera,
From that sales-man down in Alabama.
And he taught me how to use it,
He said, "see here son, if I was to take your picture I'd set this camera here on portrait.
But if I took a picture of that pretty little girl 'cross the road"
he said with a smirk
"I'd have to set this here camera on Firework"*
It's funny how memories work.
I think of that man now, of his coffee colored skin and straw hat.
I never thought I'd need to know any of that.
but right here and now I set that camera to sunset.
raise it to my eye
And take a picture of
Sunset.
As if she were a colorful sky.
and that's it.
some people deserve more than a portrait.
And I know, I'm going to take her to a dark room.
And see what develops, of her negatives.
But first, I want to hear all about her crazy relatives.
Who gives her, her beauty?
where's she take her dog to groom?
The poodle on her leash is a cutie.
and what does she doodle on her notebooks?
stars or hearts or sugar skulls....
Does she know she's caught me on her fishin' hook?
What's she think of me, I'm sure I look dull.
Why are her teary eyes so full, About to overflow.
There were so many things I wanted to know....
before I took her to a dark room.
But it happened
And all I found in the picture that developed was gloom.
I realized I was her first.
And the best night of my life became my worst.
because I took something from her she didn't want to give.
But I just didn't know that she wouldn't want to live.
Keep reading, this ends beautifully.
beautifully like a sunset ends a day.
But, you have to believe me when I say that's not nearly as beautifully
As Sunset ends my hopes and dreams.
How she ended her own life
With pretty little pink pills.
One....Two....Three
gripped in her hand they found a picture of me.
And now I know, Sunsets are all about Beautiful Endings.
It's funny how memories work
© copyrighted Nicole Ann Osborn
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
A wild man is not a boyfriend, he is a force.
Can you love me in the blinding heat of a birthing star, when I shower warmth on distant moons?
Can you love me in the hole of the cosmic Black, where no one can reach me? Not even you?
Can you love me then too?
Can you love me when I drag buffalo skulls through the dirt for days, to the rhythm of an ancient drum?
Will you love me if my beard hides the scars in my heart, from battles I cannot explain?
WIll you love me when I lack courage, when I am defeated, when I won’t let you patch my wounds?
WIll you trust me when I smell of sweetgrass and sage, and when I stink of whiskey and sweat?
When I drink from the cup and play in astral light, will you anchor me to Home?
What happens when my words don’t work, and I can speak with only my eyes?
Can you love me enough to let me go, without asking me where I’ll be?
I am no poodle to lay groomed on a leash at your feet. I am the wolf that fetches the bones of truth.
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He’s not built for animal husbandry. He is a force. He is a cause for an effect. He is a mission.
Are you afraid to let me inside you? Not just my flesh, but my soul. The wild man is neither burglar or vandal. I will not take anything from you. I will not trample on sprouting seeds or pick flowers as a trophy. I am the sun on flooded fields and the fire for tangled webs.
Don’t be scared, lover, mother, maiden, crone. Take me as I am.
Even if I have the power to destroy worlds, I will not destroy you.
A wild man is a protector. A father. A warrior for all that is good.
When the chaos seeks to obliterate you, sheering your flesh from bone, I will hold all the pieces together in love, until you are ready to reassemble.
When your seas boil, and your winds throw cars at corn fields, I will wait patiently for you to catch my eye, so that both of us can laugh.
When Hell opens up the fiery gates, and sends all the cosmos against you… I plant my heels deep in the ground. I lay my shield low. My sword is sharp then, my love. The steel sings sweetly. With a smile, Hoka Hey! My last breath a farewell kiss. Today is a good day to die.
For ours is the oldest love affair. The greatest story ever told. Cupid and Psyche, Shiva and Shakti, You and I.
Same same but different. Would we have it any other way?
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He is a force.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
I know of a girl who dreads the New Year
Because it steals her away
from poodle-skirts and telephones
And all that is long gone
Drags her across the floor by her ankles
while she sobs
as though she'd known the era's
dead.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
Say this city has ten million souls,
Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:
Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us.
Once we had a country and we thought it fair,
Look in the atlas and you'll find it there:
We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.
