Poems of the Week ~ When It's Time to Say Goodbye

I have to issue a Kleenex alert with this feature, as we are sharing poems that say goodbye to some beloved dogs. Margaret Bednar  recently lost her wonderful dog, Mackinaw. The beautiful poem of farewell she wrote to him brought tears. Myrna Rosa, Jennifer Wagner and I lost our dear ones, Daisy, Druke and Jasmine, two years back. As we are a community of dog lovers, I thought to share our poems of love and grief with you.  I have written at least a hundred poems about Pup. I chose one at random to join in the remembering of those paws that padded beside us so faithfully, and those doggy grins that made us laugh, for all those wonderful years. 

Daisy

A SIMPLE POEM FOR DAISY

Not everyone understands, I know
How alone I feel
Her absence
My radiant shadow is gone
No longer close
Attached like glue
Walking behind me, eating, sleeping
While I wrote, cooked or simply lived my day
She absorbed my thoughts, my moods
Reflected back a constant, soothing tranquility
A conduit to my own serenity

Not everyone understands, I know
How now only imagination remains
When I think I hear the silent presence
Of the wise companion
Who enriched my spirit
By teaching me about my own animalism

Not everyone understands, I know
My grief, which connects to all
My other losses, each unique, but woven
From the common thread
Of suffering.

My tears suddenly flow
As my memory flashes
To sweet scenes of our love
I intensely feel
How much I miss my Daisy
Some would say, "She was just a dog."
I know, not everyone understands

          ***     ***       ***

Sherry: Well, we understand, Myrna. Only too well. Tell us about Daisy. And tell us about the new girl in your life, Leroy's new sister.

Leroy and Lula

Myrna: It's been over two years since Daisy died. Yet, her leash and collar are in a drawer as if I could still take her for a walk; her favorite toys remain in the dog cupboard. Sometimes, I still expect to see her lying patiently by my desk, content just to be near me. 

Each night, before bed, Daisy had to take her medicine. I wrapped her pills in a little piece of cheese. Leroy, my other dog, would get a little piece of cheese too to prevent rivalry. Now each night before bed my dogs ritualistically get their "Daisy Medicine", though there's no need for pills and there's no Daisy.

I've never stopped mourning her. Her pictures often provoke tears. But more often my grief is colored by gratitude for the years we were together. Though I cling to some of her material things, it is her essence, like a whiff of sweet perfume, that I feel whenever I think of her.

Leroy missed her too. I don't know how dogs think but clearly he felt a void. He seemed lonely, needy, and he began to dig the yard. My husband wanted to adopt another dog but my heart wasn't ready until recently.

Lula

Lula is the newest addition to our family. I fell in love with her the minute I saw her at the shelter. I didn't, at the time, notice that her coat was dull and dry or that her ribs protruded or that her energy was so low. She was sick. She also came with a bad reputation - she's a pit bull terrier. But somehow she called to me. Leroy seemed to like her too when they met. She went straight to my husband's lap when she saw him and she inhabited my heart instantly.

Sherry: I love that when you think of Daisy, it is her sweet essence you remember. And bless you, Myrna, for adopting Lula from the shelter. She might otherwise have had a hard time finding a home, and now she has a wonderful one. This makes me very happy for Lula. One dog who had a hard life, now rescued and loved and happy. Safe. You honor Daisy by paying that love forward by rescuing another dog.

Myrna: No other dog will ever replace Daisy. No other dog will ever replace Leroy or Lula. Each of my canine companions has been special, unique. Each has expanded my spirit by giving me love and lessons. Each one has taught me something about the risk of love and loss, which I believe is an inescapable experience of life, inherent perhaps in all relationships. Daisy is my most recent loss. Though she remains with me in many ways, I miss her terribly.

Sherry: I know, my friend. I suspect we will miss  them forever. 

When Margaret wrote a recent farewell to her dear companion, I read it through a river of  tears. Let's meet the wonderful Mackinaw.

Margaret and Mack

DEAREST FRIEND

I swear I've seen you
from the corner of my eye,
slip by on your way to the water bowl
or toward open front door to gaze
down curving, mountain road.

Seen you in clouds, fluffy ears flapping,
in the stars, jumping the gorge,
staring through the window to come inside -

for it’s hard to let you go.

* * *

I watched as you gazed
into the children's eyes, head resting
upon their knees.  You were happy,
day filled with love, bacon,
a very slow, wobbly walk, lakeside.

Last look at all of us,
eyes still alert, but body too weak
for your big heart.

