A Dog's Life

A stay of execution: one last day,

your day, old Everydog, then, as they say,

or as we say (a new trick to avoid

finalities implicit in destroyed),

you have to be put down, or put to sleep—

the very dog who, once, would fight to keep

from putting down, despite our shouts, a shoe

until he gnawed it to the sole, and who

would sit up, through our sleepless nights, to bark

away some menace looming in the dark.

 

Can you pick up the sense of all this talk?

Or do you still just listen for a walk,

or else, the ultimate reward, a car?—

My God, tomorrow's ride . . . Well, here we are,

right now. You stare at me and wag your tail.

I stare back, dog-like, big and dumb. Words fail.

No more commands, ignore my monologue,

go wander off. Good dog. You're a good dog.

And you could never master, anyway,

the execution, as it were, of Stay.

 

Daniel Groves, Poetry May 2003

Pigeon and Hawk

A new grad student far away from home,

I took every step on trembling ground.

I knew no one. Who were my friends?

The other black student in the program

ducked and rushed away when our eyes met.

Seminar rooms were full of hungry dogs

snapping up scraps of nodding approval.

At the end of a campus reception

I accepted the offer of a ride

from campus to my downtown room-with-bath.

 

October. Evenings were getting cool.

The walk over the bridge downtown

felt dangerously long when it was dark.

Did the young man who offered me a ride

tell me his name? What was it about him

that made me say Yes thanks, like a damn fool?

When we were in his car and he said oops,

he had forgotten something at his place

he had to pick up, and asked if I’d mind

if we stopped there, why did I say O.K.?

 

Did we talk during the drive? Was the radio on?

Did I just watch the businesses,

in thinning traffic, become a suburb

where his apartment complex was in a woods

already splendid in autumn colors

so beautiful they took my words away?

When he pulled up and said I should come in,

it would only take a minute, why did I go

upstairs with him, wait as the key unlocked

his apartment, and go inside?

 

The building was silent. A big window

in the living room looked at parking lots

with a few parked cars, and the glowing trees.

He said I’ll be right back, and disappeared

into the bedroom. I turned to the view,

thinking of nothing, my mind a blank page

that grew emptier as the minutes passed.

What was he doing during those minutes,

as I stood dreaming like a fat pigeon

in the keen purview of a circling hawk?

 

What could he have needed to go home for,

that was so important he had to go

there first, before he drove me home? Was he

wrestling with opportunity?

            Human horrors

are not inevitable. Some people stop

themselves, before they cross moral divides.

A drinking buddy might say Cool it, bro.

A cop might take his knee off a black man’s throat.

A young man might come out and say O.K.,

let’s go, and drive you home. What was his name?

 

Marilyn Nelson, slowdownshow.org October 8, 2020

Ice Cream Stop

The circus train made an ice cream stop
At the fifty-two-flavor ice cream stand.
The animals all got off the train
And walked right up to the ice cream man.
“I’ll take Vanilla,” yelled the gorilla.
“I’ll take Chocolate,” shouted the ocelot.
   “I’ll take the Strawberry,” chirped the canary.
      “Rocky Road,” croaked the toad.
         “Lemon and Lime,” growled the lion.
      Said the ice cream man, “‘Til I see a dime.
   You’ll get no ice cream of mine.”
Then the animals snarled and screeched and growled
And whinnied and whimpered and hooted and howled
And gobbled up the whole ice cream stand,
All fifty-two flavors
(Fifty-three with Ice Cream Man).

 

Shel Silverstein, Falling Up (Harper Collins Publishers, 1996)

Communion at the BP

It was a little thing, really,
this offer to fill my tire.
I was unscrewing the valve cap
and heard a voice behind me.
‘Here, I’ll get that for you”

“Oh that’s ok, I’ve got it,” is what I
normally say to such overtures,
this knee-jerk reaction to refuse.
I am the one who offers to help,
I am the one who serves.