In the village churchyard there grows an old yew,
Every spring it blossoms anew:
Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that.
The consul banged the table and said,
"If you've got no passport you're officially dead":
But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.
Went to a committee; they offered me a chair;
Asked me politely to return next year:
But where shall we go to-day, my dear, but where shall we go to-day?
Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said;
"If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread":
He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me.
Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky;
It was ****** over Europe, saying, "They must die":
O we were in his mind, my dear, O we were in his mind.
Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin,
Saw a door opened and a cat let in:
But they weren't German Jews, my dear, but they weren't German Jews.
Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay,
Saw the fish swimming as if they were free:
Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.
Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees;
They had no politicians and sang at their ease:
They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race.
Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors,
A thousand windows and a thousand doors:
Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.
Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;
Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro:
Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.
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You're my snickerdoodle, pumpkin strudel,
You're the sauce upon my noodle,
You're prettier then a purple poodle,
You're the one I like to doodle,......on my doodle pad,...
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
Before walking through the doorway
Made of trash bags
A woman checked our ID’s
We passed the booth with the feathers and the ball-gags
Passed the woman selling *** toys
Just a white awning with plastic chairs
We sat and watched a man dressed in leather
He was the kind of expert who understood his passion
But for him there was no teaching it
Beer saturated my white shirt
As I sweated it out
I could feel the alcohol in my lungs
I breathed slower as if it would hide the sensation
He explained to us puppy play
The dynamics
He had his own puppy with him
A man so good at making wet eyes
So good at seeming lost
He barked and wagged an invisible tail
Chewed on rope
Probably he thought about burying his bone
What his wife might be making for dinner
Wondered if I had recognized him as a regular
At my work
While taking questions the leather man said
It takes time to discover the puppy inside
It makes me think of how
In order to view ourselves as anything
We need a filter
I want you to **** me
With a ****** full of yes
I told them
If I were a puppy
I would be very stupid
But great to cuddle
We can admit these things about ourselves
While in character
If I tell you
I am pretending to be anything
I can still find ways to pretend to be me
It is like an electric chair
Disguised as a lazy boy
It will not hold you for long
Your skin does not fit proper
It makes me think of my father
The Clown
Who bent me into shape
With his balloon animal breath
Only he had asthma
The empty static
My inner puppy
Is a half deflated balloon poodle
Ends pulled tight like amputee sausage link limbs
Looking lost and lonely isn’t hard
What’s hard about it is
Looking like that was your intention
In character
Some invisible narrator
I can admit anything
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 4:28 PM UTC
**only a ******* man could love a ******** poodle**
everybody knows poodle one of the smartest breeds,
not exactly a manly man's dog, but great to have around to feed,
feed you, when alone, and you need a good conversation
had me a good woman
she would say:
"hon, kindly fetch me this and that,"
**** dog would get her whatever she wanted,
me, didn't mind at all, loved taking care of her,
but the dog loved her more and be there and back
before I could jack my feet off the couch
she would say:
"hon, come near, give me a
nuzzle and a kiss, a cuddle and a lick"
**** dog, double quick, cause it spoke better human than most,
was in her lap burying her laughing with affection infectious,
before I could jack my feet off the couch
she would say:
"honey love, meet me bed upstairs,
love me sweet and complete,
when done, please love me
over again twice as nice"
**** dog hearing the sacred holy word bed
was up there in a flash, howling "what's taking youse guys so long,"
tail impatient drumming up a rock n' roll storm,
while we slow pokey, taking our own sweetest time,
humans messing around first with a little downtown downstairs,
prefatory, preparatory work,
both our feet lazy still on the couch kissing the cold away
when we got to our destiny destination, had to kick that
**** ******** foggy doggy outside, close the door,
say no more, **** dog did whine and cry like a baby chile,
till we couldn't take it no more and let that **** dog in
she would say:
"lover man, I love you better than twice I thought I could
ever love another, cause you two idiots two-gether make me
sweeter and completer than I ever knew I could be happier"
like I said, only a ******** man** could love a ******* poodle**
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 8:29 AM UTC
You bring me good news from the clinic,
Whipping off your silk scarf, exhibiting the tight white
Mummy-cloths, smiling: I'm all right.