* * *

In those few seconds
when you looked at me, I could only try
and convey how much you meant

to my Mother's heart,  thanked you
for loving my children all these years,

a gentle presence when I scolded,
a nudge when they needed a friend,
a tail that always said "Let's play!"

* * *

A blessing to be surrounded
by all those you love,
who love you, to have our smiles,
our voices, our hands over you
as we stayed and said

"Thank you, Dearest Friend",
as your spirit rose above us
and surely said the same.

RIP Mackinaw - our friend of almost 15 years. Joined the angels on 12-27-2018

Mackinaw and his kids

Sherry: Oh, my goodness, Margaret, how you have captured this wonderful dog! "Thank you for loving my children all these years." Please pass the Kleenex.

Margaret: Well. Mackinaw, for almost fifteen years, was my kids' constant companion. He taught them kindness, loyalty and joy. He was a big "fuzzy monkey" who has taken a piece of all of our hearts with him. Never underestimate the importance of a dog in a child's life. Perhaps my favorite photo is the snowy one above. His spirit is so visible here.

The group photo with "his" kids is the last image we have. He was put down about an hour later. He couldn't walk without stopping and he couldn't support a sit for long. He had to lay down. He had also stopped eating (except for bacon and salmon - which I fed him generously. ;) 

Sherry: The last loving thing we can do for our dear furry friends is to release them when they reach this point. What a wonderful dog he was! Thank you, Margaret, for sharing his beautiful heart with us.

I came across Jennifer's farewell to her beloved Druke, and asked if we might add her voice to this feature. Let's meet another wonderful, loving dog.

Druke, ready for command (fetch!)

EVERLOVE (Softly To Be Let In)


This poem is about a dog,

you know the one,
the one who danced in the kitchen
with the kids after dinner;

the one who nibbled gently
on your shirtsleeve
when you played and scratched and loved him;

the one who howled happy,
and barked deep if asked to speak,
but softly to be let in;

the one who taught you more
than you taught him.

This poem is about a dog
who, with his final breaths,
looked you, each, in the face
one long, loving, last time.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

In Memory of Druke Wagner 2000-2016

[ “Druke” is how we spell his name, pronounced “drug/droogk” meaning “friend” in Russian.     до свидания, друг ]

Sherry:  Sweet Druke, with his loud bark for speaking, and his soft voice, to be let in. Oh my goodness, so hard to say goodbye to such a friend.

Jennifer: He was the sweetest, most gentle boy, and I wanted the poem to reflect that as well as capture a few special moments we shared with him. We got him when he was about two years old from friends who could no longer care for him. He was just what we needed to make our family complete. The boys fell in love with him instantly, of course. Every dog needs a boy, as they say, so I think he was pretty happy having several boys to love.

Druke the day we got him

True to his nature, as a Labrador Retriever, he loved to swim and fetch in the water. Even as he got older and didn't get around as well as he used to, he still loved the water and became almost like a puppy again when we'd take him to it. But he was never a hunting dog. The sound of a gun shot, even the sight of a gun, scared him. He was definitely a lover, not a fighter.

Sweet boy Druke

He was truly mellow and obedient. He did have a few little wild streaks, but even then, it just made us all laugh. I refer to some of those times in "Friend". Like when he stole a ham from someone! Our boys would often play in the cul-de-sac with him, and on a few occasions he snuck away. One one such occasion, he came prancing back, proud as can be, with a ham in a bag. We have no idea who lost their holiday ham, but we were laughing so hard imagining someone unloading their groceries only to find their ham missing!

He was so fun and so good and a wonderful friend. He often slept at the foot of my bed, especially on nights my husband worked. In his last days he was quite ill and could not make it up the stairs so we made a nice bed for him downstairs. On the night before we had to let him go, he came up the stairs after all the kids had gone to bed and came to our room. I was so surprised to see him sneaking down the hallway! It was like he was smiling at surprising me and being his old self for just a few moments. I told my husband and we both just cried knowing it was so special.

I had to wipe my eyes and blow my nose writing this! We are glad for the time we had with Druke, and our new dog Cooper is surely fun, but we still do miss our loyal, gentle giant.

Cooper 

New Year

Your collar, green,
his, blue.

You, so polite,
of course, he bites
(as new things do).

But how much he looks like you—
the curl of his tongue in Snoopy yawn,
stretched out
on the rug

where you lay, it feels,
only moments ago.

© 2017 Jennifer Wagner

Cooper 2017

Sherry:  Perhaps the way we most show how much happiness our dogs bring us is by opening our hearts and homes to new dogs, and passing that love along. Thanks, Jennifer, for sharing Druke and Cooper with us. They are both so beautiful. Druke was very special.

