"yapping" poems
These streets
are home to countless
rodents
emerging for a moment
to feed
or breed
or just to breathe the sun
One by one line up
for the chance to
make something
out of nothing
Who are they and
where do they go
while the city refuses to
sleep
___
Doors to endless lands
line the avenue
each its own portal to the
unimagined
A family of four
with the yapping mutt
or a lonely cat lady
whose entryway wreaks of *****
a drug dealer
door slamming
every hour on the hour
or an empty snowbird's nest
On the surface
everyone pretends
they don't have a hole to
crawl back to
or walls that know
every night
But below the sewer grate
a world filled with
the stench
of what could have been a
good day
Many a barkeep can
shed some life
on these drunkards'
rat king
or at least a story of those who
made it out
Once or twice it'd be grand
to see the bottom of a martini glass
left with a sip or two
instead of the casually tipped
lipstick-clad cocktail,
drained of doubt and despair
until morning warms the
frozen dreams
of those retired to
a paradise unknown
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
A hairy ball of energy
Who loves to run and play,
Whose tricks and tomfoolery
Would brighten any day.
Almost hyperactive,
Without doubt lively,
Incredibly inquisitive,
Exploring constantly.
Chewing on everything,
Peeing everywhere,
Not fond of house training
but slowly getting there.
Extremely mischievous,
Just wants to have fun,
Loves to get pets from us,
Each and everyone.
Yapping so excitedly
At everyone and everything,
Such an incredibly funny
Lovable little thing.
Who looks at us imploringly
With great big brown eyes
That we fell in love totally
Should come as no surprise
This lovely little puppy
Right from the start
Became one of the family,
Captured every ones heart.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC
I don't know man. It just has been different lately, you know?
No not really. What do you mean? Like, explain it.
Okay so you know how you do it and you feel everything dissolve? You know? And that warm fuzzy light fills you up and the back of your head sags all the way to the floor? You know how you can't stop smiling? How nothing matters because everything is going to be chill in the end? You know?
Yeah? So what's the issue?
Well recently, and I mean very recently, I just got this feeling. This ******* feeling for two hours and all I want is for it all to be over.
The thing is - I know that everything is fine. That it's all chill and that I'm just geeking out, but still, the way it makes me feel. I can't do that anymore.
How the hell does it make you feel dude? Jesus can we get to the point sometime soon?
Right, my bad. It's my heart first. I feel my heart going at a thousand ******* miles a minute but when I check my pulse or heart beat - everything is normal. But still I feel it in my chest yapping like a dog at the front door and I can't convince myself that this is chill. Then it's my chest. You know how Jesus died of suffocation on the cross?
I thought they stabbed him before they suffocated?
Whatever, you know what I mean, how people on crosses couldn't breathe because of their arms and lungs and chest or whatever? Well I get this feeling that my chest is thinner than a sheet of printer paper. That every single time that I inhale it's never enough. Then I get this electricity in the back of my head. It creeps up from my sternum, through my throat and then to my brain stem. Like an itch you can't ******* scratch no matter how many layers of skin you go through?
Jesus dude.
Then I convince myself that I can't move my right hand. Convince myself I'm partially paralyzed. Only I'm watching my right hand move. But I feel like it has to be an illusion, because how the hell am I moving a paralyzed hand? It's all gotten so ******* twisted that I don't know which sense I can trust.
Well are you sure that that's the reason? Why don't you take a small geeb or something? For the sake of the scientific method?
Listen to me you fool. There is no method to this. Just madness. But I suppose, in the name of fairness, I should do some more research. Maybe just this one last time. Just to be sure.
Exactly... So you wanna smoke some ****
Yes. I want to smoke some **** Just for science and all that. I kinda have to. It'd be unamerican to not smoke, right?
Right.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
Babysitting
for grandchildren yapping
and yipping and grandpappy silently
slipping away.
To bed at nine and out comes the bottle of wine,which
is ever so slightly
a bit out of line and
grandpappy's silently slipping away.
Then it's up at six
for hot milk and two weetabix,then some film show
on Sky or Netflix and
grandpappy's silently slipping,with red wine surreptitiously sipping
away.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horse strained at his clicking tongue.
An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck
Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.
I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.
I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.
I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.
5k
FOR WHAT ARE WORDS WORTH
I wandered lonely
through a crowd
lost to myself now
that I'd lost you
gathering even your footsteps
peeling your shadow from my wall
remembering that lost last kiss
did it have to end like this
"...beside the lake, beneath the trees....
