"snuffled" poems
I'll be eaten alive one day:
one day, i see it in my mind
so close to closure along an empty street
late at night
(owls just retired and birds
not yet up),
orbs of light tethered to tall electric poles
cast dappled circles on cracked pavement;
illumination and safety
(for that two metre radius).
Stepping between them
like a girl child on stones
across a garden,
I anticipate each missed step
as sinking into sand or frightful waves.
Singing drunk back-alley lullabies
i'll soothe the skelebabies in their sleep,
their poor crusted noses snuffled against
a cold shift of air
(their private torment plastered over billboards
with corporate logos and dim colours,
suggesting the city's lights have gone out and
the local government is in frantics.
That is, after all, what you'd focus on)
Girl child games were so tipsy and magic
(and so close to real coldness);
between two orbs of light i'll slip
through the cracks
in the pavement.
THE END.
(eat me alive,
eat me alive,
eaten alive by the
wolf at the door)
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
I dated a girl, a pretty gal
I dated her and her pooch pal
You had to like her dog Pogo
You had to, or it was a no go.
She took the thing everywhere
And never in a pet carrier.
It was sort of a turnoff to me;
A kind of no-intrusion barrier.
Scoochie up to poochie
Or you I wouldn’t get no *******
Otherwise I was a pimple.
It was really just that simple.
She had the ugliest mutt
That I ever saw before
Like a brown **** rug
That was left outdoors.
It snuffled through teeth
That were hideously parted.
I thought it was stuffed
Until the creature farted.
Scoochie up to poochie
Or you I wouldn’t get no *******
Otherwise I was a pimple.
It was really just that simple.
I got nothing against animals
And I really do like dogs
But they should look like pups
Not chimera or warthogs.
I’d overcome the boundaries
Whenever I got the chance
But that ugly canine lump of fur
Put the kibosh on romance.
Scoochie up to poochie
Or you I wouldn’t get no *******
Otherwise I was a pimple.
It was really just that simple.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
The most curious thing in my acre of lawn
This morning, the day when long winter departs
The brown croquet ball of the rash Queen of Hearts
A bristly thorn bush of quills tinted fawn
I watched as he plodded so wobbly on
He snuffled and snorted with hesitant gait
His little nose twitching and smelling the air
He spotted not apples, but he did not despair
The cat had left food which he noisily ate
I watched and I realised how I could relate
The long snooze impending, he had to prepare
Half his life wasted no time for a mate
And prickly spikes would make love hard to share
How sad life would be if each hug ripped a tear
Pain is much worse when you hurt those you lean on.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
A snuffled sigh after heavy tears.
Passion overlooked amid the slur of a drunkard's song.
Gnawing ach of a toothles dog
lapping a bone.
Stainglass windows in a dark storm.
Her scent lingering in the room
long after she is gone.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
The yellow dog was dead,
starting to bloat on the side
of a more rural stretch of 169
hwy.
It was easy to see,
despite the brevity of
our time together,
that the yellow dog had
belonged to, was part of,
a home, a family.
Even in death,
the dog looked like a
Dutch, or a Butch, or Jeb, maybe Roscoe;
like a dog that belonged
in a setting such as
this.
Not,
however, on the side of this
two-lane piece of asphalt,
but in this patch of fly-over
country that he had, just a
while ago,
snuffled.
Or,
living in the horse barn,
sleeping on the loose caroms
of straw, maybe catching a rabbit
for his supper now and then;
his master bringing him into
the house for a warm bath,
some table scraps, when the weather
cooled.
However,
today is warm,
the sun glints off of the white fluff
of a rabbit’s **** and the chase that
ensued was magnificent…
Unfortunately,
it led the yellow dog
to his less than enviable fate,
lying near the sweet summer grasses
with a look of disappointment etched onto
his face.
Upon my return,
passing the same spot,
I see that the yellow dog
is being given a wake.
The vultures,
their congress having voted,
their kettle having stirred,
landed near this fallen hound
and prepared to feast.
Though,
again my investment in the scene
was brief,
I couldn’t help but notice that
the yellow dog still wore a sturdy-looking
collar and that his tags shone brightly
in the late afternoon sun.
So,
I found myself hoping
that as he’d lain at the edge
of his last green horizon,
he looked up at the clouds
and thought:
“This isn’t so awful. I made the best of it.”
Then,
as the wake of vultures
began to feed,
I hoped they too might consume
some fleeting memory that the yellow dog
had about chasing rabbits, thrown sticks,
rolling in mud, or perhaps even this particular
misadventure,
the one that had led to
his wake.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
An Hour with Dachshunds and Keats
The first day of autumn – surprisingly cool
In this almost tropical latitude
So after a day of working outside
I sat with Keats before a brushy fire
As is my custom I read his “Ode to Autumn”
With a tumbler of – lemonade – to hand
While the little fire sang its own kind of song
And the dachshunds snuffled among the leaves
The first day of autumn – surprisingly cool
And in her rising the Evening Star blesses us
Sep 23, 2021
Sep 23, 2021 at 7:38 AM UTC