You rest content
curled and snoozing
until bedtime.
Then the dragons come.
They wake you
harass you
scare you,
so you pace and tell us about it.
Dear dragons,
Go away.
We all need sleep!
Here’s a little pill,
a magic tablet,
to send you on your way.
.
.
OJ the dog is about to try some anti-anxiety meds to see if that will help him with his grief and anxiety for a few weeks, until he’s used to being the lone dog. I can’t believe my dog is officially suffering from mental illness. Old dog.
You and I are independent souls.
I move through the house;
You rest comfortably in contented sovereignty.
You do not need to dog my heels
to glorify each moment at my side
or expect me to worship at your feet.
You ignore me for hours,
sleeping in peaceful, self-sufficiency.
We are independent souls,
until the moment I step outside the door,
and calamity explodes in barks and whines.
It pants, scratches, and pees displeasure
at this, your desperate circumstance,
wailing at the injustice of loneliness,
vomiting up fathomless grief.
For the hours I am present, I do not exist;
for the hour I am absent, I make your world
a cavernous void.
Dog ironies
amid anxieties.
,
,
OJ is not doing well since Dusty went to the Rainbow Bridge. We’ve tried swaddling as per Thundershirt. We’ve got the Rescue Remedy. He’s in his safe, contained space. We fill the Kong with goodness. Still the dog thinks the world is ending when I walk out the door. Got any other suggestions? Except a new dog companion. Hubby imagines a dog-free household in our near future. (I’m allergic to cats, so that’s not an option either).
Midnight sun
your bright glow
matches my summer soul.
Midday night
your sky indigo
I hibernate and am made whole
Northern land
that journey long ago
taught me a heart has many homes.
.
.
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A rumination on my Rotary youth exchange year in Finland.
Do you have a place that changed your philosophy and perspective? Share your poetry or leave a comment about it at https://shawnbird.com/poetic-diversity-project/
We’d love to hear your voice!
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Now begins
your last twenty-four hours.
You are curled on a fuzzy blanket
that you settled onto with a groan
and a long sigh.
You’re catching up on the sleep you missed
between 2 a.m. and 7 a.m. when
you cried and howled and paced.
You struggle to rise and follow me
as I move through the house, still my shadow
even though it hurts to move.
You still wag your tail
though your hips cause you pain.
You still look up trustingly
with those cloudy white eyes,
so I will do my painful duty,
and give you sleep, free from pain.
After your final vet appointment,
tomorrow at this time.
I will bury you in the back yard
beside your brother, and we will weep
over the loss of another faithful dog
who shadowed us
with devotion.
.
You find the perfect spot
for maximum irritation
you rip apart the incision
determined to arrest healing.
I long to rip you off,
toss you away,
have air and water and space
surround me,
to heal the gash
and help to find my footing again.
.
.
.
Dedicated to my Aircast® which has a air tube glued right at my incision line. This is a painful irritation! Yeah, yeah. So I’m being literal. Nothing is stopping you from taking it figuratively. That’s what poetry is all about! 🙂
You groan in your bed
shifting to find a comfortable spot.
You struggle to rise on those
sore back legs.
You fall over avoiding
chair legs.
You ignore your dinner
as if eating is too much effort.
You don’t hear people when
they come to the door.
You go out to toilet,
but poop as you come in.
You strain to see me
through clouded eyes.
But you wag your tail
when you recognise me
and bring me a toy to tug.
You follow me whenever I move,
just wanting to be with me.
You make me stare down
hard decisions.
dear old dog.
.
.
.
2015 is not my favourite year.
Dusty Dog’s 17th birthday is in August, but I don’t think he’s going to see it.
Anew
you are printed,
packaged
addressed,
journeying to a distant place
unfolding before distant eyes
to be judged
and found worthy
or not.
In time,
you may find
a measure of fame
or fortune between
the pages of some book
but for now
you are just
another manuscript
off in the mail.
.
.
(Sending off a short story to a local ‘prestigious’ writing contest. The story was short listed a couple of months ago in a contest worth twice the prize money, so who knows? These things are so subjective.)
Oh creepy garage door,
Opening and closing by yourself at midnight
When I’ve been reading Buffy the Vampire Slayer,
That is not funny.
Thankfully I have a hero at home
who is ready to wake up and defend me
and locks.
Fifty times a day
she invites you
to connect.
“Honey, look at this!”
she says, forwarding an email.
“How was work?”
she asks, leaving her desk.
“Do you have ideas for dinner?”
she ponders in the kitchen.
Every time you grunt,
ignore her,
snarl, or shrug,
you are erasing what matters
most to you.
Every time you smile,
consider, give some time,
answer courteously, and
squeeze her warmly,
you’re drawing a
portrait of your happiness.
.
.
This poem is based on this article about an interesting study on relationships!
This is a glimmer
and it will be flame.
She is danger
and you are not fire fighter
enough to avoid
being burnt.
Shawn L. Bird 