I have written a book of poems about Pup, and the grief of missing him. It was eight years this January, and I still have tears at the thought of him. I expect I always will. 

collage created by The Unknown Gnome

COYOTES AT LAST MOUNTAIN LAKE

I heard the coyotes howling
as evening fell
at Last Mountain Lake,
and I thought of you,
my old wolf-pal,
and how you would tip
your nose up to the moon
and howl mournfully
for all the wild places you loved
that we had lost.

Then you'd come to me and rest
your forehead against my knee,
wearily, for comfort.
We loved and lost so much together,
old pal of mine.
But, always, we had each other.

And now I am alone.
My nose tilted up
towards the moon,
an inner howl
expressed in secret tears.
Still missing our wild beaches.

And you.

     ***     ***     ***

Sherry: When I wrote the above poem, I was still living inland, missing Pup and the beach together. I hope his wild spirit gallops along with me on my beach walks, now that I am back to the shores we loved so much.

Gah! They give us so much love.  How we miss them when they leave us. 

Thank you, friends, for sharing your loving poems and your wonderful dogs with us. 

Do come back and see who we talk to next. Hint: next week's feature is all about cats!

POEMS OF GRATITUDE AND PEACE : by SARAH, MARGARET AND SUSAN

For this first Monday of a brand new year, we are bringing you poems of gratitude and peace, written by Sarah Russell, 
Margaret Bednar and Susan Chast. We hope you all had a wonderful holiday season, however you chose to spend it, and we look forward to sharing another year of poetry with you. Yay! Let's dive right in!

HOME

Late afternoon in the valley, the trees
wear halos. Then twilight steals the sun,
kitchen lights blink on like stars,
and coming home is a sigh
and the smile of someone waiting.
Your day is told in half sentences
and nods and questions answered —
nothing new, but new enough to tell again.
After supper, after gin rummy and pages
turning and the rhythmic click of a sweater
growing row by row, bed greets you
like a childhood friend, and sleep
keeps company with the blue black sky
and the owl’s whispered flight.

Sherry: This is so lovely, Sarah. It exudes contentment.

Sarah: Thanks so much for wanting to include my poem.  Here’s the backstory:

After an unsuccessful marriage and some frogs who weren’t princes, I met my soulmate. We’ve been together 30 years. My heart still skips a beat when I hear his car in the driveway. “Home” is a testament to a quiet life with someone you love.

Sherry: Well, you are a lucky girl. And, having something to compare it to, you know just how fortunate you are. Smiles. I relish love stories like yours.

Margaret penned a poem around the same time with a similar realization. Let's take a peek:

      

Gratitude

It’s the lull between the flame and the last ember,

the quiet of the buttercream sky before the blazing sun 
sinks low.

the spark in your eye before the laughter.

As a child we’d slip on our coats not bothering to button,

slip into Dad’s boots, trudge quickly toward woodshed

through shovel-wide snow path, 

collect tinder we’d gathered since spring,

rosy cheeked, return, feed wood-burning stove,

jockey for position beside cats and dogs.

Mesmerized we’d watch the flames take off, 

roar and snap as Dad loaded the logs, 

added paper for our oohs and awes.

We felt safe, happiness being together,

warm, popcorn and cider a treat, 

tossing a kernel or two to dislodge the dogs.

When I parade myself along the shore, 

watch the luminous sky combust and spread its glow 

along the horizon devouring sky’s blues and whites,

I feel a warmth akin to my fireside idles; my heart swells, 

feels twice as large, seemingly the cause for the tears 

that balance precariously but rarely spill.  

Happy tears, not sad, they fill me up

and, like the fireside embers,

kindle a well-being 

that rivals only the flicker of laughter

I spy in your eyes as you respond

to something I say, something I do,

an all consuming love that leaves me rosy cheeked,

grateful for the fire that still burns.

Sherry: How wonderful, that fire that still burns! I know that feeling of happy tears. Sheer gratitude. Beautiful, Margaret.

Margaret: I’ve lately been reflecting upon life, my blessings, thinking I need to appreciate the small, lovely things that occur everyday that we take for granted, a sunset, memories of childhood, and of course, my husband of almost 29 years.  The “fire” poetic prompt from dVerse Poetics somehow melted these three together… 

Sherry: And so perfectly! Thank you for sharing it.

Susan wrote a spectacular poem before Christmas, on the topic of peace. I thought it a fitting topic to start the new year off with. Heaven knows the earth is crying out for it on every side.

