If you
aren’t keen about routine or an everyday walk,
in the absence of a baby, wouldn’t talk baby talk,
prefer sleeping alone or with just your own mate,
enjoy scraping gravy from a dirty dinner plate,
don’t want the greetings strangers will give,
are depressed and believe it’s the only way to live,
never yearn for some handy, warm body to hug,
can respond to a cuddle with simply a shrug,
make it a point not to boast or to brag,
get no kick from playing tug-a-war or tag,
feel no need to make new friends with ease
on a path, by a brook, or under the trees,
never want to feel like you are number one
and the earth circles you, instead of the sun:
do not get a dog.
Mary E. Moore
Möbius, January 2006
The HyperTexts
You can purchase a framed copy
of this poem, or tee shirts and tote bags
imprinted with it at Pogo's Place.
Though from his tail a proper puff unfurls,
his ’do is not the dog-show-poodle-cut.
He wears a mass of scruffy, copper curls
that might adorn an ordinary mutt.
When he and I are on our daily walk
strangers speak but, sadly, not to me.
“Hi there!” they say (as if they thought he’d talk)
while gazing downward just below my knee.
Their eyes meet his and distance disappears.
He sidles close. Their fingers comb his hair
to settle in the warmth behind his ears.
For moments, no one cares that I’m still there.
At times when this occurs, I do not know
if jealousy or pride is what I feel.
But in the end, it’s pride wins out, although
I wish that I had half my dog’s appeal.
Mary E. Moore
Rhyme and Reason,
Neil H. McAlister, Ed. 2006
The HyperTexts
The Raintown Review,
September 2007
On six old legs we walk each day
tracing our familiar way.
My dog cannot conceive the view
that walks like this may soon be through.
For him, though sights and smells may vary,
the given is the customary.
For me, I often pause to wonder
when the fates will set asunder
our supports or, what is more,
leave us only two, or four.
Mary E. Moore
The Raintown Review,
Spring 2008
The HyperTexts
The oval path around the meadow’s lined
by maple trees. It’s bordered by a stream
whose sloping shores invite the dogs inclined
to wade and drink. Some swim to blow off steam
or cool themselves. Some follow us and play
while we stroll round and round revealing stuff
that only those in love with dogs would say.
With Pogo, Pepper, Cypress, Junior, Duff,
old Kato, Kelley, Holly, Tess: off-lead,
we all are free. Yet all of us retain
the fellowship that is our species’ need.
Like those who ride the same commuter train,
we humans share some common history,
but our true bond is six-leg’ed mystery.
Mary E. Moore
He runs
errands all day –
seeking this, fetching that –
flops, at last, on the kitchen floor.
Dog tired.
Mary E. Moore
Amaze, Summer 2007
lying in bed,
the dog’s warm back
presses against my thign,
comfort
connects us
Mary E. Moore
Modern English Tanka, Spring 2008
the old dog limps slowly
toward the steps to the vet’s,
struggles to climb —
the effort, his . . .
the tears, mine
Mary E. Moore
Modern English Tanka, Summer 2008
If you would like to hear the poet read some of these dog poems, click on the blue box below
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