Dog Crap Poetry

In a previous Hub, If I Were a Younger Man Unmarried, I wrote about Stephen Fry’s "The Ode Less Travelled" and his "dark and dreadful secret" that he writes poetry. And I admitted that I also wrote poetry. However, being an actual poet, likely, is something else, something reserved for those who have mastered technique and imbued it with personal style and effervescent insight, with an elusive, illuminating intelligence. They create poems with the potential to elevate our lives, allow us to see, perhaps even experience life with a slightly new perspective. Given that criteria, I can safely say, I am not a poet. To further make my case, I offer the "dog crap" poems below, written in succession over several days.

Granted, logically, a "poet" can be inspired by almost anything. I’m not sure what it says about me that I was inspired, however briefly, by dog crap. Or, perhaps more accurately, by the act of suburbanites picking up the poetic crap of their dogs. I don’t mean to insult dogs or their owners. I have known some great dogs, and love them, as much as I love the family cat, who often acts like a dog. I apologize in advance, something I seem to have done a lot of over the years, to anyone, especially dog owners, for the crappy focus of these poems.

Yet, here I am, sharing them. Perhaps all us non-poets secretly wish that our small rhymes will help transform our sometimes mundane suburban landscapes. Probably, deep down, I hope that someone will invent a supremely useful and practical scoop for poop, or already has, and it will magically appear on this site, and that many who desperately search for such a thing can click away. But usually those gadgets aren’t nearly as efficient and effective as a plastic covered hand. (Although some interesting items, perhaps worth checking out, actually did appear.)

View From the Rear

She has light-brown, long hair
flopped forward to my lawn,
her bending rear wide but
appealing, she pops the
plastic bag, she wears it
like a glove, flapping pink
against her dainty hand,
my would be lover
attractive even when
she bends to grab the log
of her big brown dog.

Another View from the Rear

All you see when she
squats is her backside
haunches pushed flat;
you miss her gentle soul
her happy eyes, and
her ruby necklace,
which leads to her master,
voluptuous, but less
receptive than she,
jeweled and divine,
happy crapping canine.

Another Day

Hey you! But only the happy dog
looks up, and her appreciative eyes
are brown and her coat shimmering gold,
and her human still holds the pink plastic
bag, knotted tight and stretched white, long,
the grand lump sideways and showing through
curving and broken, another day of doggie do.