...when all at once I saw a...."
host of saffroned monks
their robes " ...fluttering and dancing
in the breeze..." and behind them
bunches and bunches of daffodils
outside a florist
chanting Hare Krishna
in all their yellow voices
delighting in their day
and for a second I
forgot my pain
dancing across a zebra crossing
with an old old woman and
a little
yapping dog.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC
I try to be tolerant,
but you repeat conversations from your head
assuming I'll play by your script
despite my lack of interest
in your need to repeat the past.
I try to be tolerant but
you won't give me a chance to breathe,
not with those dagger eyes that have been threatened,
not with that yapping mouth that has been triggered,
not with that closed mind that screams to be opened.
You view your world from your eyes and get caught
thinking your view is the best view when it's not.
You view your world from your eyes and get caught
thinking all your thoughts are true and valid when they are not.
I like you best when you remember on your own
that your limitations are limitless,
and together we live in this world of a mess
and call it our home.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 9:40 AM UTC
A head
A giant boney mass
Many mouths and eyes
thoroughly babbling,
whatever,
etc.
Snapping and blinking
Mouths Melded together on this ultra cranium
Yapping on and on
On and on and on
Yellowed teeth and bedazzled grills
Botnet mods and crop tools
The most dastardly of all -
An infinite production of fuzzy,
Buzzing noise blobs.
And Attempts to add me
To its mass connection-collection head
Leave me offended.
"What's on your mind?"
Go away.
You ******* freakazoid.
Apr 16, 2012
Apr 16, 2012 at 3:26 PM UTC
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
You're just her little lap dog
Its so pitiful and sad
Jumping around yipping and yapping
Like some shitzu thats gone mad
She pets you now and then
Throws an occasional bone
Keeps you hanging on that leash
While perched upon her throne
She doesnt really want you
Just needs your foolish loyalty
In that tiny brain you know its true
Offered you my open arms
And a honest loving heart
But you fell for her ice cold charm
One day she will put you out
For some strutting mastiff stud
Dont bother sniffing all about
For the trail of my long gone love
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
there's a crazzzy devil
in
the white house
twisting our nation
into a denizens den
a tub of **** in a suit
ascending ***** matter
in
a clogged toilet
a black plague
we have a president with the attention span
of sea clams
an emotional ******* drip of impetuosity
a spiraling fit of rage
a snarling delusional dog
narcissist in a warping mirror
a pathetic complainer
a cyst on the body politic
clot
open sore
seething pustule
piggish **** lover
gangsters dupe
fascist wana be
heil heil
god your a pile
making Russia great again
licking Vlad's *****
protecting your assets no doubt
and hissing tweets
at war with with only everything
and figments of a disturbed imagination
a real windmill killer
his mouth
the devils mark
a yapping compulsive lier
forked tongued fury
possessed to a fault
by the vainglories
of money and ego out of bounds
the biggest and the best
at being
the very worst and a pest
grand royalty of ridicule
*****
a ham ****** cartoon nightmare
and clumsy stumbling bore
a seething volcano of perpetual excrement
reading from the book of chaos
aberrations of enemies
a war room president
at war with his own citizens
huddled in a panic chamber
burns and cuts himself
with his own hot sharp words
as there thrown back at him
a bully getting bullied
a ripper getting ripped
the brains of a lizards eyelid
in a shadeless socket
pulp hearted orangutan
menace to society
his mottled soul
like a black sun
on the verge
of a black hole
a hell mill of decrepitude
a dark creep creeping
tarnishing our beautiful country
lights dim
America
there's a devil
in the white house
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
Carrickfergus (1937) - poem by Louis Macneice.
I was born in Belfast between the mountain and the gantries
To the hooting of lost sirens and the clang of trams;
Thence to Smoky Carrick in County Antrim
Where the bottle-neck harbour collects the mud which jams
The little boats beneath the Norman castle,
The pier shining with lumps of crystal salt;
The Scotch quarter was a line of residential houses
But the Irish quarter was a slum for the blind and halt.
The brook ran yellow from the factory stinking of chlorine,
The yarn mill called it's funeral cry at noon;
Our lights looked over the lough to the lights of Bangor
Under the peacock aura of a drowning moon.
The Norman walled this town against the country
To stop his ears to the yelping of his slave
And built a church in the form of a cross but denoting
The list of Christ on the cross in the angle of the nave.