Good Morning

Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs

The Creator gave to me when I

And the tree and stone were one.

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow

And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.

~ Maya Angelou, from “On the Pulse of the Morning”

(The Rock Cries Out To Us Today)

Sing with me.  Someone said to sing, and I cannot sing alone.

Sing, said the voice, “It’s now time to sing Peace on Earth.”

I’ve seen peace hide in my cook pot and in your bed. 

Good Morning.  

Sing Peace out into the open where it belongs.

No time to discover where the voice originates.  It is—

or it isn’t. Let’s sing, not knowing.  Let’s sing Peace.

Drones will drop from the sky in the instant.  Border guards will put down their guns and lend a hand to those who need help.

Apples, cheese and sunflower seeds will erase hunger.  Water

will stream clear and potable in roadside ditches.

Sing, sing.  See how safely welcome opens doors.  See how ceilings hold when bombs stop flying.  See children stop crying.

Sing ourselves into hope.  Believe it is now time to sing Peace

on Earth.   Sing in tune or out of key.  Both will do.

We’ve waited for our cue, and here it is. Now.  Peace on Earth.  Now.

Lift on the song, spondee or anapest. Peace On.

Earth Peace. On Earth. Peace On. Earth Peace. On Earth.

Peace on Earth.  

Is it rising like sun at dawn?  Like moon and tides?

Is it rising invisible like ghosts or winds, that movement

reveals?  Let’s sing into movements, sing unto life.

It’s a good morning, indeed, when we wake ready and willing   

to bring peace out of hiding and make it flourish.

***

The Voice was Sumana's Prompt--I quote it exactly without crediting her.  (Forgive me, Sumana.)  The title is the last line of  Maya Angelou's poem, also part of Sumana's prompt.  Between those two leading me on and the part of Angelou's poem above my words, what else could I write?  I was simply following directions!  What does the poem mean to you?

Sherry: As I read it, I began to feel hopeful and inspired. In just this way, peace IS possible, doable……….when we can't solve the big things, we can practice and extend peace and kindness in the small daily routines of our lives. You have given us a blueprint in this poem. I love it.

Thank you, Sarah, Margaret and Susan, for starting us off on another year of sharing poetry with such fine poems. You inspire us!

Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

Poems of the Week: Songs for Our Daughters

Recently, my friends, I happened upon wonderful poems written about their daughters by Margaret Bednar, whose blog is now titled Of Verse, Poesy and Odes - My Poetic Journey, De Jackson of Whimsygizmo's Blog, and Kelli Simpson, aka Mama Zen, of another damn poetry blog. Each poem took my breath away, and I thought they would work very well together to bring you a moving experience. For this one, you may want to have a tissue nearby, as these proud poets present their spectacular daughters.

I See Her

I'm one among many,
middle school auditorium
squeezed in tightly
with anticipation
lights dim, room hushes

voices ring out
try to harmonize center-stage -
the loudest note, off key
as young warblers part
for my daughter's solo.


The crowd fades as I
sit transfixed
as the soft light


caresses
her angled cheeks, full lips -
dances down her lithe form
fingertip to toe, arabesque -
silhouetting her figure,
more hour-glass than boxy


as she sings, soprano
of love flirtatious
exuding confidence


and then
she blends back in
harmonizing with the other children


and I see her as if for the first time
still beaming, but now
with a tear in my eye.

Sherry: Wow, Margaret, what a poised, accomplished and talented young woman! I am impressed. I can feel your maternal pride, and the wonder of one's child emerging as so talented and radiant a being. I resonate with the tear: the prayer that life will allow that wholeness and sparkle to endure. Thank you for this.

Margaret: This poem was originally written for my daughter who is now a freshman in college (studying drama). But I think it also applies to my youngest (five years later). She sang the Sondheim song "What More Do I Need" and this poem sort of went through me again.

As my daughters grow into young women, and as much as I admire and enjoy seeing them mature, a part of me will always see them as my sweet little girls, with wings on their backs, ballet skirts, hair adorned with flowers, and their hands reaching out for mine. Poetry is often capturing layers of a moment, an experience encapsulated in a few seconds....I have many of these etched within my heart, and this poem is one of a few that attempt to share my wonder and joy with them. 

Sherry: I can see those little girls with wings on their backs! And we mothers, aunts and grandmas resonate with remembering those beloved little ones, even as we encompass and take pride in their blossoming into young adults. 

De wrote a poem about her daughter who was also singing - rocking along with a recent hit that has a powerful message for girls. I have included the song, to underline the message of the poem. Let's listen, and be further inspired.

