Best Wolfhound Poems
Beasty was a monstrous dog,
An Irish Wolfhound he.
If you saw him bounding towards you,
You'd likely turn and flee.
One day while he was walking 'bout,
He came upon a fight.
Some bigger boys were roughing up,
A small lad gripped with fright.
He recognized the little boy,
As his neighbor, Tyler Green.
A low growl formed in Beasty's throat,
How dare they treat Tyler mean.
Beasty charged into the fray,
His barking fierce and loud.
The bullies squealed and ran away,
Leaving the small boy cowed.
With gentle steps and wagging tail,
Beasty approached the frightened lad.
Then promptly gave his face a lick,
Causing Tyler to smile a tad.
Throwing his arms around the huge dog's neck,
And hugging with all his might,
Tyler thanked the beast for saving him,
And putting the bullies to flight.
Tyler and Beasty became great friends,
Though an odd looking couple they made.
A slight little boy and a monstrous dog,
It was fun watching them as they played.
6/20/13
For Seren's "Little Lad, Big Dog" contest
Beneath the translucent veil of placidity, emerged that sound
To all is pure evil forecasting the prelude of a prolonged agony
Of flashy tear drops falling from a man abandoning his captaincy
A voice gushing through blood to veins in a body utterly bound
With the zeal of a new couples tasting a love heartily profound
Never imagining their pampered sparkle would ever reach atrophy
A persisting whisper like the howls of a one thousand wolfhound
Driven by lust, the fervent fervour fatuously never faltered my heart
Desire has simply dyed my insidious sensation with colours agleam
With ease, the prey has fitly fallen into web not using a single dart
Night wiped the eyes of conscience, sanity swept in a sea of steam
For sweet sin never countenances evildoers to venerate the extreme
Bed saved its sheets for passers-by to err, the game began to start!
© Guru Jad 2013
I am a wolf lover
I am simply an observer from afar
I looked up at the moon
Imagining your howling to keep me attuned
Moon is your vision in howling message
Vikings always wore your skin at winter’s rage
Blood was taken to compensate for lost courage in the battle
They see you as a companion spirit to set on another travel
Watching your blue eyes at birth, turning yellow
By the time you turn older, we’ll hear a loud bellow
Your desire to reunite with your blood brothers
All gray wolves and the red wolves smother an affair
Gather all alpha male and female
To produce the strongest cubs and care
A career in hunting intensified by watching
Learning to form a polygon, each is participating
Many rulers were fascinated to mean their names with yours
Some noble personality hunts you down for your shaggy fur
Using wolfhound to outrun and hunt your brothers
As they respond to human howls are then put in danger
Clearing my mind of any last wolves ever killed
Keep on howling and make us beguiled
Unwanted occupants warned away from trying to intrude
Protecting each other and your brood
I am only a follower for whatever is your knowing
I regret any anarchic killing
For I believed slain wolves’ brothers would revenge
I am to this day will help to make a change
27 March 2015
AS IT SNOWED
(poem ending with the fine print in a liquor ad)
As it snowed, I heard thunder
*the gods bowling snowballs to keep themselves warm.
Then the avalanche came.
*like lovers who run both hot and cold.
The gods buried themselves until their Russian wolfhounds arrived.
*I remember feeling good that gods had wolfhounds,
Russian or otherwise.
The wolfhounds fell in love with the snow.
*it surrounded them and hounded them, coolly.
It made a wolfhound cocktail topped with a cherry,
*which Smirnoff copyrighted for the common man.
"Drink responsibly"
First lines by Nola Perez
Second lines by Michael Perez
Posted for the Poet Destroyer
A nocturnal wolfhound in Crater Lake
has his fun when no one’s awake
Every night he prowls
greeting raccoons and owls
Then sleeps until lunch with no break
An Irish wolfhound from Londonderry
was sold to a rancher in Tucumcari
Yesterday: Knolls and lakes
Today: Cactus and snakes
His Celtic heart’s turned sad and contrary
A spendthrift lady in New Orleans
clothed her wolfhound beyond her means
But he despised his top hats
and old-fashioned spats
Now he sports tie-died T-shirts and jeans
Putin beat his old wolfhound so bad
Just for looking tired or scared or sad!
So the pooch smashed his best vodkas,
ate his borscht, blinzas and latkas
Then howled: Cri-me-a-River Vlad!