When I was nine, a lime-green anesthetist
Fed me banana-gas through a frog mask. The nauseous vault
Boomed with bad dreams and the Jovian voices of surgeons.
Then mother swam up, holding a tin basin.
O I was sick.
They've changed all that. Traveling
**** as Cleopatra in my well-boiled hospital shift,
Fizzy with sedatives and unusually humorous,
I roll to an anteroom where a kind man
Fists my fingers for me. He makes me feel something precious
Is leaking from the finger-vents. At the count of two,
Darkness wipes me out like chalk on a blackboard. . .
I don't know a thing.
For five days I lie in secret,
Tapped like a cask, the years draining into my pillow.
Even my best friend thinks I'm in the country.
Skin doesn't have roots, it peels away easy as paper.
When I grin, the stitches tauten. I grow backward. I'm twenty,
Broody and in long skirts on my first husband's sofa, my fingers
Buried in the lambswool of the dead poodle;
I hadn't a cat yet.
Now she's done for, the dewlapped lady
I watched settle, line by line, in my mirror—
Old sock-face, sagged on a darning egg.
They've trapped her in some laboratory jar.
Let her die there, or wither incessantly for the next fifty years,
Nodding and rocking and ********* her thin hair.
Mother to myself, I wake swaddled in gauze,
Pink and smooth as a baby.
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The short-order cook and the dishwasher
argue the relative merits
of Rilke’s Elegies
against Eliot’s Four Quartets,
but the delivery man who brings eggs
suggests they have forgotten Les fleurs
du mal and Baudelaire. The waitress
carrying three plates and a coffee ***
can’t decide whom she loves more—
Rimbaud or Verlaine,
William Blake or William Wordsworth.
She refills the rabbi’s cup
(he’s reading Rumi),
asks what he thinks of Arthur Whaley.
In the booth behind them, a fat woman
feeds a small white poodle in her lap,
with whom she shares her spoon.
"It’s Rexroth’s translations of the Japanese,"
she says, "that one can’t live without:
May those who are born after me
Never travel such roads of love."
The revolving door proffers
a stranger in a long black coat, lost in the madhouse poems of John Clare.
As he waits to be seated,
the woman who owns the place
hands him a menu
in which he finds several handwritten poems
By Hafiz, Gibran, and Rabindranath Tagore.
The lunch hour’s crowded—
the owner wonders
if the stranger might share
my table. As he sits,
I put a finger to my lips,
and with my eyes ask him
to listen with me
to the young boy and the young girl
two tables away
taking turns reading aloud
the love poems of Pablo Neruda.
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The news comes to us
Running all around
Coming from the air
And from the ground.
Happy news sad news,
Any type of feed,
Computers are shoes,
Running us what we need.
You can surf it you can scroll it,
Or even search google
You can find the perfect color
To match you white poodle.
You search all day,
And even all night,
And the results are run to you,
Like they are running from a fight.
You can search sitting down,
You can search standing up,
You can search foreign languages,
On how to say whats up.
Want to impress you girlfriend,
Show her you can cook,
Pull up a recipe on google,
You don’t have to search a book.
Want the newest fashion news,
And the newest styles,
They are only a click away,
Within the internet files.
Shoes are the foundation,
That we live on every day,
And computers are that foundation,
That we use everyday.
Computers run information,
Going and coming to and fro,
They can tell you the directions,
for where you want to go.
Computers are shoes,
They are solids we rely on,
You can use them for your homework,
To find a certain ion.
So this poem is over now,
And I think you get my point,
Computer are shoes,
This is my poem joint.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 11:14 AM UTC
My poor, stupid poodle,
peed on the pedestal
of Cleopatra's needle
on Victoria embankment,
near the Golden Jubilee bridge.
( Oh! I am miserable!
I couldn't stop the debacle)
The poodle's puny misdeed
embarrassed not just me,
but the whole city of Westminster,
as fire alarm rang out loud,
when an overzealous constable
gave a distress signal.
