"yipping" poems
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
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
The forest green of the trees
contrasts so greatly
against the soft pastels in the sky;
Did someone paint this neighborhood?
The odors of garlic & parsley
wafting from across the
charcoal street.
Hums of today's news,
all the latest gossip,
ooh'ing and ah'ing;
endless snippets of candlelight chatter.
Occasional dollops of light
peering up from sedans passing by.
Sounds of zooms
blocked out by the steady pulsating
of white earbuds.
Dogs yipping, sometimes a real bark.
Neighbors come and go,
reciprocating cordial hello's.
Street lights slowly coming alive,
for at 8:37, the sun has begun
its transition to slumber.
They always say,
TGIF, thank god it's Friday.
As day slips to nigh',
the crackles and pops of vinyl come alive
behind a slightly rusted window pane.
Tonight's secrets not yet revealed,
a couple strolls by
holding hands,
sipping coffees, decaffeinated.
A man drunk with regret
and a 40 in his belly,
he breathes a clumsy, "Hey."
Malted liquor questions,
their smell & sound, unmistakable gurgling.
Street lights now fully illuminated,
glances exchanged from
passer-byers.
He opens the car door for her,
and into the dusk they drive.
Vehicles come by in even
greater numbers,
and still searches the young man
for $9, a toothbrush, and a shower,
even cold.
Just another night of
just another day,
in just another city,
in just another neighborhood
on just another street.
Silence, loud, ominous silence,
filtering the senses,
the stories,
the magic;
Isn't ordinary extraordinary?
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
Standing head and shoulders
Above seated students
Professing all he knows
And much he doesn't
Through squeaky chalk
Bored with lessons learned
Tattered black jacket collar
Covered with white dust
Like the dandruff
Of faded knowledge
Waiting for the last bell
And cacophony of students
Exiting for a night on the town
So he can trudge through
The gray slush home
To empty house and
Microwaved sirloin tv dinner
Wishing he had a yipping poodle
Instead of the silent company
Of Jim Beam to while away his hours
r ~ 26Feb14
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
You are shelves holding the books, alphabetized and happy.
You are the ink soaked in the page.
Outdoors, you are the sea chasing the shore.
You are also the glowing candle flame at dusk,
bright and encumbered by no darkness.
However, you might be interested to know
You are not the broken window,
nor are you the dog's yipping bark
through the screen door.
You could never possibly be the
dog's bark.
Instead, you are the thin, glassy waves polishing the shore,
You are the steel bridge between two lands,
You might even be the sleeping apples, tucked inside the pie.
I am quite sure you are also the handshake between two strangers,
as well as the writing on this page.
You should also know that, in all the plentiful imagery of the world,
I am the needle crackling on the vinyl record.
I am also the artist's filthy paintbrush.
I can also be, at times, the tea steeped too long,
and of course, I am the postcard, en route.
But you--you are the cobalt sea at midnight, snuggled to the shore,
You are the coffee-colored shelf supporting the books,
and somehow also, the ink imprinted on the page.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
Thinking about you,
As I play the piano,
Waiting for you to get back from the bagel store,
I grin like a satisfied cat,
Full of sweet cream, lovingly provided.
Our church is being fumigated,
And today will truly be a day of rejuvenation.
The dog is yipping,
The bird squawking,
Alice is singing,
I'm playing,
All this is a mere pin drop
Compared to the choral ensemble
That sings your praises
Whenever I whisper your name.
Knowing your love shall return,
With a bag full of bagels,
And your singular spirit of loving,
Is what makes my play,
Makes Alice sing,
Makes the bird squawk,
Makes the dog yip,
Makes me grin like a satisfied cat.
That knows that it is loved.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
There was, every spring, a new batch of pups,
Yipping, nipping, clumsy ***** of ***** fur,
Looking for all the world like speckled tennis *****
Before they’d learned any hard lessons
At the hands of a racquet.
They chased their tails and each other,
Not to mention various other denizens of the barnyard:
Frantic chicks, cranky piglets,
The occasional bemused draft horse,
And sometimes they chased us as well,
Yelping childishly, rolling with us on the ground,
Nipping bare fingers and toes,
Afterwards lying on the ground asleep,
Looking , save for the rhythmic twitching of their paws,
Positively angelic.
