Dogma's Den

Here in the den sits an old
rocker,
old as everything that sits
in a den.

She sits there.
My Grannydog; eyes watching
the Grandfather clock,
its wooden spine standing erect--
a clock my Granddoggy gave
her years ago.

Creak.
Her rocker gently squeaks;
it remind me of a mouse
brave enough to rescue
the lion.

Shadows creep across the floor.
Black,
Ominous.
They tease her,
so my Granny punishes
those naughty shadows.
They scurry behind Granddoggy’s writing desk.

There is a gentle clinking
of her knitting needles.
Crickets sing in response
to the needles, the scarf grows longer.
Blue, Green, and White,
soft warm wool for cool days of sledding.

The clock ticks in time
to the needles,
to the chair’s squeaks.
Here sits Grannydog knitting;
eyes watching the Grandfather clock,
keeping shadows from my bed.

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Another poem from my creative writing class. This one was just fun to write, because we had to take a word and write a poem about it. It didn't actually have to be the true definiton, it was whatever we thought the word meant. Crazy, funny stuff!

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PAGE CREATED: February 12, 2000
LAST UPDATED: February 12, 2000

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