It brought the fire chief himself,
who came rushing to meet
the emergency situation,
thinking the poodle was trying
to put out a fire erupted
on the ancient monument,
once shipped to England,
overcoming great adversities,
from Africa, long back.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
The daughter of the village Maire
Is very fresh and very fair,
A dazzling eyeful;
She throws upon me such a spell
That though my love I dare not tell,
My heart is sighful.
She has the cutest brown caniche,
The French for "poodle" on a leash,
While I have Bingo;
A dog of doubtful pedigree,
Part pug or pom or chow maybe,
But full of stingo.
The daughter of the village Maire
Would like to speak with me, I'll swear,
In her sweet lingo;
But parlez-vous I find a bore,
For I am British to the core,
And so is Bingo
Yet just to-day as we passed by,
Our two dogs haulted eye to eye,
In friendly poses;
Oh, how I hope to-morrow they
Will wag their tails in merry play,
And rub their noses.
* * * * * * *
The daughter of the village Maire
Today gave me a frigid stare,
My hopes are blighted.
I'll tell you how it came to pass . . .
Last evening in the Square, alas!
My sweet I sighted;
And as she sauntered with her pet,
Her dainty, her adored Frolette,
I cried: "By Jingo!"
Well, call it chance or call it fate,
I made a dash . . . Too late, too late!
Oh, naughty Bingo!
The daughter of the village Maire
That you'll forgive me, is my prayer
And also Bingo.
You should have shielded your caniche:
You saw my dog strain on his leash
And like a spring go.
They say that Love will find a way -
It definitely did, that day . . .
Oh, canine noodles!
Now it is only left to me
To wonder - will your offspring be
Poms, pugs or poodles?
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When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail,
She looked so limp and bedraggled,
So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle,
Or a wizened aster in late September,
I brought her back in again
For a new routine--
Vitamins, water, and whatever
Sustenance seemed sensible
At the time: she'd lived
So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer,
Her shriveled petals falling
On the faded carpet, the stale
Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves.
(Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.)
The things she endured!--
The dumb dames shrieking half the night
Or the two of us, alone, both seedy,
Me breathing ***** at her,
She leaning out of her *** toward the window.
Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me--
And that was scary--
So when that snuffling ****** of a maid
Threw her, *** and all, into the trash-can,
I said nothing.
But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week,
I was that lonely.
3.9k
in the middle of a dark night
no moon or street light
and I could hardly see the road in front of me
but it was free
and so we settled
and thus we pedaled
more then 30 winding miles
into this wilderness of isles
or so it seemed
so very mean, just like a dream
he said "continue ,
for it is in you
and we can make it to the place
within an hour, at this pace."
his plan was brutal
I'm not a poodle
but I could truly smell the sweat
and feeling hot and sopping wet
it was no fun. at. all
and like the day y'all
so very done
again not fun
and it is true
that maybe you
would think ahead and plan the weekend
get a room and buy a map
none of this crap
(but I'm a sap
and went along with his idea
for I had hopes for us last year)
and so we learned
the hard way burned.
Well I could barely,
i say just barely
make out the single line white striping
while he's right behind me griping,
"can't you speed up?
we're gonna meet up
and the collision won't be pleasant"
not that pleasant was he were
so very DER!
it's so ironic, perhaps moronic
for there were headlights
coming up the hill in front
and to be blunt
they had to blind me
oh please don't mind me
for I quickly left the scene
right off the road
and with scream
into the blackness of a pitch
which sent me down into a ditch
a steep ravine
so very mean
and then the bike no longer able
to remain beneath my seat
after that drop
the roll to stop
landed on top
and not so sweet
so very beat
I said '"oh sheet"
I was not laughing,
nor was I crying
and but more like " could it be
dear Lord that I am dying?
Oh my God, excuse the curse
so freaking odd, though i've seen worse
and though my body's somewhat shaken
not a bone or tooth was breakin'
and I'm fully wide awake and
not a pain or any ache~
so very odd
it must be God.
and there I lie
perfectly high
my eyes wide open couldn't scope but
in the darkness I could *****
the rock beside my fallen hide
and in a moment not an omen
he said "Gee!"
"Is this your knee?"
I said: " Hey Mr. Moulder,
you've got my shoulder."
