The Sentinels (6 Dog Custody)

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Still working on this one. But I wanted to store it somewhere, so here it sits.

The Sentinels (6 Dog Custody)


By Alexander Guinevere Kern




Panic strains the heart’s waist-band

Of 5 year old Jeffrey’s kid Pajamas.

He’s abandoned his short bed again,

Her half-breed Step-son,

Once found sleeping

Atop a puzzle jumble of Alphabet

Blocks beneath his crib -


S E D.


Fear running house hunt,

And Sister’s fat scream,

The Mercury tips on its Silver

Toe to barely 20 degrees.

Outside, storm clouds huddle,

Ice winds flail, hail rattles and raps

Full-on heater, Warmth clacking.


A night-owl spins its snowy head

Like a white-feathered top

Blinking one candle-orange eye

Slooooow in the darkness.

He’s watching all the drama

While Sissy straps on her skis.


Baby Jeff stumbled, slippered his way,

Into a pure white frozen cloud

Looking for the Light within.


The Search Team found him in

Jaspar’s frozen corn field, in front of

Old Carlson’s broke down barn,

After an all night flashlight tracking’

In REI parkas. One truck mile up

The Humpbacked Road, truck jumped

Past that stomach-fluttering burp bump

Balaclavas, gloves packed with snow.


Jeff slept, knees to chin

In a Frigid Feet Fetal Curl

Beautific cheeks slapped hard

By the Mad Momma Wind,

Like some Doctor Denton Cherubim

In a “Why God Made Little Boys”

Wooden plague, just for Indians.

Cold felt nice on his reddened bum

Burned hands. Howl wind whipping.


The Family Hounds

Must’ve followed him out. Six big

Woolley Mongrels, mixed Blood

Competing on their thick mutt faces.

Heresy to Purebred Dog owners.


His Daddy’s wife hated shaggy hides,

Adored her Pink Ribbon Pekinese.

Not her Step-son strange begotten

Adopted kid she never wanted.


Tory’s Man, he loved his guns

His forest log home, deer chasin’ dawgs

She never could bring herself

To grumble, yet she hated his hunting pack,

Baring their teeth when she walked by,

Nipping at her fingers,

Snarling in their eyes,

Growling at those hands that hurt.


In the Night’s Chill Fist, Young Jeff

Was found wrapped arm, unharmed,

In a wreath of Mighty Guardian dogs,

Cur Fur tucked all around him

Like six Fleabag coats. Snorting, snuggling

Steamy breath rumbling. Paws on his hands.


The Dark-skinned neighbors found him safe

In a miraculous womb of canine love.

He’s like one of them, they thought.

Wild, Unwanted, Hunted.


Like us.

He’s one of us.

Submitted: July 27, 2021

© Copyright 2021 RexMundi555'.-. All rights reserved.

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