Perhaps it was the eager spirit
in his face or his brown eyes
full of hopeful connection that
caused me to say okay.

I felt the vibration of
his unspoken benediction:
I can’t do much for you,
fellow weary traveler,
but I can do this. Lay
your burden down and
I will carry it for a bit.

And I couldn’t help but wonder
how many times I have denied
someone the blessing of serving
because I have been too stubborn
to accept their gift.

As I was standing there in
the sun drenched gas station
parking lot, the hiss and tick of
the air pump sounded very much
like a psalm. I watched his hands
filling more than just my tire with air,
while goodness and grace
swirled around us.

 

Paula Gordon Lepp, janicefalls.wordpress.com August 31, 2022

Unveiled

In the cemetery
a mile away
from where we used to live,
my aunts and mother
my father and uncles lie
in two long rows,
almost the way
they used to sit around
the long planked table
at family dinners.
And walking beside
the graves today, down
one straight path
and up the next,
I don't feel sad, exactly,
just left out a bit,
as if they kept
from me the kind
of grown-up secret
they used to share
back then, something
I'm not quite ready yet
to learn.

 

Linda Pastan, Carnival Evening, Collected Poems 1968-1998 (W. W. Norton and Company, 2009)

The First Annual AHS Wipeout 5K Run

No question about it; this was a great day 

for the American Hemorrhoids Society,

and for me. The race attracted hundreds

of socially conscious joggers and runners

 

from all over the area—each glad to fund-raise

for such a worthy cause and maybe achieve

at the same time a personal record on the fast, 

straight, out-and-back course through town.

We showed up early and gathered in the park

near the starting line outside Sundown Vale

Assisted Living and exchanged the usual

self-congratulatory tales of recent performances,

 

and, of course, the predictable litany

of ailments: plantar fasciitis, sore knees,

the lower back issue, tendonitis, shin splints,

IBS—and yes, painful hemorrhoidal tissue.

 

According to these conversations, no one had trained

sufficiently, thereby providing a preemptive excuse

in case of a poor showing in the race, while some

of the faster kids and other reliable local standouts

 

did impressive wind sprints to loosen up and show off.

The event’s sponsor, Preparation H, had a big truck

on site, decorated with the product’s familiar logo,

and peppy young company reps wearing blue

 

and yellow T-shirts also bearing the logo were 

giving away free samples. Some of us chose 

to try them out right away, availing ourselves 

of the porta potties arrayed along the sidewalk.

 

Then a tiny, clearly nervous girl from St. Jude’s Pre-K

gamely labored through a quavering, slightly off-key 

but well-received interpretation of the national anthem, 

as we fidgeted patriotically and adjusted our watches.

 

Finally the starting gun was fired and we got moving,

shuffling at first because of crowd congestion, but soon

picked up speed as the pack thinned out. The weather

that morning was cool and sunny, matching my mood.

 

I was flying, wings on my feet, the scenery a blur.

Having just celebrated my 100th birthday, I was sure

I’d finish well before lunch, first in my new age group,

earning another of those coveted little plastic trophies.

 

George J. Searles, Rattle #76 Summer 2022

Police Notes

Female reported running up Main Street yelling "No, no,
no!"
She was described as wearing dark clothing and loud
shoes.

Subject was reported standing in the roadway with a sign
saying
"lawyers suck and police are outlaws."

Woman called to report a man lurking on her patio.
Officers investigated and found a runaway goat.

Clerk in convenience store reported male customer was
looking up someone's skirt. Subject was tracked to the
university.

911 report — woman says her wallet was stolen from her
kitchen.
Before officers could investigate, she called back and said
that it was her son, 45.

Elderly woman called to report a moose, people carrying
torches, and strange music on her property. Officers
searched and found nothing.

911 dispatcher got a call saying there was a "huge party"
in the woods off County Road 3. Officers find empty
bottles and discarded clothes. Residents of Elm Street
report seeing four naked people.