Come late August,
The time would come to set them on the *****
We’d long since stopped thinking about it,
Much less questioning it
(I had, one year, asked my father if the puppies had to go
One time too many until,
With a look that brooked no further conversation,
He said flatly It’s what they’re born to.)
So we went on with the business
Of the soft, slow late summer
Until one evening just after sunset
We would hear the baying of the hounds
Out toward the back fields,
Mechanical and workmanlike at first,
But soon strained and syncopated with excitement,
And at some point there would be
A cacophony of cries and snarls
Until such time there was only silence.
The next morning we would visit the dogs,
And we’d pet them and rough-house a bit,
And there might be an oddly rouged spot
On their coats here and there,
Or one of them might sneeze out a tuft of fur
That didn’t rightly belong to them,
And every year our Uncle Bryce would slyly opine
*You boys may want to be a bit more careful
Around their mouths now, hear*?
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
A frigid February night,
the moon resplendent in its fulgor,
while a prevailing bristled cold wind
dashes across my dry face,
I inhale the cold, brittle air:
nitrogen, oxygen, argon, carbon dioxide,
whistle through my lips,
like a trice ballet, it delivers life into my lungs
hoarfrost, as huellas are left behind,
in remembrance of its path.
At night I feel at ease,
beyond what
an aubade can offer.
Gazing up into the dark abyss,
I am overwhelmed by the
union of neighbors that float above me
in sync with the moon:
Mercury, Venus, Saturn, Mars, Jupiter,
and the assemblage of mythological
Greek god’s only visible before dawn,
watch me, observing my every move.
Winds encircle the night,
disrupting the stillness of
the undressed oak trees,
their branches swaying back and forth
as to wave hello, or is it a goodbye?
Winterberry hollies dance at their feet,
untouched snow glistens,
and mirrors the dazzling assembly of stars.
Within the woodland, mysterious sounds
echo through the silent, cold:
a cackle, a flutter, yipping creepy sound,
nature’s orchestra coming at me
from all directions,
cautiously listening, as I attempt
to decipher the resonances.
I exhale.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
Peering through the dense trees,
Sinking low, light footsteps
He stalks his prey.
A newborn pup
Yipping and clumsy
Falling over herself
Just to stand back up
And do it again.
The hunter shifts between the silken grass
And the soft clay earth
Keeping his eye on the promising young blood
Craving her bones and fleshy meat.
The pup licks her paws
Pouncing on small bugs and feathers
She laughs with a bark that sounds like music
Burying her new toys, she wiggles her tail in the air
Then digs in to the earth with zero inhibition
She is vibrant and strong, a natural-born leader.
Happy, free, and full of promise.
Nose to the ground,
He anticipates the musky smell
Of his close-knit pack
He advances, visceral and quick
His vision turns a violent red as he
Loses his stealthy and cautious movements
His gait lengthens and he slides in the dirt
Snapping his jowls, he is wild with hunger.
The pup yelps and snarls,
Too small to fight back
But trying her mightiest to stand her ground.
Her attacker sinks his teeth in from behind,
Slashing his rustic head back and forth
Listening to her fading cries as he growls with success.
Shaking every ounce of strength from the
Poor girl's lifeless form,
He tastes sweet victory and steps back
Satisfied with his current catch.
