Broken heart,
How has this child crushed hope,
Torn relationship apart?
You’re a ghost.
They don’t give a damn these days;
Occasional text at most.
Maybe time
will heal whatever lies here,
Give grace, pass this pantomime.
This is a treochair poem. The triplet stanzas have an ABA rhyme scheme, a 3, 7, 7 syllable count, and alliteration.
When was the moment
that ‘we’ broke apart?
Or did it just wear away?
All those things in common,
yet nothing holds together.
I rocked you in my arms
dreamed of all you’d be.
Never did I imagine you’d be
without me.
Why did you turn away?
We gave you space to grow
and now we don’t know
if loneliness is the price we pay,
when children make their way,
break their way,
wear away.
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.
Remember how you’d mock him
tell us his weaknesses, laugh about him.
Remember how you voiced your petty irritations
in every letter or conversation?
He would never utter a word against you,
as you wore him down, year after year.
Water on stone. Cutting through bedrock.
And now she writes constant words of joy in him,
gushes over him like a waterfall,
and he pools around her with pleasure.
It’s a relief to see his happiness, someone appreciating him.
I watch and wonder whether you wish you’d chosen
better words, or whether you savour being alone?
.
.
.
I could have written this about so many people I know or know of. It’s such a common pattern. One sows seeds of one’s own destruction.
When I think of you,
Longing rises in me like weeping.
This must be love
whimper
pant
pace
whine
pant
woof?
pant
woof
pace
pant
woof!
pant
WOOF!
pant
cry
WOOF wooooof!
pant
sigh
.
.
My 15 year old standard poodle is still unable to manage alone after we had to put down our 16.5 year old miniature poodle last month. We now allow him to sleep in our bedroom. Last night, after he’d been pacing and whimpering from 1:30 to 2 a.m. (post snack and pee-break) I actually got out of bed to lie beside him on the floor for 20 minutes until he settled. I’m not sure if that’s enabling, but we were all able to sleep afterwards. A visit to the vet this week, and a trip to his favourite kennel master next week, and I have hopes that perhaps he’ll be able to cope soon. The mourning process is a challenge for us all.
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).
The togetherness
stretched between
man-cave and girl-zone,
in dutiful words
and sharing kisses on the stairs.
The silences
listen for the echoes
of footfalls
and wonder
what togetherness
means.
He said
his mother was dead,
because the gulf
between them
was wide with guilt
and jumping it
was beyond
their capability.
She said
her son was lost
because his choices
marooned him
on an island of his own making
and would not let
anyone in.
They said
their journeys
were in opposite directions
but eventually,
on the other side of the world,
they’re bound to intersect.
The distance does not change the feelings.
the reeling,
wheeling,
squealing of my soul,
no longer whole.
The space between us stretches
and in the distance you grow small
and old,
But time has folds
in dreams I hold
you close
My soul finds healing.
Though space and time change feelings,
you haven’t changed at all.
on Twitter
Captain T @capt_blues
Shawn L. Bird 