I was the rectors son, born to the Anglican order,
Banned for ever from the candles of the Irish poor;
The Chichesters knelt in marble at the end of a transept
With ruffs about their necks, their portion sure.
The war came and a huge camp of soldiers
Grew from the ground in sight of our house with long
Dummies hanging from gibbets for bayonet practice
And the sentry's challenge echoing all day long;
A Yorkshire terrier ran in and out by the gate-lodge
Barred to civilians, yapping as if taking affront;
Marching at ease and singing 'Who Killed **** Robin?'
The troops went out by the lodge and off to the Front.
The steamer was camouflaged that took me to England-
Sweat and khaki in the Carlisle train;
I thought that the war would last for ever and sugar
be always rationed and that never again
Would the weekly papers not have photos of sandbags
And my governess not make bandages from moss
And people not have maps above the fireplace
With flags on pins moving across and across-
Across the hawthorn hedge the noise of bugles,
Flares across the night,
Somewhere on the lough was a prison ship for Germans,
A cage across their sight.
I went to school in Dorset, the world of parents
Contracted into a puppet world of sons
Far from the mill girls, the smell of porter, the salt-mines
And the soldiers with their guns.
Louis Macneice
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC
They come in many different sizes
Different colors, different cuts
All purebred from Poodle planet
No mixing of Martian mutts
Innocently enough we let them into our homes
Now with too many it is to little to late
We've been taken captive without even knowing
By Poodles from Outer Space
Soon, very soon to take over it all
Ruling the world of common man
Getting us to do their bidding at every call
Has all along been their dastardly plan
Leading us to believe that we are the Masters
But what is really behind the bark
And what's up with all the tail wagging
Just waiting it out while playing their cards
And the crazed frenzy in all of the yapping
That they do while roaming in packs
Is just giving away their location
So the Mother Ship knows where they are at
As it continues to circle our planet
In the unassuming shape of a Milk-Bone
The Alien Poodles are in cahoots with Purina
Google it, you'll see I'm not wrong
Years ago they first landed in France
Where quickly they blended in
From there is where they ventured out
Into all the major Continents
Now in every corner of the world
In all of its crooks and crannies
Saying hello to those in the know wherever they go
By their Planet's greeting...the sniffing of *****
Yes, they are Poodles from Outer Space
So toss that dog a bone
If you ever wonder who is in charge
And who it is that's owned...
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
I had forgotten the way to the hut that I had traveled to so many times,
so many days. So many moons, I would say. But no one marks moons anymore, except hunters. And I am not one of them. Nor a gatherer.
I listen to old men tell how they felled the stags. I do not believe them.
I am a wayfarer, to use the archaic words I used to love, the words
I had forgotten, the words of time in eternity, the words of orange leaves
on towering pin oaks, the words of circles of shadows settling on Gavarnie, of snowfall in the Pyrénées. Sever Spain from the Continent.
I had lost the language of the ***** spray-painted sheep scampering
over gray-bouldered cirques on mountaintops, boulders turning into mountains in the shadows, in the fog, in drifts of snow. There are no words for this now. Bleating sheep drown them out, and yapping dogs.
There are no words for the radiance of transcendence. “Climb higher,”
I hear them say. Higher into the haze of clouds. Cirque: circle, circus. Acrobatics on hillsides, balancing acts on rockslides, skimming streams in hard-toed boots. I had forgotten the way to the words, far behind me.
I have come to a gate, a steep stile in shadow. No sheep can pass. Nothing looks familiar; nothing looks strange. I saunter in a cloud
of unknowing. I had known the words: worn, smooth as stone unscuffed by hard-toed boots, slick as snowmelt. Slide from France into Spain.
This is the path of Santiago de Compostela, the route of St. James, who said, “Do not be double-minded, brethren.” I cannot remember if I have been double-minded in my travels. I had forgotten the way. If the words do not come, which mind sees the threshold; which mind circles the fog?
What passes, what begins when we travel? I do not look backward.
The way lies ahead, waiting, wandering away from the words. Splotches
of lichen sprout orange and green. “Go no higher for safety.” No higher.
They do not mention exile or ecstasy or the straight path of radiance.
The cirque circles my words in mountain shadows. I must unlearn
the art of travel, adrift in broken fields of stone. I had forgotten the way to the hut. Rocks obscure the path. Light ensures the path leads upward. Nothing is lost. Words hold their weight. Stags dance above me in fog.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:19 PM UTC
DEDICATED TO THE FAT HIDEOUS BETTY, MY NEIGHBOUR
**Does anyone here know of a good mohel?
As I urgently need someone to circumcise
My neighbour's Yorkshire terrier, canine boil
Needing lancing, joybringing to my eyes.
