She danced with the
brevity and depth
of a sumi painting
Brush stroked
passion
across her face
A pearlescenct
abalone shell
on a windswept beach.
The completeness
of her craft etched
in unexpected arabesque
Honed purpose
the delicate lines of
her body
In beat with
the sound of taut leather
across a worn water drum.
I still miss you.
You were the first dog
who was truly mine.
You will always be my baby.
I have been missing you lately,
telling my therapist about you.
Tonight, I was writing about your death
to discuss it in therapy.
The weekend we had to let you go,
saying goodbye from several states away,
unable to hold you
and tell you how much we love you
one last time.
It all came pouring back to me
like a wound ripped wide open.
(There are moments when
I touch the past
and it feels so real
that it scares me.)
I cried hard.
I still miss my best friend
all these years later.
I will always love you.
I will always miss you.
Your mommy held me
and we told happy stories
about you
until we were both
smiling and laughing.
You gave us so much joy.
Thank you for sending us a new dog.
We know you hand picked her just for us.
Mommy knew she was meant to be ours
the first time she saw her.
We went downstairs
and loved on Angel
and played with her
for a long time,
showering her with the love
you taught us.
I don’t know
if I will ever understand
how I can love
two separate dogs
so strongly,
so fiercely,
how my love for each of you
is so similar
and so different.
I will always miss you.
I will always love you.
Thank you for being ours.
Thank you for sharing this life
wish us
for a while.
Too many reporters
surrender
their tenacity
their curiosity
to newsmakers
who decide
what is right
to write
Result…
The Republic
The Globe
The Star
The Sun
The Eagle
The Bee
The Post
The Press
The Commoner
The Monitor
The Reporter
The Enquirer
The Leader
The Ledger
The Republican
The Democrat
The Morning Call
The Evening Express
The Telegram
The Telegraph
The Daily American
The Journal-American
The News-American
… All American…
dip their flags
from their graves
Can almost forget that we were tragedy
if I stop reviewing it long enough.
Almost don’t even feel you anymore.
Can almost go about living my life
as if nothing even happened.
But of course, it did. A lot happened.
Two people with specific traumas collided
with maybe God at the center-
symbiotic or internecine
both doomed if just one faltered.
After so much time I still don’t know
if I did my part right, if I was even close
at all. All I think about is how
when the next storm blows in how
safe complete I could feel with you.
How I feel so much of me was lost
when you left. How easy it’s become
not to try at all. Turn it all off; be without
desire. How when someone, anyone
gets me wanting, all I really want is you.
I dream to write,
like the other poets do.
Where I paint beautiful landscapes,
and colorful sceneries,
of someone else’s stories.
I wish I could create,
fictional characters,
and magic wonders.
Far away from reality.
I keep leaving pieces of my heart,
in every word I wrote.
Hoping people will understand.
I made it all up.
A child sits astride a white horse
happily holding a red banner
under a bright yellow sun
with straight and undulating rays of light
emanating from its face while
sunflower blooms peek over the garden wall.
The sun is both earthly and Divine
its light bringing
clarity and truth
the enlightenment
of feeling and understanding.
At this point on his journey
the Fool has returned
to the openheartedness
he had as a child
in the safety of the garden
under the eternal light
of the sun.
We are here
to bring our light
to the world.
Awakening to that realization
we become like the child—
filled with energy and optimism
glowing with contentment and joy
as we allow our true radiance to shine forth.
The meadow of Creative Justice
I think of a young Ernest Hemingway
radiant in his hospital bed
the lionhearted warrior
flirting with the nurses
there for the adventure–
more material for his writing life.
Nothing old and defeated in this picture
the eagle temporarily grounded
with merely an injured wing.
Greeted everywhere with warm eyes
and smiles, he’ll come back
stronger than ever and the cane
just makes him look more heroic.
My nails turned blue, an omen.
I have said it all. Black-holed my mouth.
Blacked-out. Erased you for a moment,
stunned dead. I killed many men this way.
Sunk my teeth, you know the rest of the story.
My hands are white. They are red. They are
my vice. I am bone cold, riddled with ice.
I am not nice. You should put me down finally.
I get myself alone. Wait for it to happen,
some man with a gun and vengeance to come
shoot me dead. I show everyone my cards
and wait for a threat. You are far too kind
to be my kind. My heart was always on my sleeve
but no one cared for better or worse about that.
Regardless you’ll reach for me any way you can,
but I won’t let you touch me for a long time.
I’m so cold I’d suck the air from you.
When I say what I mean it gets me in trouble,
so now I speak only in metaphor, in poems.
I’m done with living any other way. Give myself
up. I crave. There is no cure. This is terminal.
The images of a different life snow me in,
I can nearly make my own winter out of them.
I sit by a fire and do not throw myself into it.
It must be a blessing to never want to.
It must be a blessing to be so warm.