Paris Road resident reports peeping Tom. Later told
police it was "one of my boyfriends."

 

Alice N. Persons, Don’t Be a Stranger (Sheltering Pines Press, 2007)

The Last Words of My English Grandmother

There were some dirty plates
and a glass of milk
beside her on a small table
near the rank, disheveled bed—

Wrinkled and nearly blind
she lay and snored
rousing with anger in her tones
to cry for food,

Gimme something to eat—
They’re starving me—
I’m all right I won’t go
to the hospital. No, no, no

Give me something to eat
Let me take you
to the hospital, I said
and after you are well

you can do as you please.
She smiled, Yes
you do what you please first
then I can do what I please—

Oh, oh, oh! she cried
as the ambulance men lifted
her to the stretcher—
Is this what you call

making me comfortable?
By now her mind was clear—
Oh you think you’re smart
you young people,

she said, but I’ll tell you
you don’t know anything.
Then we started.
On the way

we passed a long row
of elms. She looked at them
awhile out of
the ambulance window and said,

What are all those
fuzzy-looking things out there?
Trees? Well, I’m tired
of them and rolled her head away.

 

William Carlos Williams, The Last Words of My English Grandmother (New Directions Press, 1991) 

poem to my uterus

 you     uterus

you have been patient

as a sock

while i have slippered into you

my dead and living children

now

they want to cut you out

stocking i will not need

where i am going

where am i going

old girl

without you

uterus

my bloody print

my estrogen kitchen

my black bag of desire

where can i go

barefoot

without you

where can you go

without me

 

Lucille Clifton, Collected Poems of Lucille Clifton (BOA Editions, 1991)

Windows Is Shutting Down

Windows is shutting down, and grammar are
On their last leg. So what am we to do?
A letter of complaint go just so far,
Proving the only one in step are you.

Better, perhaps, to simply let it goes.
A sentence have to be screwed pretty bad
Before they gets to where you doesnt knows
The meaning what it must be meant to had.

The meteor have hit. Extinction spread,
But evolution do not stop for that.
A mutant languages rise from the dead
And all them rules is suddenly old hat.

Too bad for we, us what has had so long
The best seat from the only game in town.
But there it am, and whom can say its wrong?
Those are the break. Windows is shutting down.

 

Clive James, Opal Sunsets (W. W. Norton & Company, 2008)

How to Be Together

Ask a second grader.

Mine stood at the top

of the stairs, masked,

looking down at me

in the basement, masked,

unable to hold her,

my skin white-green

and slick with virus.

I am teaching her

how to be separate,

how not to hug me

until the doctor says.

When she told me

she missed my arms

so much her knees

wobbled, her eyes

were two wet pebbles

dropped in a gutter.

For what do pebbles

give thanks? How does

a gutter say grace?

I couldn’t even ask

these questions aloud,

so how she discovered

the answer is a mystery

to me: she ran outside,

around the house

to the basement window.

All I had to do was

open it, and that was,

in fact, all I could do.

She found two stones

in the yard, one smaller

than the other, both

of them rough and cold,

then hopped them toward

each other on the bricks

of the window ledge:

uno, dos, aquí. Here we are,

she said, this is you

and this is me, together.

Simple and exact.

People, you know you

are not a child anymore

when love shocks you.

I laid there, amazed

by how much light

two chunks of rock

could give, dazed

by the feast of blankets

glowing around me.

Each shallow breath

was a divine bite.

My daughter was

curled up with me

outside in the late

November sun,

which becomes a new

shade of gold even

on grey surfaces, even

when you think

those colors couldn’t

be further apart.

 

Abby E. Murray, rattle.com/poetsrespond/November23,2021

Praise Be

Praise be to the not-nearly-a-girl anymore
clerking at our local grocery outlet
since junior high. Single mom, moved up
after a decade of customer service
to manage four well-ordered aisles
of hairsprays, lipsticks, and youthful glow
in glittering squeeze tubes. Familiar
red-headed, brown-eyed, gap-toothed
smile. Willing to put aside her boxes of chores
to chat with each of us she names by heart.

