Your Poetry



I oftentimes wonder

What it is about thunder

That scares my poor dog half to death.

At the first little rumble,

His head’s all a-jumble

And he barks without pausing for breath.

He runs up and down

As if chasing the sound,

On the trail of each mighty boom,

Or hides under tables,

Gets tangled in cables,

And makes a big mess of the room.

If ever I’m sleeping,

He’s not above leaping

Into bed for a comforting pat.

He’s clearly not faking:

He’s actually shaking,

To the utter disgust of the cat.

The storm will soon pass,

And this quivering mass

Will peacefully sleep like a pup.

But how about me?

It’s quarter past three—

I can’t sleep a wink once I’m up!

Sandra Matthew Verenieks

Pointe-Claire, QC

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