The Last Time and Lament for Louie

Today Louie failed to make the jump up to the window seat.

 
The top picture is Louie full grown.  The bottom picture is Charley at 8 months in February 2015  

These two poems were written five months apart and mark two points of grief in our losing of a dearly loved pet and family member.  We had Louie with us a dozen years.  He had no other agenda than to be with us.  He was a joy to the eye and the heart.  

We waited a year to get Charley, a black standard Poodle.  Charley is different, lovable and a sweet reminder of the pleasures Louie brought us.
 

The Last Time                                             #562 February 2013

Today Louie failed to make the jump

up to the window seat. He flopped ungainly                            

to the floor and did not try once more. 

I would not see him on that perch again.   

It must have been embarrassing to him

for me to see the waning of his strength.

I notice now and then he stands there looking up

remembering the sun’s warmth, the view

of birds and squirrels.  He does not seem to hear

as well nor bark at strangers any more. 

I dread his further losses, weighing when

it’s time somewhere along his sad decline.

I watch it all and deeply feel my sighs.

and know that every living creature dies.

Lament for Louie                                                            #568 July 7, 2013

Louie died last night.  His presence shouts  

in the quiet house. We breakfast on the deck

where even the air is still, the wind chimes silent.           

The meadow, where he ran free, seems empty, forlorn.

A flock of turkeys, five hens, single file, 

with a train of chicks, slowly cross the field,

a funeral procession celebrating

the cycle of life.   Our tears lament this truth.

We will spread his ashes in the meadow

where his spirit can continue that

fluid canter and rhythmic trot forever,

doubling back to check a smell, alive,

always in the moment, looking to see

if we were still in the vicinity.

 

Halloween Owl

On Halloween he flew into my window.

I did not hear the awful crunching thud.

I only saw the eerie image, face

and wings, his powder left upon my pane

when sun’s illuminating breath revealed

this apparition.  Huge round hollow eyes

unseeing, stared blankly, no threat to mice,

unnerving to me, this day when dead souls wander.

Coincidence can seem like planned design

And often drives imagination wild.

The owl, I know, was just a bird, confused

by light, transparency beyond his lore.

He was unlucky: wild in mankind’s world.

The ghost I thought I saw was just an imprint.

Meadow Fog Shaftsbury

An image of the meadow fog

Saying Goodbye

In early memory I am riding my six-four grandfather’s shoulders like a mahout.

Saying goodbye                                                 

For James J. Cormier, Jr., Esq., for sharing his personal story.

Booval, QLD  and
Sydney, NSW, Australia

1945-1953

In early memory I am riding my

six-four grandfather’s shoulders like a mahout.

He took me on his rounds – railroad tool shop,

pool hall, pub, racetrack, horse farm, orchard.                                                       4

                                                           

The railroad tool shop rumbled with repetitive      

din of machines dye-stamping, drilling, spinning.

I sat at his desk quietly drawing trains

on green graph paper, using a compass, ruler.                                                        8

The pool hall was filled with railroad workers sporting               

grease-stained white T-shirts, suspenders, steel-toed boots.

Bent over green-clad tables, their muffled voices

barely audible above the crack of the balls.                                                           12

He'd say, “Let's go to the pub." I loved the sawdust

and stale beer smells, my glass of ginger beer.

I laughed with the guys who always asked, "Are you

Aussie or Yank?" I always answered, "Both!"                                                       16

On Saturdays grandfather ran the racetrack tote board. 

Afterward, we picked up discarded claim tickets. 

Every once and a while, we found a winner

I stuck in his hatband like a feather.                                                                      20

My father managed a barn and boarded strangers’

horses.  In fig groves there, I set bird traps

high in the trees for Grandfather.  He would cage

the birds a short while, release and catch some more.                                       24

  

On Guy Fawkes Day when I was six, my fireworks           

jumped the barrel, setting a field ablaze.                             

The fire threatened to burn several buildings,

including the school.  My friends all ran away.                                                    28

I fled to Grandfather’s and hid under his bed.    

The police, firemen, neighbors, family and school

searched until dusk. After the fuss died down,

he came home, looked under his bed, hugged me.                                              32

When I was eight, my folks decided to emigrate.

They promised we would return to see my Grandfather

who came to the dock to see us off.  The steward

handed us each a streamer. Mine was white.                                                         36

I threw one end to Grandfather and kept the other.                      

The gangplank removed, whistle blown, lines cast-off,

the ship carefully backed out of the slip.

I walked toward the bow; he walked along the pier.                                             40

We fiercely clutched our end of the streamer.        

In the channel the ship pivoted like a hippo.

