Thursday, May 14, 2009

Don't You Know

The PAD CHALLENGE is over, but I found this prompt at Poetic Asides. Robert offers a prompt each Wednesday.


Don't you know how hard it is to write
when you are alone with two Boston
Terriers? When the husband is away
caring for his dying father and the
dogs who love your husband so are in
pain for his leaving and follow you
everywhere about the house?

One curls on top of your discarded
clothes while you are bathing,
one barks at the door at every sound.
They are like four-legged children,
so lonely and looking for solace and love.

Why do we keep animals with us?
We struggle, driven by human needs
that in retrospect seem worthless.
I write this poem now with a dog in
my lap. I write; she sleeps.
It is the spirit of the animal
that I communicate with now.

Don't you know?
I am the lost one.
She knows who and what she is.


daringtowrite said...

don't you know how much i like this?

Luda said...

I found your blog link from facebook. I'm so glad, as it lead me to this poem. Once again, I'm stunned by your work.

So beautiful.



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Northwest Ohio, United States
"I was no better than dust, yet you cannot replace me. . . Take the soft dust in your hand--does it stir: does it sing? Has it lips and a heart? Does it open its eyes to the sun? Does it run, does it dream, does it burn with a secret, or tremble In terror of death? Or ache with tremendous decisions?. . ." --Conrad Aiken


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Fave Painting: Eden

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Fave Painting: The Three Ages of Man and Death

Fave Painting:  The Three Ages of Man and Death
by Albrecht Dürer

From the First Chapter

The Secret of Hurricanes : That article in the Waterville Scout said it was Shake- spearean, all that fatalism that guides the Kennedys' lives. The likelihood of untimely death. Recently, another one died in his prime, John-John in an airplane. Not long before that, Bobby's boy. While playing football at high speeds on snow skis. Those Kennedys take some crazy chances. I prefer my own easy ways. Which isn't to say my life hasn't been Shake-spearean. By the time I was sixteen, my life was like the darkened stage at the end of Hamlet or Macbeth. All littered with corpses and treachery.

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