The ancient Greeks formalized education.
Men should seek the seven liberal arts.
They must know grammar,
rhetoric,
dialectics.
Then move on to
music
arithmetic,
geometry,
astronomy
and always consider the tenets of philosophy.
You must begin knowing how words connect,
how to persuade others,
how to think logically and analytically,
then explore
sound,
numbers,
shapes,
and stars.
It’s a shadow
she can’t quite see,
just behind her head.
A sensation of suspicion
quickening between
her shoulder blades.
A darkness settling in
a midnight coloured cape.
Oppressive premonitions
that demand she hides, fades away.
No energy for fight or flight
when confronting the black horror
of night.
It is not there
the farewell that
lingers upon lips.
Your dawn departure
is made in stealth.
She wakes without the
warmth of your breath
resting with gentle touch
upon her cheek.
You’ve left; yet another
morning she finds herself
bereft.
How strange
that the lack of something
weighs more greatly
than its presence.
I had some errands to do,
and it’s always so hard to leave you
after I’ve come home,
so I went to the library,
and the grocery store,
and then to fold my mother’s laundry.
When I pulled into the garage,
he told me you were in trouble,
I rushed to see you.
You looked at me with anguish in your eyes,
your belly hugely distended. I told you to come,
you went straight to the car, because the car is always good.
I raced you to the vet, my hand on your shoulder,
knowing.
I sat on the exam room floor with you
feeling your racing pulse and your icy breath.
I held you as you died.
Thirty minutes of pointless errands
when I could have been with you,
thirty minutes less pain you would have endured,
thirty minutes I will not get back, but will always regret.
I’m thankful for the fifteen minutes I had to hold you.
I’m so sorry for your anguish in my arms.
.
.
.
My heart dog OJ died of gastric torsion on Friday. He was fine at lunch. Dead at 5:00. We don’t know how it happened after 15.5 years, but standard poodles are deep chested dogs that can be prone to bloat, though it’s not in his line. I had hoped he’d go in his sleep, not suffering so much, but it was easy to request the shot to save him from his agony, though by then it was likely only moments of ease.
I remember
the busy university campus
where you bought a single rose for your new wife
to celebrate our first
Valentine’s Day.
And all the years that followed,
when I just got out my silk roses,
arranged them in a vase, and people
presumed they were from you
and that they were real.
I let you get the credit.
We’re cheap in our old age,
and resigned.
And so I wake on the first morning
without my heart dog.
No thumping tail to greet me
No clicking nails tattooing down the hall.
No urgent woof encouraging me
No stinky kisses
to comfort me aching.
No rolling for a belly rub
with contended sighs and eyes blinking
nonchalantly, as if you were surprised
to find my hand caressing you.
No need to put my purse up high,
or guard food on the counters.
No rattling as you did dishwasher pre-wash.
No.
Only bits of fluff, still hiding in corners
after your last hair cut,
a hundred photos,
and a million memories of a sweet-tempered,
loving heart that beat with mine.
.
.
.
Oh, how I miss my boy today.
Today,
grief is a roller coaster,
clicking forward minute by minute
and then with an errant thought
dropping my belly to my knees.
I burst into tears
at the sight of pizza on the counter.
There is no longer danger
of your nose sniffing out a snack
your tongue stealing it with sneaky swipe.
Your bright eyes no longer follow me.
Your tail no longer wags in joyful greeting.
I am bereft
that food is safe
but you are gone.
.
One year to the day after we had to put down our miniature poodle Dusty, we came home today to find our dear, sweet OJ, (Kimelle’s Optimum Jive) bloating from gastric torsion. I rushed him to the vet where he died in my arms 10 minutes later. And so my prophecy came true. In one year I lost my 3 old men: Dusty (16.5), Dad (100.75), and OJ (15.5). Be careful of the words you speak.
I gave OJ this ghastly hair cut last weekend, and saved the hair to spin and felt. What a melancholy, precious task that will be, when I can bear it.
Jpeg
Golden hair
Bright eyes
Longing for him
Dreaming
Wishing
Whispers to him
Photo please
Oh.
Whoa.
He?
He.
He!
No.
No!
Dreams die.
Wishing wanes.
Eyes cry.
.
.
.
I created the first draft of this on the whiteboard as a free verse sample for my creative writing class. Some of them are *really* afraid of poetry!
Shawn L. Bird 