1st Annual Poems About Pets Month
#1
Some of Pigpen's best loved poems over the years have been poems about our furry family members. So here's a thread where members can post their "pet poems" without the worry of critique or edits. Similar to the "annual poems about suicide" thread, this thread is for miscellaneous poems. In this case, either about pets, or animals in general. If you have a favorite poem about pets- past or present - fact or fiction - post it here. Comments are welcome but not required.

This February is time for the "1st Annual Poems About Pets Month" at The Pigpen. Open participation. 

P.S. A quick thank you to Mark for somewhat inspiring this creative outlet.

Go!
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#2
A good idea, making it its own post.


The Saddest Poem

I've never had a pet.

..........



That is true. I've never had a pet. 
I'm not political. But when it comes to animals, I make mess.
I don't like cats to be declawed. 
I don't like the idea of pets. I'm not a vegan. But I find animals as simply elemental versions of everything. 
They don't have to suffer the slavery of me. But animals can be very loving.
I've had many encounters with "wild and tamed beasts" in my life. Dogs, cats, deer, trees, mice.

When I watch horror movies, I think of how horror doesn't even exist as a concept for these elemental creatures.
Well, horror, but not horror as a concept that has to be made into an art.
Humans are animals, and our intelligent evolution is merely a stronghold mirage in the field of time.

WE GOTTA EAT



I enjoy waxing, poetic! philosophical! 
Waxing is living.

When I start waning, I'll send out invitations to my funeral.

.......


The stray animals, and there are a lot, are treated like shit around here where I live. There's a lot of wildness out here, which I enjoy. 
....................



Take this post as a poem. My contribution to this riff.
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#3
(02-01-2022, 08:07 AM)rowens Wrote:  A good idea, making it its own post.


The Saddest Poem

I've never had a pet.

..........



That is true. I've never had a pet. 
I'm not political. But when it comes to animals, I make mess.
I don't like cats to be declawed. 
I don't like the idea of pets. I'm not a vegan. But I find animals as simply elemental versions of everything. 
They don't have to suffer the slavery of me. But animals can be very loving.
I've had many encounters with "wild and tamed beasts" in my life. Dogs, cats, deer, trees, mice.

When I watch horror movies, I think of how horror doesn't even exist as a concept for these elemental creatures.
Well, horror, but not horror as a concept that has to be made into an art.
Humans are animals, and our intelligent evolution is merely a stronghold mirage in the field of time.

WE GOTTA EAT



I enjoy waxing, poetic! philosophical! 
Waxing is living.

When I start waning, I'll send out invitations to my funeral.

.......


The stray animals, and there are a lot, are treated like shit around here where I live. There's a lot of wildness out here, which I enjoy. 
....................



Take this post as a poem. My contribution to this riff.
A perfectly fitting contribution. Thank you for getting us started, Rowens.
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#4
I find I'll be little help. Having never had a real pet.

But I do like animals.
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#5
for Jack, a Golden as good as they get...
Leash Laws

You can race off trail now,
through the wide-open field
of tall spring grass that leads
through prickly underbrush
to the woods that give way
to our spot by the creek.

Weave, and wave your golden flag,
free to follow your nose
wherever it goes, you can fly 
for endless sky, til you reach
the light of the bright Dog Star; 
each night I’ll raise an eye.

Go ahead now, go on, FLY! 
Leash laws no longer apply.
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#6
Lost and Found

I found you along the trail-
a stray. I took you home
and washed you up,
and my! You looked real good.
You never complained
about being left out in the rain,
and I never had to walk
or feed you. After all these years
you still looked about the same.
Then, one day, since you were
shaped like a heart, I thought I should
paint you red. So I did.  Then wrote
on your back: Love Rox.
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#7
Bursting through the glass doors
brisk, light, joyous, stupendous.
But, this is a business.

But, this is a business
where dogs run loose in play
Dogs, puppies, puppies, and dogs.

Nothing else in the world
could satisfy the emptiness
of not being allowed to have pets.
When pets put you into poverty,
removed from your premises
by local law enforcement.

A fix, for the addiction, is a big sniff
in an enclosed space for dogs'
hair and odor everywhere.

