Dogs

Dogs

Dogs following their masters, close upon their heels.
Dogs waiting under tables, patiently, for meals.
Dogs sitting at attention, or looking for their balls.
Dogs patiently waiting for their masters’ calls.
Dogs upon the sofa, singly or in pairs.
Dogs listening for a certain car, on the carport stairs.
Some dogs travel as luggage. Others stay at home.
When masters get their leashes out, that’s when they get to roam.
Sitting on the rooftop or waiting on the stairs,
some dogs live as singles. Others roam in pairs.
Strolling ‘round the pool or sunning at the beach,
one dog or another is rarely out of reach.
Some dogs simply have to finish what they start.
First it’s just a little tug, but soon things fall apart.
Then they get in trouble for what was meant as fun
That’s why they look so innocent after they are done!
Why were they given teeth at all If they weren’t meant to use them?
It wasn’t their intention, when they started, to abuse them!
Their collars and their leashes incite their excitation
as  harbingers of their favorite form of recreation.
But other types of collars are labelled cones of shame.
Hard for dogs to understand that they are not to blame.
Dogs are made for leaping. Some even look like goats.
Some roam the world au naturel whereas others wear coats.
So many different types of dogs and different types of masters.
But all agree their good points atone for their disasters.

(Click on any photo to enlarge all.)

 

For Ragtag’s prompt, “Dog“.

Dawning

Dawning

Around me, a cacophony
of morning sounds awaken me,
those first faint birdcalls subtle draws
to other chirpings, tweets and caws.

Airbrakes on a far-off road
likewise jar and likewise goad
other aspects of the choir to stir:
tapping of woodpecker and whirr

of the wings of hummingbird.
Then nature’s single most absurd
sound—the donkey’s seesaw bray—
that final harbinger of day.

Light invades the cushy dark
where my dreams had hoped to park
for another hour or so,
but instead, they quickly go

back to where dreams wait for us.
The labored gear shift of a bus
grinds me into consciousness
and a new day’s constant fuss.

In time, this route will not be taken—
this constant  cycle to awaken
will be softened as we go
unresisting to the undertow

of that silence more eternal,
that soft rest of the nocturnal
sensual in its quietness.
Is it more or is it less,

this agony of losing breath,
this stunning quietness of death?
Or when the sounds of living cease,
will we welcome the release

from this busy, noisy world
into which nature has hurled
us squawking, protesting and grieving
for the quiet nest we’re leaving?

Though we’ve increased in height and girth,
every morning’s a new birth
as creak of door and whisk of broom
rip us from the night’s calm womb. 

Half grudgingly, we meet our fate,
arising to the ultimate
challenge to our energy:
the new day’s challenge just “to be.”

I’ve combined yesterday’s and today’s prompt words in the above poem.  Just catching up after a five-day vacation:

https://fivedotoh.com/2018/08/18/fowc-with-fandango-sensual/

https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/08/18/cacophany/

https://dailyaddictions542855004.wordpress.com/ agony

https://fivedotoh.com/2018/08/17/fowc-with-fandango-energy/

https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/08/17/grudging/

 

Peace Lily: Flower of the Day, Aug 17, 2018

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These lilies were found in one of the seventeen gardens of the  Hacienda de la Dolores Barrera in Guanajuato.

For Cee’s flower of the day.

I Took a Picture of Your Name

 

I Took A Picture Of Your Name.

After so many years, seeing it again on the screen,
I took a picture of your name.
Not written by your hand,
it had a strangeness–
featureless, revealing nothing.
It had no voice,
no breath.

Out there sharing itself with the world,
it has formed a wall around
that intimacy it birthed when you took my hand in yours,
using your name to pull me closer,
powerless against its strength on your tongue.

Everyone wanted to share a part of what made you you,
but I only wanted to be with you, back when,
scrawled in your careless hand,
you were written on my soul.

Wanting to be perfect for you,
remembering that tattoo you traced across my back.
Your name and mine.
“Always,” you wrote.

My trip to Guanajuato with my nephew Ryan was wonderful–just about as perfect as it could be.  Since I was 49 when he was born and living two thousand miles away, we had never really spent any time together, other than 4 short overnight visits I’d made to their house enroute to other places or for graduations or other celebrations, and he was always a kid with the other kids, I an adult with the other adults.  This was our first meeting as adults and with an entire week to get acquainted, we walked and looked all day and talked all night. Ryan did fine taking in the sights with people about fifty years older than him and formed a particular bond with one member of the group–a bit of a rascal at 76–really a kid who never grew up.  Ryan was actually better behaved than this man who could serve as the pattern for a trickster.

As our tour bus pulled into Ajijic at the end of our four-day tour, Ryan asked for his name and information so he could send him this photo I’d taken of the two of them. I pulled out pencil and paper, but the man had his own phone in his hand with his contact information on it  as he was spelling out his name so I could copy it , so Ryan merely reached over, clicked his phone over his, and said, “I’ll just take a picture of your name and look you up on Facebook.”

“I Took a Picture of Your Name” popped into my mind as a wonderful beginning line for a poem and although the resultant poem  is not about them and has nothing to do with our trip, here is a photo of them in recognition of the fact that their overheard conversation was really the prompt for the first poem I’ve written in five days.  My Internet-less vacation is over, but I’m going to try to remember the lesson it taught. Less time on the computer.  More time out in life.  Ryan and I are already planning our next adventure. I’ll show some photos later after he’s gone.

Ryan and friend about to descend into a silver mine in Guanajuato.

For Daily Addiction’s prompt: Humane

This is ForgottenMan subbing for Judy while she and her nephew Ryan are traveling in Mexico. She asked if I’d like to reblog some of her old posts in response to the various daily challenges here. I decided to only look at her posts from 2013-14, her first two years of blogging here.

The Daily Addiction‘s prompt today is “Humane”. Back in April, 2013, Judy faced a minor dilemma: What to do about a swarm of wasps that decided to build their nest next to her kitchen door? What’s the humane thing to do? Her predicament is laid out in this photo essay HERE, and her subsequent solution is laid out HERE.

For Fandango’s one-word challenge: Handle

This is ForgottenMan subbing for Judy while she and her nephew Ryan are traveling in Mexico. She asked if I’d like to reblog some of her old posts in response to the various daily challenges here. I decided to only look at her posts from 2013-14, her first two years of blogging here.

Today’s FOWC prompt is  “Handle”. HERE is a poem Judy wrote back in September, 2014, as a response to the prompt “Handle with care”.