Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
When Astrid Commands, Her Servant Obeys
When a six-pound dachshund
wants your attention
She
will have it (it goes without mention)
Showing posts with label Dachshunds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dachshunds. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 9, 2021
When Astrid Commands, Her Servant Obeys - rhyming DOGgerel
Sunday, November 22, 2020
A Busy Dachshund Puppy - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A Busy Dachshund Puppy
She
leaves you a gift on the kitchen floor
And
another on the living-room rug
And
barfs up half a frog just inside the door
And
barfs again – a poorly-digested bug
She
bites into cranky old Pepper-Cat’s tail
(Something
so twitchy must surely taste good)
And
Pepper-Cat spanks her; oh, what a wail!
(Dear
pup, there’s a difference between could and should)
And
in the evening, while you doze over a book
She
rests upon your heart, and gives you that look
And
her big eyes ask,
Am I your very
good dog?
Oh,
yes
Saturday, October 28, 2017
That Happy Little Dachshund Dance - poem
Lawrence Hall
mall46184@aol.com
All dachshunds dance their days in happiness
And shake their bodies, tails, and ears about
And thank their humans every doggie day
With puppy kisses and yappings of joy:
For cats to chase, for beds to muss
For grassy lawns on which to play
Hoovers to bark – oh, what a fuss!
And your pillow at the end of day
For dogs still live in Eden, and that is why
All dachshunds dance their days in happiness
mall46184@aol.com
That Happy Little Dachshund Dance
All dachshunds dance their days in happiness
And shake their bodies, tails, and ears about
And thank their humans every doggie day
With puppy kisses and yappings of joy:
For cats to chase, for beds to muss
For grassy lawns on which to play
Hoovers to bark – oh, what a fuss!
And your pillow at the end of day
For dogs still live in Eden, and that is why
All dachshunds dance their days in happiness
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Happiness Visible
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
A dachshund pup is happiness visible
Now tumbling, chumbling through the fallen leaves
Now sassling, hassling the hissing prissy cats
Now pausing in mid-bark to gnaw a paw
Now testing the dynamics of wind-flying ears
Now stalking the tasty beetle through the grass
Now chewing thoughtfully the tasty beetle
Now barfing up the not-so-tasty beetle
Now leaping to the next adventure in life
And somehow all at once – happiness visible
mhall46184@aol.com
Happiness
Visible
A dachshund pup is happiness visible
Now tumbling, chumbling through the fallen leaves
Now sassling, hassling the hissing prissy cats
Now pausing in mid-bark to gnaw a paw
Now testing the dynamics of wind-flying ears
Now stalking the tasty beetle through the grass
Now chewing thoughtfully the tasty beetle
Now barfing up the not-so-tasty beetle
Now leaping to the next adventure in life
And somehow all at once – happiness visible
Monday, January 13, 2014
High Noon at the Bird Feeder
Mack Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com
High Noon at the Bird Feeder
A little dog, a streak of dachshund red,
Across the grass speeds to a squirrel’s doom
She wants its blood, she wants its flesh, she wants it dead;
Ripped, shredded, and torn, it will need no tomb.
The fat old squirrel, a fluff of forest grey,
Is unimpressed by doggie dementia;
To Liesl’s grief he leaps and climbs away -
Never underestimate the Order Rodentia!
Liesl’s squirrel clings to a low-hanging limb
And chatters abuse at the angry pup
Who spins and barks and spins and barks at him
Laughing among the leaves, and climbing higher up.
So Liesl snorts and sneers, and marks the ground;
She accepts not defeat, nor lingers in sorrow;
For Liesl and squirrel it’s their daily round;
They’ll go it again, same time tomorrow.
mhall46184@aol.com
High Noon at the Bird Feeder
A little dog, a streak of dachshund red,
Across the grass speeds to a squirrel’s doom
She wants its blood, she wants its flesh, she wants it dead;
Ripped, shredded, and torn, it will need no tomb.
The fat old squirrel, a fluff of forest grey,
Is unimpressed by doggie dementia;
To Liesl’s grief he leaps and climbs away -
Never underestimate the Order Rodentia!
Liesl’s squirrel clings to a low-hanging limb
And chatters abuse at the angry pup
Who spins and barks and spins and barks at him
Laughing among the leaves, and climbing higher up.