Employees are miserable.
Customers grimace at bleach.
That lady was neither; she got her fix.
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
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#8
If ya can't have a pet, then just imagine yourself as an animal.  One of my KidStuff poems:

If I Could Be An Animal

If I could be an animal
anyone of any kind
the only really hard think
would be making up my mind

If I were an antelope
I’d jump and run so fast
or reach the highest branch
if I were a giraffe

I could be a tiny turtle
secure inside my shell
or possibly gigantic
blowing water like a whale

I could be an orange eyed owl
spooky hooting through the night
or perhaps a mighty eagle
super soaring outta sight

I might be a cat
now I’d be good at that
I’d even like most dogs
especially those that sat

I could spin just like a dolphin
in the ocean where I swim
or be funny as a monkey
when I swing from limb to limb

There are so many animals
throughout all creation
and I can be any one I want
in my imagination.
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#9
This is from almost 6 years ago. Never really got around to an edit. 


Poetry in Real Time #5

It’s beautiful outside;
mild for March.
 
I’m in pajamas, sipping coffee
and watching
 
snowflakes the size of dinner-plate doilies
fall slower than gravity ought to allow,
and watching
 
my little white beagle
endeavour
to catch them all.
 
He’s been at it since dawn.
 
Should I be calling him in?
or is he calling me out?
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#10
I thought I May Have Spread You Too Thin,

but no;

every year
the lilac sings spring
like a diva,

the Japanese maple
yawns with red glory

and the hydrangeas 
bring their party balloons
of pink and blue.

They tell me you're not colorblind anymore.
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#11
(02-09-2022, 10:59 AM)Tiger the Lion Wrote:  I thought I May Have Spread You Too Thin,

but no;

every year
the lilac sings spring
like a diva,

the Japanese maple
yawns with red glory

and the hydrangeas 
bring their party balloons
of pink and blue.

They tell me you're not colorblind anymore.

At first I thought the title was too long, but when I read it as the first line, it works perfectly. (A simple comma placed just right)
I absolutely love the imagery and subtle sentiment expressed here.
A simple, yet glorious poem that gets better with every read.

Thanks Paul,
Mark

ps. a suggestion, perhaps "bows" instead of "yawns" ? My Japanese maple seemed to almost bow in the spring, which I found to be a delightful metaphor for the Japanese custom of bowing.
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#12
Bump.
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#13
The mutt


Little droplets of spittle
on the floors, riddled.

Walls barking a storm while
Vehement strides on the lime laminate tile,
chain dragging the mutt
by her hinds.

Struggling out of her collar
the old tirant lets out a hollar.

Yanked up by her scruff
Vehement heaves her into
a cage.
The mutt scrambling to her legs
watches ruffled pants
stride away,
Sending down shockwaves
of whimpers
that could electrify skin.

Whisking under swaths of yellow light
truck putters on through the night.
his stubble illuminated, his face obscured;
Vehement's anger cured.

“Come tomorra, that child's gonna learn a lesson,
a lesson, she won't ferget.”
"Whenever is a really long never"
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#14
The mutt


Little droplets of spittle
on the floors, riddled.

Walls barking a storm while

Walls barking a storm is good



Vehement strides on the lime laminate tile,
chain dragging the mutt
by her hinds.

Struggling out of her collar
the old tirant lets out a hollar.

Yanked up by her scruff
vehement heaves her into
a cage.
The dog scrambling to her legs
watches ruffled pants
stride away,
Sending down shockwaves
of whimpers
that could electrify the skin.

Whisking under swaths of yellow light
truck putters on through the night.
his stubble illuminated, his face obscured;
vehement's anger cured.

“Come tomorra, that child's gonna learn a lesson,
a lesson, she won't ferget.”
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#15
Ambrose: a Biography

I spotted you in the Mexican cypress,
the morning after a rainy night,
a strange looking bird, greenish, with a crest
and puffed out cheeks of white.
You seemed immobile, and that stillness
was what finally got me out of my chair
and into the yard.  Still you didn’t move
and I saw that you were something exotic.

I put up a ladder and hung a hamster cage with seed
to lure you in, but you ignored it.
Someone on the Internet suggested simply
sticking out my finger.  I did and you stepped on,
as though we’d known each other for years.

