For My Dog Who Has Died

I look at the flowers, and remember

Lying beside him in the grass,

His eyes of green half closed,

As if dreaming.

He used to give me such thoughtful looks

As if his mind contained

Fathomless depths, filled with verdant things.

I weep now, knowing that Lucky has died.

My tears feed the flowers and grass

Where together we used to lie.

Desperate for an answer

As to whether his soul is safe,

I look up and see in the sky

A rolling retinue of cotton-like clouds.

My dog is somewhere in them

Gliding gently by.

Tenderness

             An old man was sitting on his porch playing a lute when a young boy happened by. “Is that a guitar?” the little boy asked.

“It’s a lute,” said the old man.

“What’s a lute?”

“It’s a very old instrument. Been around since the middle ages.”

The boy looked at him, as if confused.

“Would you like to look at it?” the man asked.

“No,” said the boy. “I should get home. My mom’s waiting for me.”

“Okay,” said the man, who continued playing. He watched as the young boy made his way down the street, occasionally looking back at him, as if with wonder.

The man kept playing. His playing became stronger and more effusive. He became so entranced in his playing that he didn’t notice that the young boy had come back and was walking up the walkway toward him. Finally, when the boy was right in front of him, he noticed him. The boy stood and listened to him play. The old man didn’t stop, but felt now that he was really performing for the boy. His music poured in waves from the instrument, which now seemed to be a part of the man’s body and an extension of his mind. He closed his eyes as he played, and saw in his mind a great struggle between evil and angelic beings, a beautiful clash between bright and dark colors, and tears poured down his cheeks as he played. Finally, he finished, and opened his eyes and looked at the boy, who was looking at him, wide eyed. The man wiped away his tears.

“Why are you crying?” the boy asked.

“I have a tender heart,” said the man. “I’m old. When you get old, simple things make you cry.”

The boy seemed not to understand, though he nodded his head.

“Shouldn’t you get home?” the man said.

“Yes,” said the boy. The boy turned and walked down the steps, and the man watched him go. But halfway up the walk the boy turned around and looked once more at the man. His dark eyes looked deep, and they shimmered as if they too were filled with tears.

The Fire

Out of wisdom, comes death,

And from death, a return

Wiser, more closely bound

To the earth. A fire rises

Which is not our own,

But belongs to itself

And consumes our soul

Till it is nothing but flame

Retreating from the flesh

Which grows cold.

When there is nothing left

There will be fire, and it will be

The soul.

 

At the Garden Party

She looked

at the rose

Perfection she thought

and drank

her wine. All flushed

with drink

her face resembled

the rose

She could not help but

think so

so she turned to the handsome man

and smiled.

Naked in the Dark

We stand naked

In a dark place that’s cold

And barren and vast

Like an underground cavern.

We whisper and the sound

Echoes endlessly

Such that it becomes

A great cacophony

Wave upon wave hits us

And we regret our whisper

We wait in the newfound silence

Until we hear a faint voice

As if from far away but soon

It grows and we hear it clearly

It echoes: I am here

It says: I am with you

Though there is no light,

though it is cold

Though you can feel nothing 

but the cold

Your heart begins to pound

Your blood begins to warm

Far away, in the darkness

There seems to be a light

Growing.

 

Tree

How the seasons

are eclipsed

and memories

linger.

The sadness

that I feel

when I think

of how

it might have been

had I only

been braver

had I only known 

my own strength

instead of pretending 

to be strong.

The love I stored up

drove me mad.

When I think of that madness

and how you

might have been subject to it

in all the best ways

it doesn’t seem fair.

I grew away from myself

such that

the seed

from which I sprung

got lost.

The curves—

the gnarled curves—

of my trajectory

led to such 

rotten fruit

that no one wanted to eat.

Now, 

it is on the ground

and 

not much is left.

I’ll return to dust

without 

having had your lips

taste the better part of me

and you

have forgotten

what once was sweet

and could have been tasted

if only 

I had grown straight

and true.