I forget if she’s Mary or Alice or Jane.
Fine, I answer after she asks, How’s
your day? And driving my sacks
of next week’s meals home, I wonder
why she rises from her labors to greet me,
why she straightens her smock
where it’s pulled up a bit and rides her hips.
Tucks in place a loose wisp of curl.
When I walk by, what does she want to know,
when she asks, How’s your day?
I wonder why so seldom I’ve asked it back.

 

Lowell Jaeger, Or Maybe I Drift Off Alone (Shabda Press, 2016)

Sunday at the End of Summer

Last night the cold wind and the rain blew
Hard from the west, all night, until the creek
Flooded, tearing the end of a wooden bridge
Down to hang, trembling, in the violent water.

This morning, with the weather still in rage,
I watched workmen already at repairs.
Some hundred of us came around to watch,
With collars turned against the rain and wind.

Down the wild water, where men stood to the knees,
We saw come flooding hollyhock and vine,
Sunflowers tall and broken, thorny bramble
And pale lilies cracked along the stalk.

Ours was the Sunday's perfect idleness
To watch those others working; who fought, swore,
Being threshed at hip and thigh, against that trash

Of pale wild flowers and their drifting legs.

 

Harold Nemerov, New and Selected Poems (University of Chicago Press, 1960)

Messenger

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

 

Mary Oliver, Thirst (Beacon Press, 2007)

Cross

At concerts that I did not want to attend with my mother,
I learned to practice any number of nuisances possible in a
place of silence. I wore a cross to vex my mother, a Unitarian,
then ran the pendant back and forth along my necklace chain
like a loud zipper. During a pianissimo passage I unwrapped
waxy paper from a caramel, then coughed as if feathers tickled
my throat.

I’m paying for past trespasses now.

To my own teenage child, I have become the Grand Annoyer.
When I ask him how school went today or please pass the
butter, I annoy him because it’s none of my business, because
I don’t need butter, you already weigh too much. When I
laugh, I irritate him by showing my teeth. I bother him when
I’m sitting around in my pajamas—he hates the color pink;
it looks annoying on me. And when I wear polish on my
fingernails, he says my hands are dipped in blood, and when
I leave my nails alone, the pale bare hands look like dough
especially when they reach out to hug him, which constitutes
unwanted touch—and, he says, what is your problem anyhow?

 

Margaret Hasse, Earth’s Appetite (Nodin Press, 2013) 

I Have No Quarrel with You

I have no quarrel with you; but I stand
For the clear right to hold my life my own;
The clean, clear right. To mold it as I will,
Not as you will, with or apart from you;
To make of it a thing of brain and blood,
Of tangible substance and of turbulent thought.
No thin gray shadow of the life of man.
Your love, perchance, may set a crown upon it;
But I may crown myself in other ways.
As you have done who are one flesh with me.
I have no quarrel with you — but henceforth,
This you must know; the world is mine, as yours,
The pulsing strength and passion and heart of it;
The work I set my hand to, women’s work,
Because I set my hand to it.

 

Florence Brooks Whitehouse (1869-1945) Whitehouse was active in securing the right to vote for women in Maine. She wrote and recited this poem to the Judiciary Committee of the Maine Legislature in 1917.

Caged Bird

A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind   
and floats downstream   
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and   
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   
with a fearful trill   
of things unknown   
but longed for still   
and his tune is heard   
on the distant hill   
for the caged bird   
sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn
and he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams   
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream   
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied   
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   
with a fearful trill   
of things unknown   
but longed for still   
and his tune is heard   
on the distant hill   
for the caged bird   
sings of freedom.

 

Maya Angelou, Shaker, Why Don’t You Sing? (Random House, 1983)