Monday, November 05, 2012

Monday Poetry Stretch - To the Dogs

My pound puppy turned 15 on Saturday. She's had a rough year but seems to be doing much better these days. It makes me a bit sad to know her days are numbered. She's been a loyal and constant companion and a good friend. In her honor I'd love to see some dog poems this week. (Sorry all you cat lovers. You'll get a turn one of these days!)

Leave me a note about your poem and I'll share the results in time for Poetry Friday.


  1. I have 2 poems because I couldn't decide which one to use. Though I may like the 1st one more. Thoughts?


    When Dad
    Died Juniper
    Sat beside me, his head
    On my lap, refusing to make
    A sound.


    When Dad passed away
    My normally yapping
    German Shepard
    Climbed on the couch,
    Put his head on my lap –
    Refusing to make a sound.

    (c) Charles Waters 2012 all rights reserved.

  2. Definitely the first one. Powerful. Except maybe a different title--Shepherd?

  3. Agree with Kate, Charlies, # 1 for sure!

    1. Thanks Kate and Julie. Number 1 it is.

  4. Wag

    soft and furry
    brown and white,
    my dog Wag’s
    a pure delight.
    he licks my face,
    ’n paws my arm,
    loves to cuddle,
    keeps me warm.
    my best friend,
    he’s like no other—
    pretty sure he
    thinks I’m “Mother.”

    sipping, sopping
    on the floor
    sometimes Wag’s
    a wild boar—
    always hungry,
    never full, bags
    of kibble, bowls
    of milk—
    slurpy, murky,
    ripe with ilk.

    brown hair here,
    white hair there,
    heaps of it,
    but I don’t care—
    whisking all
    around the house,
    landing mostly
    in my mouth—
    ’cause teeth and
    slobber, guts and
    bones—Wag makes
    my house a home-

    (c) jgk, 2012

  5. I just posted this on Terri WIndling's blog:

    The Dog Stands Alone

    Like a granite outcrop,
    the black dog waits,
    stone upon stone
    for the sun to rise,
    rain to cease,
    birds to warble,
    trees to whisper,
    paths to beckon,
    opening their long arms.
    She watches the ants
    on busy rounds,
    bees counting the sweet,
    velvet mole pushing up its head
    from the deep dark,
    and badger consuming the light.
    She waits for day and night
    and day again,
    a week and a week
    and a week of such waiting,
    patient as Penelope,
    without a loom for luck,
    till her mistress
    off with the fairies,
    comes home to walk the hills.

    ©2012 Jane Yolen all rights reserved

  6. Wow, Jane!

    Okay, I kept this one short.

    Dog Haiku

    Dog stares up at me,
    the food on my plate his god.
    Me he likes just fine.

    --Kate Coombs, 2012
    all rights reserved

  7. heehee, Kate--ain't it the truth? And, yes, Jane, lovely. Love the ending--"patient as Penelope...comes home to walk the hills." Checked out Terri Windling's blog, too--amazing!

  8. Here's a pic of my Morris:

    and here's a draft of a poem for Morris (name on his rescue papers from the Humane Society)

    Your nudging nose
    Lifts my hand from the keyboard:
    “Go, Morris, Go lie down” and
    Your tail wags behind you
    As you head slowly toward your bed,
    (I nearly regret what I said).
    Before you were lost, you might have called Pal,
    Or Champ -- all those cornball names fit you to a tee.
    One day, wandering the pound,
    I saw your brown eyes, hairless tail, and ribs aplenty, and took you home. You had tested positive but survived the treatment.
    Now you’re fur has come back,
    And you’re fat--yes, boy, Fat enough for these New England winters,
    more dog than I can hold or carry.
    You only ask that I offer
    a hand to pet your muzzle,
    Come on, Pal! Forget this writing!
    Let’s get on this rug and nuzzle.

  9. Late to the party, but here's a sidelong reflection after a parent-teacher conference:

    Dogs, and Dogs
    By Steven Withrow

    Dogs from the meanest obedience schools
    were seldom delinquents as pups.
    They learned laws of leashes and lashes and rules
    from pack-attack-alpha grown-ups.

    Dogs from the finest academies once
    were as gauche and unruly, uncouth
    And obtuse, as many a kennel-club dunce.
    What a shame how we train up our youth.