Nostrovia!
translation: Let's get drunk!
I claimed ---and passionately---
that I'd never have a small dog,
much less one with "poo" in its name.
Not for me yappy Yorkies, shivering Chihuahuas,
shaky Shih Tzus, or terrible terriers.
Give me a wolfhound, a Dane, a mastiff,
a dog with paws like saucers,
a bark like thunder, and a tail like a whip,
(Christmas tree be damned!)
I prefer drooling retrievers, dignified shepherds.
hard-working setters, lumbering Bernards.
With this firmly in mind,
I went puppy shopping today.
Meet my Maltipoo.
Cujo.
(I haven't lost my mind completely.)
He was a beautiful Labrador
Crossed with God-knows-what.
The very first thing you noticed,
The one thing you couldn't help but spot
Was the point on the top of his head.
A very odd looking protrusion.
It made you take a second look
In case it was an illusion.
But it was real, that point, you see,
Protruding from the top of his head.
He was a very handsome boy,
Our loyal and lovable Ned.
He loved us unconditionally
From the very first time we met.
Protective and loving and always happy
(Except when he went to the vet).
Part Russian wolfhound we were told,
That's where he got his pointed head.
Extra room for his smart dog brain,
Our wonderful Lab cross ,Ned.
for Paula's "What's the Point" contest
She came riding in on a goat
Wearing pinwheel glasses
With three lenses
One for her third eye
Is it the LSD?
Or is she real?
I watched her march around
Calling out orders, barking like an inflamed wolfhound
She was all colorful, psychedelic
I found myself laughing
Wait!
The police!
What?
Magic really does exist! Who could ever doubt its power
after reading the tale of Merlin, locked in the castle tower?
As a smoky colored feline that the cruel king didn't like,
he was chased by the Royal wolfhound, the evil Spike!
Merlin meowed repeatedly, but no one had ever heard
until the night he was visited by a friendly little bluebird.
After fluttering tiny wings, she turned into a wee faerie
who smiled and introduced herself as Princess Kerrie.
She told Merlin she'd heard his sorrowful wailing cry
as she was flying in the forest, and was wondering why
he'd been locked inside the castle's isolated tower room,
so dark and dank, and what was it that caused his gloom.
Merlin was in awe of her and quite happy she'd appeared,
so, he told her of his dilemma and what it was he feared.
Kerrie pulled out a sparkling wand from behind her back.
"I'll give you magic powers," and she gave the wand a whack.
The tower door flew open, and Merlin began to yell,
thanking Princess Kerrie for casting her magical spell.
Just then Spike began to bark from the stairs far below
but Merlin felt no fear, and his eyes started to glow.
"He won't chase me anymore." said Merlin to the faerie.
"Now that I'm a magic cat, Spike doesn't seem so scary."
Kerrie replied, "Go get him. That's enough idle chitchat.
Be courageous, Merlin. Now you're ready for combat!"
All he had to remember to do was meow and loudly screech
and when Spike was close enough to be within his reach,
Merlin turned that dim-wit hound into a statue of stone,
unable ever again to chew on another meaty bone.
Merlin winked at Kerrie, bending before her in a grateful bow,
knowing he had another spell to cast, and he'd do it now.
He meowed and loudly screeched when the king tried to flee~
One more statue appeared in the tower and Merlin was free.
~ October 3, 2022 ~
Merlin the Magic Cat Contest
Sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose
While in the light
The darkness cries
The wounded sparrow sings
The wolfhound yelps
In hell he’s bound
To hear a lifeless shriek
Joys all fade
And lightness dies
The world does cease to sing
Cold white snow
That falls so pure
Turns sickly red
Right in my hands
The world is dying
I hear the crying
It’s all so deafening
With shrieks and screams
The darkness gleams
I try and cover my ears
But the noises
Just never seem to peak
There’s nothing to do
Nothing to say
Life is slowly going to fade away
Encased in darkness
Light does scream
A painful, blood-curdling sound
My ear drums throb
It’s done its job
Humanity is cursed to hell
Little Bit waddles and limps downstairs at the sound of my voice. Barks at the hyperactive English Springer with all the fervor of Boris, the Russian Wolfhound, of Disney’s Lady and the Tramp fame.
the scruffy old stud
with four legs close to the ground -
wisdom’s on his side