The streamer’s coils stretched until they broke

and each end slowly fluttered to the water.                                                           44

I saw Grandfather bury his face in his hands  

and bow his head.

I never saw him again.                                      

Alaska Life

This is a link to an article our daughter, Eve, wrote for the Great Land Trust.  It has pictures of our granddaughter, Neve, and some interesting lore about AK.  Please enjoy the photos, Eve's blog post and the ambiance of this family.

http://www.greatlandtrust.org/the-case-of-the-mystery-mussels-backcountry-ice-skating-and-a-sense-of-wonder/ 

Winter Fantasy

In green woods stands a forlorn spruce, branches snow

bent to the breaking point, a lost Carthusian,

his cowl askew, bowed shoulders sighing woe.        

Stooped by the cold, red blooded, normal, human;  

has cabin fever, longs to be incognito,

escape his sore knees, create himself bohemian.  

He could be tired or tipsy from abuse

of the green liqueur in their cave, Chartreuse.       

Ottava Rima is 8 lines of iambic pentameter rhyming ababcc.  Ottava Rima is usually a whimsical, satiric or comic form.  Lord Byron's "Don Juan" was a mock epic in ottava rima stanzas. This poem won 2nd prize in the Maine Poets' Society 2015 winter contest.  

608 December 2014

November Deer Camp

The woods are wet, leaves are quiet from soft showers.

November Deer Camp                  

                                                I.m. of Pappy, George and John

The woods are wet, leaves are quiet from

soft showers.  Six stags, still warm, hang, tongues out,

heads down, along the porch.  Inside, a shaded

gas lantern casts a circle through a fog

of blue – from fragrant Turkish pipe tobacco,

and cheap twisted Parodi cigars - hovering

above a green felt-covered gaming table.

The game is poker. Its paraphernalia clutter

the table – chips (red white and blue) and cards                                           9

scattered among empty bourbon glasses,

and half filled ash trays.  Smells from the wood stove,

as deer liver, bacon, onions simmer,

overpower stale tobacco smoke

and wool soaked from hunting in the rain.

The clock face flaunting only 5’s admonishes

“Drinking Allowed Only After 5.”

The picture of marines raising the stars and stripes

on Iwo Jima hangs above the stove.                                                      18

“I sighted in Sy’s two-seventy after breakfast.

A quarter covered all three shots,” boasts Pappy.

“That barrel is well bedded,” George observes.

 “A case of damn good shooting,” Pappy growls.

Army, draws on his pipe exhaling perfect    

smoke circles, comments, “Michael, your Parodi

looks like something a fox left on a stone

wall.” 

            Mike, unshaven, chewing on the black

wet butt, retorts, “It beats that perfumed ladies

lace you’re smoking.”                                                                               29

                                           Jared changes the subject:   

“I heard him (crashing down through pines) and headed

south to cut him off as he crossed the clearing.

A downhill shot, two hundred yards, right through

the ribs. I found the hair plug, followed up

the trail of blood.  He ran a hundred yards,

collapsed, lungs filled with blood.  No need to bleed

him out.” 

                 Heads nod at Jared’s story, his

skilled hunting, running target shot.

Ethan bangs the cards on felt

impatiently demanding, “Are you in?”                                                            40

We hear the truck come up the drive.  It’s Kent

returned from town with groceries.  Rushing in,

he’s agitated, grim faced: “The President has been shot

and killed in Dallas.”

                                                No one looks up from poker. 

Ethan calmly asks, “How many cards?”

                                                                                                                       

“I’m really serious.  Not a joking subject.       

Come listen yourselves on the radio in the truck.”

We all walk out and shiver ‘round the cab. 

His death’s the only story on the air   

and one by one file back inside, chastened.                                                   50

It’s quiet at the table, cards face down.                       

Yellow Goat's Beard

In the meadow, regiment strong, Yellow-Goat’s Beard


“Tragopogon pratensis [he-goat bearded in the field]…flowers close at midday..”  Wildflowers by Roger Tory Peterson

In the meadow, regiment strong, Yellow-Goat’s Beard
stand for morning reveille, each one   
facing the Sun, brightly bearded soldiers
on review, but sound asleep by two, adrift
in reverie from last nights revelry.

Tragopogon.   I imagine you
as bearded Pan with flute carousing through
the night with Daisy and Black Eyed Susan while
Sweet William’s pogonotomy leaves him
a naked wallflower alone in the field.

I admire your ability to rise at dawn
to answer the bugle’s sound, and sympathize
with aching eyes in Sun’s harsh glare.   But what
if you are called to duty after two?