Three Wan Dogs before Their Feeding
Our mistress lies upon her bed too long,
her favorite silver thing upon her lap.
That she should put our feeding off is wrong.
We sit and stare at her through her door’s gap.
She taps upon her thing and taps and taps.
Sometimes she chortles, but we don’t know why.
Where formerly her bed was used for naps,
a favorite dog cuddled against her thigh,
she now spends all her time there with that thing
as we sit hungry, waiting to be fed.
She seeks the nourishment that words can bring,
for she is sure that if she leaves her bed
before she finishes her sonnet, then
her muse will not agree to come again.
Three Hungry Dogs Intent Upon Their Feeding
At last at last she opens up her door
and feeds our sister first, lest we devour
her food ourselves and then not leave the poor
dear girl with any sustenance to power
her barking at the other dogs who pass.
But now our mother fills our bowls as well––
each portion measured by a measuring glass.
Each second we must wait becomes a Hell.
She scoops out first the dry and then the wet––
more for the big dog and less for the small.
We worry over how much food we’ll get,
remembering times when we had none at all.
But finally, our portions, too, are dished
(although not quite so full as we’d have wished.)
Three Patient Dogs after Their Feeding
Now see our dishes cleaned and neatly stacked?
Our human lolls once more upon her bed.
to write more stanzas that she formerly lacked
and free herself of rhymes that fill her head.
The small dog leaps upon her bed to lie
and garner a small scratching now and then.
We larger dogs lie watching from close by,
kept from our human in her iron pen.
See her now, look quizzical and rapt?
We know not what she thinks there on her back.
Where formerly she read or watched or napped,
she stews about just what her poems might lack.
For Shakespeare she is not, the silly goose.
Her talents? More in line with Dr. Seuss!!!
(Click on the first photo below to enlarge photos and read captions–also written in couplet form.) Good grief. It’s my muse’s fault. The girl can’t help it!!)
A sonnet for dVerse Poets (Sorry, Petrarch. These are Shakespearean!)