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Black Dog

A dark paranoia dogs my steps,
goes for the throat, leaps on my chest,
brings down it's prey and rips my flesh,
baying at the moon.

I am a tortured soul in hell,
flayed alive, not doing well.
A black dog obeying some primal spell,
baying at the moon.

Moods that shift from meek and mild,
to vile anger, all blast and bile,
courting danger and passions wild,
baying at the moon.

The hunt is savage and hard-pressed,
with gnashing teeth to stop my breath.
A scream of horror, mute in my breast,
baying at the moon.

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poem by David SmithWhite
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India Rubber

Did it all for you to say
You never wanted me that way
Now the dogs have had their meat
I think I'll go plug in the mains

I tumble like a clown
Before your baying hounds
I supplicate myself
Into your hands

When you spare a make-up smile
I'm instantly your biggest fan
How I was to know that
You practised it beforehand?

I tumble like a clown
Before your baying hounds
I supplicate myself
Into your hands

song performed by Radiohead
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The Prophecy Of Capys

A Lay Sung at the Banquet in the Capitol, on the Day Whereon Manius Curius Dentatus, a Second Time Consul, Triumphed Over King Pyrrhus and the Tarentines, in the Year of the City CCCCLXXIX.

I.
Now slain is King Amulius,
Of the great Sylvian line,
Who reigned in Alba Longa,
On the throne of Aventine.
Slain is the Ponfiff Camers,
Who spake the words of doom:
'The children to the Tiber,
The mother to the tomb.'

II.
In Alba's lake no fisher
His net to-day is flinging;
On the dark rind of Alba's oaks
To-day no axe is ringing;
The yoke hangs o'er the manger;
The scythe lies in the hay:

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poem by Thomas Babbington Macaulay
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The Tower

SAILING TO BYZANTIUM
I

THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
-- Those dying generations -- at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire

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poem by William Butler Yeats
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Women, we might as well be dogs baying the moon as petitioners without the right to vote!

quote by Susan B. Anthony
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The Hard Road

Now you know
The way
The night is falling
The animals
Baying the loudest
Are set loose
By the dark
And the forest
Closes in
While their hunger
Grows.

poem by Vince Gullaci
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Blood Sport

There's nothing
to be gained
sifting over old ground
of who's the winner
the fox or the hound
the hunted or the baying pack
the master of ceremonies
cracks the whip
Uncle Sam
rides on their back
guaranteeing blood on the track.

poem by Vince Gullaci
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My Four-Legged Soul

my four-legged soul,
running wild through the night,
gnashing, gnawing, tearing,

and howling...
baying at the moon.
my four legged soul

can taste the feel,
can feel the raw....
inside the blood,

inside the flesh.
soul devours darkness,
darkness devours light.....

running wild, and free,
drenched in the moment!
my four-legged soul....

poem by Eric Cockrell
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If Tomorrow Never Came

when you lie in your lover's arms,
do you remember
those frozen nights,

when the fire had died....
moonlight hanging like ice
in the window bare...

the wet pool of love steaming,
clouds of breath hanging
in the air with unspoken desire....

the baying of the old hound....
and two sets of footprints in the snow
leading down to the water.....

the buckets on the porch,
an axe, and the old truck....
not giving a damn

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Symmetry

There was so much symmetry
In the cemetary it just made you want to stay
As if planted in cement
the similitude was not in headstones
though order ruled there too
No it was the solitude...the silence
As if humans were really made for this
No crush of useless voices
No sniping...or complaints
No crying or ornate crooning
or baying at the moon
Just that blessed stillness
Mocking seminary thoughts
Maybe all this cemetery symmetry is heaven after all

poem by Boink Boink
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