Listening to my 13-year-old daughter sing Alessia Cara
on an ordinary Thursday night

by whimsygizmo

But there’s a hope that’s waiting for you in the dark
You should know you’re beautiful just the way you are
And you don’t have to change a thing, the world could change its heart
No scars to your beautiful, we’re stars and we’re beautiful.

– Alessia Cara, Scars To Your Beautiful

She’s rocking
her algebra with her dad, and belting
out these lyrics at the top of her
gorgeous lungs and doing something
called point slope variation or somesuch
and I don’t even know what that is. And
she’s sassy and spicy and already puts up
with nobody’s nonsense, and she sings
these words of scars and beauty and truth
and I know she knows them, know she
feels them, but I also know the world will
knock her around a little, fight some of
this truth out of her. And I want to wrap
her back tight in that blanket she loved
and weave my fingers through her tiny
hands and sing her something simple,
some la la lu lullaby that might help her
sleep. Keep singing, Love, I want to say.
Even when the world tells you to stop,
even when it’s all too loud and you’re no
longer proud of everything you are. Even
when the voices in your head are the
loudest of all and they lie and cheat and
steal your heart. Even when you’re broken.
Even though you’re worn. Even when the
sky is falling but the stars are not. Even
when you’re caught between the hardest
places and you’ve lost all traces of the you
you know. Even when the world moves
too slow, too fast, too much past, too long
now. Even when you’ve forgotten how, sing.
Give those lungs the breath they crave, that
heart its uncaged beat, its feathered-hope
treatise with its own chambered skin. Raise
your eyes. See that moon, reflector of Light.
Smile. Trace your scars. Begin.

"Pure Joy"

De's beautiful daughter

Sherry: A spectacular poem, spectacular video and spectacular daughter. Triple header. I am pumped!

De: My girlie is a poem. So much joy and laughter and sass in one small package. Right now she is everything I wasn't, at her age: confident, joyful, in love with the world. I pray every day that she holds onto that fire. I'm so thankful for artists like Alessia Cara who remind our girls that they're beautiful, just the way they are. Fearfully and wonderfully made, and made to take the world by storm.

Sherry: I hope she holds onto that wholeness, too, De. And I suspect she will, because her mom loves and believes in her.

Mama Zen's poem about her daughter is perfect for closing this feature. Her writing is as strong and fearless as her love for her daughter. Let's take a look.

I Sing, Daughter

I sing, daughter,
of sacred spaces,
woman's places
of birth and breast
unblessed
by any preacher's prayer.

Bring, daughter,
your shivers and night.
They're flesh givers, ripe
fruit for your lips
to curve your hips
and sweeten the shine of your hair.

I'll carry, daughter,
the pits in my palm,
proverb and psalm,
to where land meets the water
and offer them, daughter,
to the East, to the Earth, to the Air.

Let us sing, daughter,
of sacred spaces,
woman's places
of birth and breast,
and rest -
blessed by a woman's care.


Sherry: Wow. The fullness of this, and the mystique of womanhood, with its sacred spaces, fair takes my breath away in this poem.

Kelli: This poem is intensely personal to me. It's a response to the push / pull of mothering a teenage girl. Becoming a woman is a long, difficult process. So is bearing witness to the becoming. "I Sing, Daughter" is an offering, of sorts; a promise to my daughter  that there is beauty and power in womanhood. It is a celebration. It is a welcome.

Sherry: Yes, I feel all those things in your poem, feel your Mother Lion strength, protection, pride and joy. It makes my heart sing, for all girls entering womanhood who are fortunate enough to have strong protective mothers, who totally have their backs. 

Thank you, Kelli, Margaret and De, for gracing us with these affirming, proud and loving poems to your beautiful daughters. Each one moved me and made me happy for your daughters.

My friends, I hope you have enjoyed these fine offerings as much as we have. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

Life of a Poet ~ Margaret Bednar

At Margaret's blog, Art definitely does happen 365! Art Happens 365 is brimming with poetry, photography, art, children and horses, just like this poet's life. I knew we would all enjoy a visit to the farm, so hop aboard. This time, we are taking - appropriately - a horse-drawn buggy. Lovely to hear the bells on the horses' halters jingling as they clop along. Oh! I hear doors slamming, children's voices, and laughter. This must be the place!

P.U.: Margaret, I am so looking forward to this. Six children, animals, horses. Yay! So set the scene for us. What does life look like at the Bednar farm?

Margaret with her beloved Oberon