Poetry - Page 1

Tales

Relayed rythym pulse,
Responses, sense; five intensive!
Too much! Frightening.

Tails

Rapid fire thump, thump,
Greetings never sound sweeter
By the beater of the tail.

Are those your original poems?  Nice.

Better than DOGgerel. 

GGturner, I'm a, 

P ersonable
O bstinate
E ntertaining
T roubadour


Thanks for reading Hundmutter!




"One man's Dogerel is another man's Bible."
     
                   ~ Anonymous 

Here's a couple of dog poems I've picked up on various websites. I think they both might have come from this board.


Breeder's Poem

I love my little puppy; she makes my house a home.
She is my very sweetest little friend; I never feel alone.
She makes me smile; She makes me laugh; She fills my heart with love . . .
Did some person breed her, or did she fall from up above?

I've never been a breeder, never seen life through their eyes;
I hold my little puppy and just sit and criticize.
I've never known their anguish; I've never felt their pain,
The caring of their charges, through snow or wind or rain.

I've never waited the whole night through for babies to be born,
The stress and trepidation when they're still not there by morn.
The weight of responsibility for this body in my hands,
This darling little baby, who weighs but 60 grams.

Should you do that instead of this . . . or maybe that was wrong?
Alone you fight and hope, one day, he'll grow up proud and strong.
You pray he'll live to bring great joy to someone else's home.
You know it's all just up to you; you'll fight this fight alone.

Formula, bottles, heating pads, you've got to get this right,
Two-hour feedings for this tiny guy, throughout the day and night.
Within your heart you dread that you will surely lose this fight,
To save this little baby, but God willing . . . you just MIGHT.

Day one; he's in there fighting; you say a silent prayer.
Day two & three, he's doing well, with lots of love and care.
Day four & five . . . he's still alive; your hopes soar to the heavens.
Day six he slips away again, dies in your hands, day seven.

You take this little angel, and bury him alone.
With aching heart and burning tears, and an exhausted groan,
You ask yourself, "Why do this? . . . Why suffer through this pain?"
Yet watch the joy your puppies bring, and everything's explained.

So, when you think of breeders and label them with "Greed,"
Think of all that they endure to fill another's need.
For when you buy your puppy, with your precious dollars part,
You only pay with money . . . while they pay with all their heart.

... Author Unknown.... 

The website wouldn't let me post the second poem properly: it kept inserting it inside the first poem, so here it is posted on its own:

Lament of a Lady Who's Gone to the Dogs

by Beryl Allen.

There was a time, there really was,
When I was sweet and tender;
When Show Dog meant a Disney Star,
and bitch was not a gender.

I went to bed at half past ten;
I went to church on Sunday;
On Saturday I baked the beans
and did the wash on Monday.

But then I got a certain pup,
And an erstwhile friend said "SHOW",
And so I did and so I do,
OH! What I didn't know.

I used to dress with flair and style,
That was the life, don't knock it.
But now each dress from bed to ball
Must have a good bait pocket.

I used to have a certain air,
I wallowed in perfume,
I used to smell of Niut D'Amour,
Now I smell like Mr. Groom.

My furniture was haute decor,
My pets a tank of guppies.
Now I've furniture unstuffed,
And well-adjusted puppies.

Once I spoke in pristine prose,
In dulcet tones and frail,
But now I'm using language,
That would turn a sailor pale.

I was taught to be well groomed
no matter where I went.
Now all the grooming that I do
is in the handler's tent.

I used to long for furs and jewels
And a figure classed as super,
Now the thing I yearn for most
is a brand new pooper scooper.

I adored a man who murmured verse,
through intimate little dinners,
But now the words I thrill to hear,
Are just three-"Best of Winners".

I rise at dawn and pack the car,
the road ahead's a long one.
The one I routed on the maps,
Invariably's the wrong one.

I really love this doggy life,
I wouldn't care to change it.
But when I get that Best in Show,
I plan to rearrange it.

When my time on earth is done,
I'll go without much nudging.
Just give me three weeks closing date,
and let me know who's judging.

  

No matter what you do
someone will complain about you

Those people just aren't happy
Many of their days are crappy

But my real name is Donald Duck
And I really don't give a .......














































***Quack***

Sunsilver - the 2nd one is lovely, and so true.

Here's one of my own poems. I don't write poetry unless I am very deeply moved by something, so most of my poetry is too personal to share.

My father grew up on the farm. He drove a horse and buggy 8 miles to high school, then, after graduation, got his teaching certificate at Toronto Normal School. He came to Toronto in the late '30s, as vice princiipal for Memorial School in Weston. There he met and fell in love with my mom, who was also a teacher.

My dad never lost his love of the farm country, and was an avid gardener. We frequently visited his brothers' and sisters' farms, and he loved to pitch in to help out with the chores, and encouraged my brother and I to do the same. We fed calves, slopped the pigs, carried milk buckets, weeded gardens and helped with the harvesting of hay and grain.

I loved the farm life, and my dad's influence is responsible for where I am now. I am running a dog kennel, just 8 miles away from the farm where he grew up. My brother, who also grew up in the city, works for the Ontario Federation of Agriculture.

Naturally, my parents valued books When we were small, there was almost always a bed-time story, and my parents were always getting picture books or read-aloud books for us from the library. Soon I wanted to get in on this reading stuff. I was only 5 years old when I came to my dad and asked him to teach me to read. He was glad to obllge. I proved to be a quick learner. My brother was 2 years ahead of me in school, but soon I was reading his school readers, and by the time I finished Grade 6, I was reading at a Grade 10 level.

In her senior years, my mom became legally blind from macular degeneration. She could still read really large print, so she would circle headlines of interest in the newspaper, and have my dad read them to her.

In May of 2004, my dad had to go into a nursing home, due to progressive dementia. I wrote this poem after one of my visits with him. I dedicate it to all of you who are dealing with the heartache of aging parents.  My father passed away a year later, just 2 1/2 weeks shy of his 90th birthday.


My Father Read to Me Today
 
My father read to me today,
Voice slow and sure,
Unmarred by the confusion
That has clouded his mind of late.
 
Strong hands steady on the page
Their palsied trembling stilled.
Big farmer’s hands,
Once as sure on the horse’s reins
As wielding blackboard chalk
For classroom sums.
 
His grey head bowed,
Mild brown eyes vague and lost,
Yet, for awhile, I let the years fall away,
And listened, rapt as a child.