A kindly mohel simply will not do;
He must lack scruple and human pity;
That hound’s not been bathed for a year or two
So th'event might turn out a bit ******
Yorkshire terriers are of two classes:
The insistent yapping ones we all hate
And the ***** ones with hairy arses;
But both look good nailed to your garden gate.
And he needn't be a mohel either,
Merely someone with a willing cleaver.**
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
The white bleached corpse of day is fast
- reddened, bloodied -
torn to scarlet shreds of evening
slashed by wild and fiery crimsons.
Light leaching and passing westward
from bridge to bridge
garlands of mist drift up the river
Shadows dart, shelter and linger
blackness creeps and claws
the shades of night
Darkness spills down docks and ditches
fingers through the strands of light
by midnight every dock is still
Moon hangs full, naked and weary
slow stiching silver threads
through tall ships rigging
in the dim and dreary night
A yapping dog disturbs the quiet
more insistent than the stars.
© M.L.Emmett
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
There will be no service and no luncheon
when you “now” becomes a “Then”
Just a dignified cremation
awaits at your Journey’s end.
There will be no spoken eulogy
By a priest who knew you not.
No crying yapping relatives-
For none had you begot.
There are those of us
who’ll shed a tear,
to think the old Girl’s passed.
but there’ s no need to wear a suit
Or get the Limos gassed.
You’ll have passed on in your sleep
Having felt the needles pinch.
A far more humane fate I think
than dying by the inch.
Brownie was a good dog
And often gave me her paw.
She always got excited
when she saw me at the door.
A better pet you couldn’t get,
Nor meet a gentler soul.
I’ll shed a quiet private tear
when I put away her bowl.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 7:49 PM UTC
She was so upset, while tears ran down her face.
Her ugly crocodile tears socializing in the corner
Of her Bambi blue eyes.
Biting into whatever muscle feels most like guilt.
My heart I think… but
It still hasn’t thawed
From months of her
frigid shoulder and icy
Glances.
I can’t get past this
instantaneously
Because you decided
I’m worth something in this second.
Cant take that pain again you
Are mentally mad, you said I was nothing.
I’m sorry I keep thinking
You must be on something,
A bad trip, malice
Seems like motive Alice,
But I’m getting the fuuuuccckk
Out of wonderland.
I can’t stand you like this , no bye bye kiss
**** it up baby girl, I know your strong
Then you were just so big…
Now you say your small
But you
Already crushed my world.
You keep spewing words at me yapping,
After this and that, pulling every trick from your hat,
But I wont have it I’m
Not going to be chasing no white rabbit.
No need to create bad habits.
You made me crazy
I’m talking like jabber jabber-jabberwocky
Seriously kid, you slay me.
Jun 7, 2012
Jun 7, 2012 at 11:13 PM UTC
I stroll into the bathroom
newspaper tucked under my arm.
The silent morning ambience
holds for me a special charm.
Whistling,I lift the toilet seat
to take my morning leak.
I'm stopped up short
when I hear someone speak.
"Morning bro,what's up?",
came the voice from below.
I stared in utter disbelief
at the toilet saying hello.
"Don't freak out",it said.
"Just do your thing,I'll do mine.
We can be the best of mates
till the end of ***** time."
"Oh well",I thought
and started where I left off.
Aiming into a talking ***
Isn't easy..Hey!Don't you scoff!
"Wow!You've got a lot stored up"
quipped the rude toilet.
"No wonder they're saying there's
a drought in the nearby hamlet"
On-off,on-off came the flow
as the seat moved up and down.
Only later did I come to know
I own the most loquacious loo in town.
Irritated I told it to shut up.
"Bro,what will you p### into?",
it laughed,splashing water around.
No arguing that,it speaks true..
"Hey did you hear?
Old Loo-pin next drain
got married to Pottyara.
I hate her,she's too vain!"
"Work on your technique mate,
I've seen toddlers do better...
My,my!Seriously?!Still got more?!
I'm getting wetter and wetter!"
"Will you hold still!"I shouted.
"Hey don't take that tone with me.
Being watered in the maw ain't fun.
Swap places and then we'll see!"
"It'd be a lot more easier",I reasoned
"if you would stop yapping.
Who cares about super toilets?!
