Category Archives: Poetry

Losing a Pet: Healing Through Poetry

Losing an animal companion is one of the hardest losses. I have had the good fortune to have one of my poems, “Drool,” published in this beautiful collection of poetry: Our Last Walk: Using Poetry for Remembering and Grieving Our Pets. Louis Hoffman, Michael Moats, and Tom Greening, Eds. University Professors Press.

Link: http://universityprofessorspress.com/project/our-last-walk-using-poetry-for-grieving-and-remembering-our-pets/

A perfect gift if you know an animal lover. I’ve read many of the poems in the collection and they are wonderful! But have a tissue handy!

 

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Old Mr. Mingus always loved to “go for a ride!” 

 

Once a Siren

A spring pond
adorned with water lilies,
minnow-tickled.

Sweet, wet life drip,
ripples in the mist.

Water nymphs
skate on mirrors
of flat grey sky.

Desire feeds
experience which feeds
desire.

Ten bare toes
sinking in soft silt.

Two white arms and two
white legs exposed,
fresh air goose bumps.

Ten red fingernails draw
circles on the surface.

Diving under
sound ceases
except for bubbles and
swish, she glides,
silver hair undulating
like a water weed.

Her blooming resurgence a
surrender to cloudburst.

Surfacing, cleansed and shivering
she cocoons the coolness
in a turquoise towel.

Treading slowly through
wet green grass
towards a solitary
naked evening.

Need manuscript feedback?

One of my favorite writing gigs is to help other writers revise and strengthen their creative works. I’ve helped those who write fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry by providing in-depth page by page comments. If you have a manuscript draft and would appreciate another pair of eyes and ears for your words, email me at word.artisan.vt@gmail.com and we can work out a plan that suits your needs and budget. I have an MA in Fiction Writing and an MFA in Poetry, along with years of experience with various kinds of writing and editing. I’ve also been a teacher. My writing has been published in online blogs, online magazines, books, and newspapers. Writing is a solitary act, but it can be a wonderful process to work with another writer!

Love this fall poem by Rilke!

Autumn Day

Rilke

 

Lord: it is time. The summer was so immense.

Lay your shadow on the sundials,

and let loose the wind in the fields.

 

Bid the last fruits to be full,

give them another two more southerly days,

press them to ripeness, and chase

the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

 

Whoever has no house now will not build one anymore.

Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long time,

will stay up, read, write long letters,

and wander the avenues, up and down,

restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.

Equinox Haiku

1.

Icicles hang from the roof’s edge—

row of pointed fangs,

winter’s snarling retreat.

2.

Morning sun shines stronger—

chickadees sing “Sweetie, sweetie”

in trim black caps.

3.

Slipping and sliding through dirt road ruts,

Arctic freeze bellows down dust and snow—

rattle of teeth and bones.

Winter’s Weekly Vacuum

And so it is that we in the North bear out these long winter months pressed inside rooms that seem to grow ever smaller. Tufts of cat and dog hair drift about the floor amongst fragments of bark and splinters as we open the wood stove to feed it one more time, again, again. Houseplants toss leaves and stems to the ground in protest of the dearth of humidity, while stray popcorn pieces from the umpteenth movie we’ve watched lie tangled in rug fringe. The dog stares vapidly into space or clings to us like a small child. The cat perfects her staircase acrobatics, until one day she begins to excavate the plants. Potting soil flung in all directions is pure sport. We reach out to touch anything for the thrill of electric static zap. Sometimes, tired of waiting for Mark Breen with his Eye on the Sky to pronounce our fate in inches of snow or ice or mercury’s descent, we walk boldly barefoot out on the porch, look up at the stars. We don’t even wear hats.

 

Mingus passes the time.

Mingus passes the time.

 

 

 

After

Now there is simply this: winter’s night silence. Worn family chair, one lamp; she is curled under wraps, impulse for urgency muffled. Outside one deer leaps through the snow, and another follows. Once she held up her hands, until he was gone. Quiet takes all her resolve. It’s the bravest thing she does. Letting what is, in. Waiting. Outside constellations spin imperceptibly apart, and she imagines one tiny ice crystal held aloft upon the new blanket of snow. When illuminated by morning’s light, it will refuse to melt.