He turns his head to call his pack;
A wolf's howl only the moon can hear
But he sees instead the sad, vacant eyes of
The pup's grieving father.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
A darkened heart has hidden places,
away from those who judge his deed,
chasing shadows into alleys,
& looking how to fill a need,
Cloaking all,
his face is covered,
as endless pain the empty bleed,
an emotional vampire,
drinking their blood,
taking lives within the greed,
Waving in the other bad ones,
guttural beast's,
a different breed,
laid upon the alter for him,
planting there a rotten seed,
We must fight,
against an enemy,
I ride in on a native steed,
though he may look like I do,
sadly though,
he mustn't lead,
From the ashes,
fanning fires,
I hope my words you truly read,
he, we know will likely burn us,
& do so with such lightning speed,
This is who we wanted leading,
as many now,
wish to secede,
though I am crying for a Nation,
saving us,
must be agreed,
I wear my war paint into battle,
sweat rolls down,
a Native bead,
I wear a headdress for your freedom,
hear my yipping words,
I plead,
In hopes that we can find a new way,
a warning from the past to heed,
we must take the bad from gardens,
getting out a choking ****
I look to skies for distant answers
as I chew upon a hallowed reed,
tell me Father's
which way do we go,
by the wise we will be freed
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
I love the country life,
in between the feral cats
and hawks.
Morning coffee March
I sip it with Irish crème and smile.
Last night I fell
asleep inside her.
Safe and sound
and domesticated in her
tight wet walls.
We came together in
determined silence.
Family in the next
room.
I love the country life;
the ponds and streams and
sun soaked meadows.
The wild asparagus and
gooseberries.
In her arms my spirit rests.
My tired wings
find a nest better
than the barn swallows,
stronger than the eagles.
I'm a brook trout
swimming through
her veins.
I love the country life.
Coonhounds and cornflowers,
coyotes yipping and
bobcats tiptoeing up on
shocked field mice.
Last night, after we died
a little in each other's arms,
I gently rubbed her
cheek and kissed her
eyelids, nose, and lips.
I breathed in deep the
smell of lavender, *** and
home, the safest
fragrance I know.
Apr 11, 2020
Apr 11, 2020 at 11:31 PM UTC
Howling at the moon
I think is what I was doing
It wasn't too soon
I was losing control.
Cause really I'm an animal
Whether it be a dog or a cat
I'm wild and unpredictable
It's in my true nature.
I usually repress it all
And keep it locked inside
But that night I began to call
To who I really am.
Yipping, yowling
Growling, barking
Purring, howling.
That is true to myself
This wild beast inside
It's something I can't help
And I won't hide it away.
Besides, sounds are so much more appealing
For moments when you lose yourself
Words just aren't as revealing
To what you are feeling.
Yip, yip.
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 1:02 PM UTC
high along a ledge
out of the shadows she comes
the mournful yipping
a longing howl for another
and deep in the forest
of cliffs and need
she is listening
too
shining eyes searching
waiting for the other
to return her plea
my lady of shadows
longs to lie beside her lover
i am here,
she is saying,
i am lonely
and i need your love
a dark cloud swallows the moon
somewhere above the cliff
above her
among the grasses and willow trees
an intoning prayer
a beseeching howl
Jul 13, 2023
Jul 13, 2023 at 2:08 PM UTC
Mind wandering
Body traveling
Towards the door
Twist the key in the lock
Anticipation
For dogs yipping
And jumping
At my feet
Turn the ****
And there's
Nothing
I know I'm young
And have plenty of years to fill houses
With my every desire
-- A husband
Children
Dogs
Anything --
But that's further down the road
Not down this hallway
Not behind this door
For now, the only thing I am welcomed by
As I walk through this doorway
Is loneliness
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
I watch the
parade of
trivialities line
up like
hemlock,
like mad dogs
yipping at
my ankles.
I'm too
crafty for them.
I laugh and
yawn
and watch
my cats play with
an electric fish.
May 12, 2024
May 12, 2024 at 11:17 AM UTC
Furry feet and floppy ears, so adorable it can bring you to tears. Whimpering and yipping all hours of the night. Chewing on your favorite shoes to your sheer terror and delight. No matter what the breed no one can resist. A sad eye puppy with a cold wet nose. Warming and loving no matter what your day was like. It is willing to lick your feet even when nothing else might. Such playful scamps that take up space on a rug. With all of our emotions we want one, it must be puppy love.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
Missy her big black lab ***
loves my couch and her ten puppies
like to try and **** my toes,
as I sit on my stool. I guess they see four legs and little ******
shapes wiggling.
My two mama cats love up higher, away from
all the activity running round yipping , yapping.