Now just start lapping!"
"Okay sheesh,someone's grumpy.
What?!show some pity on the loo!
Hey!Wait!Stop right there!!
Sh##,now I've to take poo too?!"
"Okay get this over with quickly.
You're choking me!!Aaaahhh!!!
Okay,never ever again take
chilly sauce with pizza!"
As I flush and leave,it cries
"Oh the horror!the horror!!!
All the perfumes of Arabia
cannot wash away this odour!"
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
So, it’s three in the morning
and a man in a gorilla suit
is running across my lawn.
Quigley runs figure-eights—yapping, yelping.
The light in McKevitt’s window flickers
on then off—he doesn’t see this ****
stumbling and slopping about the dark yard,
pulling at the plush love handles
of his unwieldy suit—its zipper
just visible in blue moonlight.
He’s trying not to step on the little black dog nipping at his paw.
I pace at the window hoping he will leave.
I pace some more and fumble
at the nightstand for a cigarette.
I beat my chest to scare this thing away
and though I feel foolish, I grunt.
I grunt and expect him to listen to reason—
he doesn’t and collapses near the shed.
Quigley watches him—curiously cocking his head.
He licks the rubber face with his pink tongue
thinking this monkey’s me—not well at all
and sopped in booze. I get under the cold sheet.
I toss. I turn. I curse the ****** ape well into morning.
I hit snooze until I’m sure he’s gone.
This has been going on for weeks
I beat my chest and show my teeth.
I pace the dark room—smoking, grumbling.
I consider buying a bigger dog, a bigger gun.
I send him death threats, then love notes. Nothing works—
I can’t shake this monkey from my back.
So excuse me for calling at this odd hour
to howl about my primate problem—the chimp on my shoulder.
or maybe a bonobo?
(you know, the one that made life with me so hard.)
In any case, he’s my problem now
and tonight he’s knocking at the door
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:05 AM UTC
I wanted to write a poem
about the incessant discomfort
I always feel in my left eye
whenever my contact lenses
become old and dry
I thought about how it tickles
but scratches at the same time
and starts off alright
just a minor annoyance
but quickly, overtime
becomes almost unbearable
like my pre-school bully himself
is folding down one of my eyelashes
just enough for it to poke me
at the slightest movement
then I thought about how
I'd sooner write a poem about my life
and how it started out equally alright
and quickly, overtime became almost unbearable
as if my pre-school bully didn't do it right
so I found him in his adult life many years later
wife, two kids and a mortgage
yappy staffy-cross, two cars
and an alright job as a graphic designer
his garden full of gorgeous flowerbeds,
a full head of hair and a fading right hook
"MAKE ME FEEL **** LIKE YOU DID THEN."
a puzzled look on his face,
garden hose flooding his drive and the yappy
staffy-cross still yapping away
at the living room window
"I'M DEAD SERIOUS ANDREW,
NOTHING HURTS LIKE IT USED TO."
so he called the police
and I never got to feel young again
unless you count scurrying away from
a council estate under the threat of
a poor meal at Parkside police station
the rekindling of my youth
so this is my infomercial poem
about how not to confront someone
always be fully clothed
that's very important
avoid being drunk
any mind altering substance
is best avoided in my opinion
remember just because you care
just because you remember
does not mean anyone else does
oh and
don't eyeball craft beer when
you still have your contacts in
you know what?
-just don't eyeball craft beer
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 6:02 PM UTC
[allow] me to lick the Newness:
off your face,
away from the yapping white noise in the distance,
out of the infant smile you shed.
Lets dance the color of welded [souls]
all you who fracture under [the heavy mass
of] my emerging grin, cast the [humanity]
from your leaden chins
lets [radiate beyond our stiff] elderly shells-
stretch to the most intricate composition
of every genre of pebble [person]
Don’t stop there!
[pass] pockets of serendipity to the greyest nimbus,
the slightest twitch of grass,
the [breath] of soil.
why must we comfort Zones?
I will ****** your plush practiced demeanor
to [nurse] your pallid glimmers
of certified [You].
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:51 AM UTC
*prince of the forest
growing inside of me
antlers feel like gold
to my searching fingertips
stag caught in headlights
warning signs on hazel eyes
yours were even bluer
than the bluest skies
hunters with silver knives
chasing our bumpy trail
but your hooves fast as light
they chased to no avail
young deer kissed the fox
yapping at its feet
predator and prey
in peace can finally meet*
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 5:20 PM UTC