Every day you
walk through the door
wait for the greeting
a joyful embrace
(or in lieu
a wagging tail would do).
poem-ostrich day March 4, 2016
I am overwhelmed
by my responsibilities
and the weight of my grief
that creeps up unexpectedly
to undermine my clarity
to bury me with memories
and underscore my sense of loss.
I’ll hide myself from Helios: find
some sand to stick my head beneath.
poem-flipping February 28, 2016
I’m flipping the pancake
and no furry friend is tangled in my legs
hoping for disaster.
poem-popcorn haiku February 25, 2016
The popcorn maker
called the scavengers to feast,
now only I eat.
poem-hopes and fears February 23, 2016
You know everything
at least you think you do
and constraints of adult expectations
are irritation to you.
So that older guy on social media
successfully calls you
offering freedom and attention
and you leave confidently,
but we fear your bravado
will crash into a predator
and send you cringing home
your security crushed
forever, by the wisdom gained
too late and too painfully.
poem-ashes to ashes February 21, 2016
I feel you curled against my back.
I stroke your warm body.
I gaze into your soft brown eyes,
that gaze lovingly back to me.
I wonder whose ashes are in the box:
Conspiracy theories.
Painful realities ring with the alarm clock,
and my contentment turns to ashes.
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.
Shawn L. Bird 