They like my keyboard, and the top of the bar,
the cupboard tops when they get
all antsy. And all of them like
the refrigerator door opening. I go to get
a beer and 13 animals believe it's feeding time.
I like it when it gets quiet. And all every one of them is nestled somewhere, safe. Hell we all are
orphans, in reality.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 5:08 AM UTC
Oh please...
I've grown so tired of
your yipping and yapping,
random running from
stump to twig
leaving a trail of **** behind you-
desperate efforts to be wanted-
to belong.
But no marking allows you to possess
what doesn't belong to you.
All that you leave behind
your legacy
are piles of steaming waste
and stains dripping down bark and leaves
and that sour stench
creating the perimeter that constructs your cage
and leaves the rest of us to walk with
grace and love
in the unsullied home of our hearts.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 9:27 AM UTC
Mountain Road,
Soft rain buzzed gently down,
From the milky sky,
With the smell of mint chocolate chip ice cream,
Onto a pleasant little blue car,
That crept down the sloping turns,
While the two passengers chatted,
About their lives.
Their yipping little dog,
The mother-in-law's fried chicken,
At Sunday dinner,
A trip to San Francisco.
With the converstation drifting,
Over their warm interlocked fingers,
And the radio hummed a song,
That they both liked,
As the open mouth of a tunnel,
Swallowed their little car,
And the rain remained outside,
While they kept talking,
About their life together.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 1:04 AM UTC
When the world has finally ceased
All of its murmurs and house noises,
Screeching of tires, grumblings of mother,
The crystal clinking of children laughing,
The roar of love when family is near
And all is warmth, when there is no atmosphere, and its resonance, no galaxy
And its static clicks, no humgbuggery and its inherent mumbling, not the silver grate of the homeless woman pushing her cart down the sidewalk, creaking and crackling as it makes its way over tiny cement chips and the decay of the city, not the incessant yipping of the pup, the orchestra of the subway, all the voices one tone, and yet, a legion, a multitude so synchronistically foul and beautiful, the grace of the sax player, how his voice through brass tongues, lifts like silver string, dancing on the waves of pollution, a feather tossed around by the wind, girlfriend hollering at boyfriend though her phone, the herky-jerkiness of her voice, stop, start, quickly now, quicker, quicker, stop. The crinkle of grocery bags, and the rustle of fabric as grandma shuffles onto the train, all melding. The last time you spoke to her, her tears echoing against her hollow cheeks, her body a tambourine as it shook and hesitated against the megaphone of your belly, each movement amplified, each meaning sharpened. Will you be able to listen? Will you hear this story, and knowing it was true, for all of its disaster and ugliness, will you have remaindered some of it for yourself, and held some of it in your heart so that you are not all chaos when the last tongue has shed its last foul tear. Will you be the vessel?
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
I'm a walking contradiction
A ****** without an addiction
Creating my own brand of fiction
Somewhere along the corridors .....
...... in those annals of my mind
Somewhere along the way I invented
A way to have things permanently printed
And make sure that they are tinted
Into those colors that only I can find
As Long As I wear my rose-tinted glasses
So I can say I know it's true I saw it in print
Therefore I'll have credence Lent
It's wrong I know - truth was never ...
......my intent
My only cause....
...... was to manipulate
..... those who are willing to spew forth the hate
.
Roaring out the rhetoric
With foam dripping ... from frenzied yipping and yapping
And in this state of snarling- snapping
Smashing and clashing to be first out the gate
That's how you get the fanatical radicals To all work as a pack
Mad Dogs loose don't care who they attack
And no one can move forward....
..... When everyone is too busy watching their own back
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
The coyotes
They shapeshift
In the Night
When there is no
Moon you can hear the
Yipping and yapping
Looking for food
Pure protein
Is only good for them
So they can change form
Dec 14, 2024
Dec 14, 2024 at 6:38 PM UTC
Mental health worker
Once to me how at
The end of the day and got to fall
Asleep to
The wolves and coyotes
Yipping
And yapping
Since I moved
I fall aspleed
To those eerie
You majestic
Sounds
Feb 20, 2021
Feb 20, 2021 at 9:31 PM UTC