"I should have driven in the Bently"
and as he pulled the bike off gently
asking how these things do happen
"nevermind, just lets get snappin"
and we made it to the youth hostel that night.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
What a pleasure it is
to be alive
at the same time as you
I could be lost in the 50s
swirling in a poodle skirt
and singing to frank sinatra
or the 60s
painting peace signs on my cheeks
thriving in a cultural decade
or i could be making my way
in the 70s or 80s
pretending i like disco
with poofy hair
i have teased my mother about.
but i am here
in the present
which is truly a gift
as im spending the golden ages
of my life
with you
when i could be
an entirely different person
in an entirely different millennium
but how lucky i am
alive and free
in the same universe as you
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
If dogs could speak, O Mademoiselle,
What funny stories they could tell!
For instance, take your little "peke,"
How awkward if the dear could speak!
How sad for you and all of us,
Who round you flutter, flirt and fuss;
Folks think you modest, mild and meek . . .
But would they - if Fi-Fi could speak?
If dogs could tell, Ah Madame Rose,
What secrets could they not disclose!
If your pet poodle Angeline
Could hint at half of what she's seen,
Your reputation would, I fear,
As absolutely disappear
As would a snowball dropped in hell . . .
If Angeline could only tell.
If dogs could speak, how dangerous
It would be for a lot of us!
At what they see and what they hear
They wink an eye and wag an ear.
How fortunate for old and young
The darlings have a silent tongue!
We love them, but it's just as well
For all of us that - dogs can't tell.
2.8k
I was walking my big Ridgeback Mr. Brown
across the Starbucks parking lot
when this little white poodle started yapping
from the rolled-down window of a brand new Mercedes.
Mr. Brown responded like shot from guns
and before I knew it
he was scratching at the Mercedes door
eager to make friends with the poodle.
Then the Mercedes owner came running out of Starbucks
spilling latte all over his substantial stomach
What the ****
Look at those ******* scratches!
Do you know how much it costs
to fix a car like this?
I’m suing you and your big ******* dog !
Not wise, sir, I responded…
to be so aggressive with someone you don’t even know
and who has a 110-lb. African Lionhound
on the end of his leash.
I might be a whacked-out Vietnam veteran
with a hairtrigger temper
or a gang member
or maybe I'm just a senior citizen
with an extremely protective service dog.
Well, he said, his belly shaking,
look at my **** car.
I am looking at it I said
and handed him the keys to my ’68 Shelby Cobra
parked and shiny right nearby.
Take mine, I said
it’s more fun to drive.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 5:56 AM UTC
If wishes were fishes,
I'd have a whole bunch.
Swimming in fishbowls,
Awaiting their lunch.
If wishes were french fries,
I'd have a caboodle.
Frying in the skillet,
To feed to my poodle.
If wishes were colors,
I'd have a rainbow.
Coloring the world,
In hues of magenta and mango.
If wishes were flowers,
I'd have a garden full.
Showing their pretty faces,
And smelling of taffy pull.
If wishes were mine,
I'd hand out a dozen.
To every girl and boy,
To each uncle and cousin.
Jan 4, 2011
Jan 4, 2011 at 1:06 AM UTC
Shoop, Shoop
***Shoe, *** ***
Shoop, Shoop
***Shoe, ***
The moment I laid eyes on you
I knew it was true love
You were sharing a root beer float with your friends
Down at the soda shop
I looked debonair in my Pompadour
You cute in your poodle skirt
I took out my comb to slick down the sides
As you smiled, giggled, and twirled
I asked if you'd like to go out
Just you and me on a date
I picked you up at seven o'clock
In my 56' Chevrolet
Your father gave me a stern look
Your mother a gleam in her eye
He asked where we were going
Why to church sir, I said with a smile
Shoop, Shoop
***Shoe, *** ***
Shoop, Shoop
***Shoe, ***
I took you to the drive in
Bobs Burgers and Late Night Shakes
Afterwards we both went dancing
At the Hop just down the street
You had my heart all in a flutter
As we slowed danced all night
It was then I knew for certain
That I would make you my lovely wife
I got you home way past your curfew
Your dads silhouette by the front door
You said I can't go back to that
I pressed the peddle to the floor
So here we are these many years later
Me as your husband you as my wife
With our grand kids playing about our feet
Thinking back to that fateful night
Shoop, Shoop
***Shoe, *** ***
Shoop, Shoop
***Shoe, ***
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
there was a little poodle he was very white
he longed to be santa on a christmas night
climbing down the chimneys with his santa sack
filled with lots of presents hanging from his back
he climbed down a chimney covered in black soot
the poodle had turned black covered head to foot
this it didnt stop him and spoil his christmas night
he could take a bath and once again be white
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
(Song title from Lightnin’ Hopkins’ catalogue, by Whittaker)
He stalks the parks; staring; leering,
Smiling contented,
Hiding behind his façade of walking his dog,
He reveals his true darkness,
As around the roundabout he ambles and strolls,
Looking at the children in their innocent poses,
We crouches by a boy alone in the shadows,
A boy who is happy to sit down and doodle,
He tells this stalker “let me play with your poodle”,
The menace moves in.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC
My grandmother likes salami, God, and bougainvilleas
I like to think she likes tenuous pink things-
but then there’s the salami.
