How strange
that the lack of something
weighs more greatly
than its presence.
poem-lack February 16, 2016
How strange
that the lack of something
weighs more greatly
than its presence.
poem-lost moments February 15, 2016
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.
poem-first mourning February 13, 2016
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.
poem- today
Today,
grief is a roller coaster,
clicking forward minute by minute
and then with an errant thought
dropping my belly to my knees.
poem-visiting February 8, 2016
Dad came for a visit
and we discussed laundry soap
in my dream.
He didn’t ask about Mom,
and I didn’t tell him.
poem-torn February 1, 2016
There at the bottom of the bag
is that precious photo
of the beloved man, now gone.
You have torn it into shreds,
torn my respect for you,
torn my love of you,
torn my heart in two.
It was not enough that he adored
and worshipped you?
You were blinder than him,
though he had the account with CNIB.
Your bitterness is poison
and I will not drink it.
poem-scent January 27, 2016
Your sweater is here
and if I breathe deeply enough
I’m in the scent of your embrace.
poem-anniversaries January 25, 2016
Another anniversary
Half way through the first year of your absence.
You smile out from your photo
and my memory.
poem-today January 15, 2016
Grief today
is not like yesterday’s;
today it’s a ball, lodged deep in the throat,
instead of yesterday’s hovering cloud.
Tomorrow grief may be rain washing away every thought,
or the laughter of melancholy memories or perhaps
I won’t be able to keep tears at bay.
It’s impossible to say.
Grief is complicated,
that way.
poem-Grief 101 October 25, 2015
Today you would be 101
Three months gone
Grief still takes me by surprise
a slice of pain hidden in the guise
of a song, or a day, or a vision.
I still see your sparkling eyes,
I hear your voice saying my name,
You became a hundred and one
times a hundred and one memories
and grief still weeps off each one.
Shawn L. Bird 