And we did.  Know each other for years.
You rode my shoulder day in and day out,
your gorgeous green and white shit 
decorated my shoulders like I was a cockatiel admiral.
Your greatest pleasure was plucking the hairs
on my collarbones until I bled.  And I let you.

Alarmed, you would fly in desperate circles,
seldom landing with any grace at all.
You laid a sterile egg, but the experts said
I had to let you try to hatch it, and so you
nested beneath the sewing table for weeks, 
nursing a wooden egg I substituted for the stillbirth.

A visiting dog mauled you, 
I thought it was the end, but an emergency vet
who happened to know birds saved you,
and I bathed the wound and applied ointments
every day for two months until you healed.

After seven years of companionship
you left me as you first arrived, suddenly.
I went for a cup of tea as you sat on the arm of my chair,
and when I came back you lay dead on the floor,
immobile again but this time forever.

Your traces remain because you loved to nibble
the edges of dust jackets and paperback covers, 
and I still discover your jeweled turds in unlikely places,
traces I treasure because each one restores you,
just for a moment, to riding my shoulder again.
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#16
(02-25-2022, 03:48 AM)TranquillityBase Wrote:  Ambrose: a Biography

I spotted you in the Mexican cypress,
the morning after a rainy night,
a strange looking bird, greenish, with a crest
and puffed out cheeks of white.
You seemed immobile, and that stillness
was what finally got me out of my chair
and into the yard.  Still you didn’t move
and I saw that you were something exotic.

I put up a ladder and hung a hamster cage with seed
to lure you in, but you ignored it.
Someone on the Internet suggested simply
sticking out my finger.  I did and you stepped on,
as though we’d known each other for years.

And we did.  Know each other for years.
You rode my shoulder day in and day out,
your gorgeous green and white shit 
decorated my shoulders like I was a cockatiel admiral.
Your greatest pleasure was plucking the hairs
on my collarbones until I bled.  And I let you.

Alarmed, you would fly in desperate circles,
seldom landing with any grace at all.
You laid a sterile egg, but the experts said
I had to let you try to hatch it, and so you
nested beneath the sewing table for weeks, 
nursing a wooden egg I substituted for the stillbirth.

A visiting dog mauled you, 
I thought it was the end, but an emergency vet
who happened to know birds saved you,
and I bathed the wound and applied ointments
every day for two months until you healed.

After seven years of companionship
you left me as you first arrived, suddenly.
I went for a cup of tea as you sat on the arm of my chair,
and when I came back you lay dead on the floor,
immobile again but this time forever.

Your traces remain because you loved to nibble
the edges of dust jackets and paperback covers, 
and I still discover your jeweled turds in unlikely places,
traces I treasure because each one restores you,
just for a moment, to riding my shoulder again.

How bittersweet.

May Ambrose rest in peace.
"Whenever is a really long never"
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#17
I was thinking
about the time you hid
that mangled pig's ear
under my pillow
to chew another day

how my hand found it at 4am
in a strange Godfatheresque nightmare

how I'd whipped it
out the window
and slapped you in the snout
before I was fully awake

and how it reappeared
two days later
a little more mangled
and stinking of rotted leaves

we had a good laugh about it
but I never really apologized
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#18
Still the best. Not the original of course and I like Johnny Cash's version too, but this one had lyrics. Plus, we could all use a little more Elvis these days.

Anxiously awaiting CRNDLSM's cover.  Thumbsup

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#19
Dog Eat Dog


A mother dog eats her young
when they're dead or dying out of birth
to make sure she didn't just waste
energy conceiving, gestating, delivering
one more than the nil she planned
for, driven by pure instinct
to fuck, she never plans.

So when she strains at rearing, she
blames the young for bleeding her teats,
drives them out of a home she had chosen
but they were born into, and claims
that she, by Natural Law,
is autocrat -- esteems
that health is for the aged,
that the young are merely entitled
to a world they didn't make,
to a war they didn't start.

So when the Lord commands creation
to leave the houses fortune drew for them
and cleave to houses they draw from fortune,
all he does is describe
birth as exile.

oh yeah, RIP to the dog in our house who did this, she died last Sunday, at around ten to eleven years of age
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#20
A Dog Has Died - Pablo Neruda (Trans: Alfred Yankauer)

My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.

Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.
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