One day she taught her daughters to string neck-
laces from bougainvillea petals
like-ponies-in-a-junkyard
I think I chewed too much bubblegum in mass
because I picture God pink
an ethereal globe of a poppable pale pink.
And for some reason, I like to think Brother
Charles saw that too
I bet my lungs are somewhat pink:
more pink than my berry red blood
but less pink, sweet and/or hairy
than a cotton candy poodle.
I forget if they were strawberries or rasp-
berries too
There are things that are pink
but then there are things that are pink
and shadowless.
Like subterranean lungs,
God, the future, and
the smell of flamingos in the dark
The future is still pink and
somewhat fruity
like a lukewarm strawberry milkshake blushing,
or was it maybe just the taste
of my pepto-bismol stained lips.
One of those ponies was my mom
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 3:02 PM UTC
Moodle foodle woodle,
Toodle roodle poodle,
Noodle boodle hoodle,
Loodle yoodle zoodle.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 6:13 AM UTC
Where it all started...
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2018179/only-a-dumbass-man-could-love-a-smartass-poodle/
<•>
The Obvious Fact: Dogs Have Souls
******** poodle, of prior fame, suggests*
"surely this ditty will trend before one reads to the very end"
1. as everyone loves dogs
2. especially smart poodles
3. who writes soulful poems
really, here we are talking and you are gazing into my brown eyes adoringly,
and
you humans
still debate if there is a
god?"*
and then dog yawned,
a gigundo doggy yawn,
which is a supernatural,
miraculous biblical thing to behold
<•>
for no reason other than gravity
man says,
sometimes my earbuds fall out of my ears,
without provocation, of their own accord,
to remind that though they're in,
the music isn't in,
and neither
am I anywhere real, concrete,
existential,
to be found
which prompts a furious philosophical poodle to man discourse,
as to my exact whereabouts
badass poodle quotes Joan Baez (Diamonds and Rust):
"My poetry was lousy you said,"
and to verify my geo-physical locus,
and his opinion of the human's written hocus pocus
poetry,
gentle farts and adds, low growling,
"there your are!"
how I love that
centered, down to earth,
in my bed, in my heart
dog
<•>
"Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action."
Goldfinger
a favorite phrase from a movie of one's youth.
that rises to the surface, when smartass-u-know-who
reads my weak human mind and yes,
farts twice more, adding poetically:
*"the best things in life always
come in threes,
her, me, and you"*
"glad to be included," I replied,
to which he licked his
privates publicly,
adding lowly,
*"every smart poodle need a leashed human,
as if any self-respecting poodl could or would
type their own poems,
who's
the *** now!"*
and we got up, got the leash
(for human to carry)
put our earbuds in,
went for a sunrise
sniff-walk-and-compose
on the beach
the two **********
arguing
which Pandora station to turn on,
two only love poets, both thinking of their shared
her
finally, compromising, in tail wagging agreement on,
The Righteous Brothers
<•>
p.s. lol, only a ******* man could love a ******** poodle.
~
8:33am
8/11/17
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 6:32 PM UTC