So Liesl snorts and sneers, and marks the ground;
She accepts not defeat, nor lingers in sorrow;
For Liesl and squirrel it’s their daily round;
They’ll go it again, same time tomorrow.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
An October Chill
October, 2012
Mack Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Mack Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
An October Chill
A
merry dachshund yaps and leaps for leaves
Wind-blown
across the still-green summer grass
As
autumn visits briefly, and looks ‘round
To
plan his festive moonlit frosts when next
Diana
dances ‘cross November’s skies.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Liesl and the Egrets
Mack Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Liesl and the
Egrets
Neighbor
Willie was mowing the August fields
And
to this tillage flew egrets, all white,Following the blade for its bug-rich yields,
Soaring and wheeling in the mid-day light
Some
thirty or more of this hungry flock
Alighted
on the lawn beneath the treesBefore the wide window, as if to mock
A spirited dachshund – oh, what a tease!
Young
Liesl girded for battle, oh, yes:
The
air, the birds, and the doggie were still,As when a thunderstorm builds, as you may guess,
Or a stalking she-wolf waits for her kill
The
door was opened, and, thundering, Liesl sprang
Into
the lists of honor, against all odds,With yelp and yap and yip and paw and fang,
True daughter of the old Germanic gods!
Ere
long the scene was silent, free of birds;
An
errant feather here and there told the storyOf Liesl’s noble charge far better than mere words,
Told of this day’s dachshundian glory.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Sunday, February 27, 2011
The Day the Attack of the Killer Dachshunds Didn't Stand Still
Mack Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Day the Attack of the Killer Dachshunds Didn’t Stand Still
“I perceive that you do not own an Afghan hound but rather a dachshund,” Holmes remarked to Doctor Watson.
“Remarkable!” exclaimed Watson. “How did you know?”
“Elementary,” replied Holmes. “I observe that your fashionable and understated Cole-Hahn loafers are missing their tassels.”
Okay, Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t really begin A Study in Scarlet quite like that, but he missed a chance to write Die Dackel von Baskervilles.
Dachshunds make a career out of chewing their humans’ possessions, eating the debris, and then throwing up all that and more on the floor: shoes, plastic water bowls, rugs, their own collars, the cat’s toys, and things that we don’t even want to think about.
What if a dachshund were to be exposed to fast-food, global-warming, and a near-fatal overdose of Glenn Beck, and transformed into something out of an old American-International film? The result could be The Day the Attack of the Killer Dachshund Piranhas Didn’t Stand Still. I am sending the first treatment to Martin Scorsese:
Mild-mannered reporter Cliff Hangar comes home after a long day at The Trout Creek World News and Empire Defender and decides to take a dip in the pool. While sloshing in the cool water he notices that the head of his dachshund Thunderbolt rises out of the water, eyes glowing an eerie green, baring his fangs. As the camera fades out we see Cliff’s horrified and distorted face as he cries “No, Thunderbolt, no! I promise – I’ll get you the really good doggie treats instead of the dollar-store brand…noooooooo…!” Later that same day, Cliff’s wife arrives home to wonder where Cliff is. Thunderbolt sits innocently on the doormat wagging his tail.
The next afternoon, Girl Scout Priscilla Ponsonby arrives at the Hangar house selling Girl Scout Hungarian Shortbread cookies. Unknown to Priscilla, Mrs. Hangar is at the police station reporting the disappearance of Mr. Hangar, and the only being to observe poor, doomed Priscilla (cue the grim harpsichord music) is Thunderbolt, his eyes beginning to glow a mysterious green.
When Mrs. Hangar arrives home with Deputy Cuffenstuff, certified peace officer and defrocked computer guru, they observe on the lawn a fragment of Girl Scout uniform and a broken box of Hungarian Shortbread Cookies. Deputy Cuffenstuff whips out a magnifying glass and a diagnostic CD. After evaluating the scene carefully he holds up the box and says “Hmmm…I think your cookies are disabled.”
“Oh, no!” exclaims Mrs. Hangar. “What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to call in Scotland Yard.”
“Scotland Yard? But they’re in England.”
“Yes, but they now have a branch office in Buna. They specialize in cereal killers.”
“But Deputy Cuffenstuff, a box of cookies isn’t cereal.”
“Cookies contain wheat, and Girl Scout extremists are pushing whole grains on unsuspecting citizens. And notice this stray dog hair – dog fur. That’s why we need to call in a furrin detective force.”
