Dog Patterns

The pattern of toothprints in plastic,
The work of a dog.
A trail of destruction follows his wagging tail.
Anger fumes within me.
Where is that chewing monster?
He evades my grasp.
My sister helps me put him out.
I glare, he whines.
How much longer can I put up with him?
That piece of pestilance!
The novelty of a dog has long worn off.
It always does.
That is our family’s pattern with dogs.

Yes, I was mad at our dog when I wrote this. Please tell me what you think.
Thanks,
Rebecca

As the stars above form their pattern
With invisible lines joined to form
What man has deemed constellations

So go the starry framed ideas
Within my mind; one here, one there
Then linked with threads so slight

T’would take a map-maker or
Mind-reader extrodinaire to
Chart the course of thoughts

Racing along these paths
Eventually carving out the finished
Pictures of who I dream to be

Patterns of lightening
Untraceable in sky
Tear falling from one eye
Thunder so frightening

Energy flowing in unseen patterns
Glowing galaxies in lit lanterns
The Universe unfixed in all patterns

1) I was introduced to it very young, and thought that making it would be the best thing I could ever do with my life; I wanted to introduce more of that beauty into the world.

2) It’s in the genes. My Dad and many members of his family wrote poems. I started as a small child.

3) I can’t not.

I don’t do it because I can’t write novels. Poetry is what I most WANT to write. (Second comes non-fiction, as in articles/essays/journalling/blogging.) However I have tried novels, just to see, and mine are terrible too lol! I also tried short stories, with better results – even got a couple published – but basically I don’t particularly enjoy writing fiction. Except in poetry, oddly enough. Strange how people assume all one’s poems are autobiographical. Many of mine are; many others are fictions, including the one for today’s prompt:

Monologue

The pattern of my life
Is little changed.
I walk always with you

That music we used to play
Echoes here still
As if yesterday it sounded

Sweet in the keen memory
And softly sad
Though I no longer weep.

Spring is greening the hills
With welcome rain.
We pray it will be enough.

The seasons too are unchanged.
Life continues on
In familiar, relentless pattern.

Way past my bedtime just now, so I’ll chime in again later.

Meanwhile just want to say quickly to Joy that your poem has a verve that’s very attractive, and the best way to improve is – as John says – to keep writing (and also reading heaps of good stuff).