“Oh, no!” exclaims Mrs. Hangar. “I’ve had occasion to paws – paws, get it? – lately. Something, some mysterious force, has been dogging my dreams.”
“Ma’am, you’ve got to know – I feel something terrible has been unleashed, and I’m going to sniff it out.”
“Is there a catastrophe looming?”
“No cats, but there’s a strophe here somewhere. I feel it in my Milkbones.”
“Is there anything I can do to make the fur fly?”
“Yes, if you would, please keep your ears to the ground.”
Note from Martin Scorsese: “Thanks, but I’m booked up with dog stories, so stop hounding me. But now if you could come up with a piranha barking in the nighttime, you might have something.”
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Day the Attack of the Killer Dachshunds Didn’t Stand Still
“I perceive that you do not own an Afghan hound but rather a dachshund,” Holmes remarked to Doctor Watson.
“Remarkable!” exclaimed Watson. “How did you know?”
“Elementary,” replied Holmes. “I observe that your fashionable and understated Cole-Hahn loafers are missing their tassels.”
Okay, Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t really begin A Study in Scarlet quite like that, but he missed a chance to write Die Dackel von Baskervilles.
Dachshunds make a career out of chewing their humans’ possessions, eating the debris, and then throwing up all that and more on the floor: shoes, plastic water bowls, rugs, their own collars, the cat’s toys, and things that we don’t even want to think about.
What if a dachshund were to be exposed to fast-food, global-warming, and a near-fatal overdose of Glenn Beck, and transformed into something out of an old American-International film? The result could be The Day the Attack of the Killer Dachshund Piranhas Didn’t Stand Still. I am sending the first treatment to Martin Scorsese:
Mild-mannered reporter Cliff Hangar comes home after a long day at The Trout Creek World News and Empire Defender and decides to take a dip in the pool. While sloshing in the cool water he notices that the head of his dachshund Thunderbolt rises out of the water, eyes glowing an eerie green, baring his fangs. As the camera fades out we see Cliff’s horrified and distorted face as he cries “No, Thunderbolt, no! I promise – I’ll get you the really good doggie treats instead of the dollar-store brand…noooooooo…!” Later that same day, Cliff’s wife arrives home to wonder where Cliff is. Thunderbolt sits innocently on the doormat wagging his tail.
The next afternoon, Girl Scout Priscilla Ponsonby arrives at the Hangar house selling Girl Scout Hungarian Shortbread cookies. Unknown to Priscilla, Mrs. Hangar is at the police station reporting the disappearance of Mr. Hangar, and the only being to observe poor, doomed Priscilla (cue the grim harpsichord music) is Thunderbolt, his eyes beginning to glow a mysterious green.
When Mrs. Hangar arrives home with Deputy Cuffenstuff, certified peace officer and defrocked computer guru, they observe on the lawn a fragment of Girl Scout uniform and a broken box of Hungarian Shortbread Cookies. Deputy Cuffenstuff whips out a magnifying glass and a diagnostic CD. After evaluating the scene carefully he holds up the box and says “Hmmm…I think your cookies are disabled.”
“Oh, no!” exclaims Mrs. Hangar. “What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to call in Scotland Yard.”
“Scotland Yard? But they’re in England.”
“Yes, but they now have a branch office in Buna. They specialize in cereal killers.”
“But Deputy Cuffenstuff, a box of cookies isn’t cereal.”
“Cookies contain wheat, and Girl Scout extremists are pushing whole grains on unsuspecting citizens. And notice this stray dog hair – dog fur. That’s why we need to call in a furrin detective force.”
“Oh, no!” exclaims Mrs. Hangar. “I’ve had occasion to paws – paws, get it? – lately. Something, some mysterious force, has been dogging my dreams.”
“Ma’am, you’ve got to know – I feel something terrible has been unleashed, and I’m going to sniff it out.”
“Is there a catastrophe looming?”
“No cats, but there’s a strophe here somewhere. I feel it in my Milkbones.”
“Is there anything I can do to make the fur fly?”
“Yes, if you would, please keep your ears to the ground.”
Note from Martin Scorsese: “Thanks, but I’m booked up with dog stories, so stop hounding me. But now if you could come up with a piranha barking in the nighttime, you might have something.”
-30-
Thursday, April 16, 2009
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