Dog 3: Dog’s Ears

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Dog’s ears quietly ping the

foggy air beyond the walls and

sliding glass door. Scan like

radar. Then suddenly snap erect

at the sound of food hitting the

bottom of his bowl. Whether the

soft slap of liquid, the toccata of

kibble, welcome tap of left-overs,

or soft plopping canned food. All

are better than a walk in the woods.

Dog’s paws twitch but he waits

as if he doesn’t care. He resists

jumping to all fours. Dog takes

his time. Slowly stands, stretching

like a yogi: nonchalant as a cat.



Dog 2: Dog Lays

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Dog lays by the fireplace

a hulking polar bear in

light from a midnight sun.

Dog’s stomach growls

like a hunter. But Dog

can’t be bothered to stand

to walk out into the icy

yard even to pee. Dog

growls in his sleep when

he hears the postman’s

truck stop in front and

its sliding door rumble.

Dog no longer runs

with hackles raised at the

sound of mail dropping.



1 dec 16

Dog Whistles

This is the first of a short series of what I call DOG POEMS. They take the tone of coyote tales I’ve heard and read. They were inspired by a great cream color dog who mostly eats and sleeps at my house. Little else. There aren’t any lessons from these brief stories. I hope you enjoy them and they raise a smile.


Dog whistles for a master.

Dissonant snoring in

early afternoon, laying in

the space between rooms

or in front of the fireplace,

unused in twenty years.

Dog often whistles for

himself. Gets excited and

stands by the door after

telling himself, Park! Wags,

wags, wags his tail. He has

a feline dream. In it dog

purrs. Master listens and

wonders why dog growls

in his sleep. Dog howls in

his dream like a coyote

searching for a soft moon.




What I Really Feel

What I really feel

             is the breath of winter

             inhaling the warm sighs of summer,

             its final hot gasps knowing it will not

             be resuscitated.

What I really feel

             are the secrets of autumn already curling

             the sycamore leaves to dark, ruddy ears

             catching words riding morning to night,

             a lilting air in registers no human can


                        the dog suddenly raises its head,

             momentarily weighs the gravity, lays

             back. it bears no call to action. no need

             to growl or bark.

What I really feel

             is the final chill dropped by night. its end

             and the beginning. unless it’s the other

             way around.

                                       I turn left side to right. even

             more asleep than awake the sticky film of

             perspiration causes discomfort. even less

             awake than asleep, I listen for cues, for the

             prompt from the foot of the stage to lead

             me stumbling, stuttering into the scene.


             sky remains dark. I feel it. I keep my eyes


                            a wave breaks. I tumble with its

             soft surge, gently back and forth below the

             harbor buoys.

What I really feel

             are the gaps and pauses left by

             the absence of songs. birds choose to sleep

             shaking or shuddering as they cling to

             slim branches.

                                           a soft sound turns

             like a golden seed deep in their throats

             passing into the cool dark air as a sigh.

             if birds dream.

What I really feel

             is the insistent pressure, a crushing

             g-force as I reach escape velocity. relentless

             gravity holds me. its tendrils wrap limbs and

             trunk, penetrate muscles and tissue, refusing

             to release, even as this paradigm collapses,

             even as failed love tightens its desperate grip.

             even as the world careens and

             spirals through einstein’s formulae along a

             helix yet to be imagined.

What I really feel

             is deep isolation held by tumbling

             comets as they search the Kuiper for

             the icy trail they left along their

             glimmering apogees where they finished

             fleeing, where they began their tight arcs

             along wordless paths back to a star that,

             even if they could squint and search the star-

             spangled vastness, they would not and

             could not see.

What I really feel

             is love has its own gravity, is the center of

             its own system. love demands interaction.


                                   we orbit each other, close like

             infantile mercury. distant like variable

             comets going and coming. elliptic and

             ecliptic far above and beyond zodiacal


                                    we dance like tornadoes, pulling

             up everything near, pulling in and finally

             flinging away. we grow within grand

             patterns like the ultimately unpredictable


                                we find each other like electrons

             seeking valence, seeking stability, bonding

             atoms to molecules.

What I really feel

             is the memory of a long ago kiss that

             flushed my cheeks and calmed my soul.

             I thought gravity would hold us

             forever in orbits spiraling through the

             universe never expecting the crushing

             affect of escape velocity.




I Tasted

I tasted

lips her neck

both, soft salty addicting

secrets. Dreams

drift against absent

light absorbed as if

by velvet’s dark sheen,

leaping brash like

an Elvis from its soft

black canvas. The same

black that threatens

to absorb the myriad

stars. As light dispels

dark and now dreams, neck

lips breast retreat and too

the gaze of her eyes raised

with willing surrender.

We are bound.

Bound soul to soul


It has been some time since I posted anything. In that time I have of course continued to write. A lot of things have happened. “Life Events” as my employer called them. I will begin today sharing some of my writing and poems. I hope they give pause to think. I hope you enjoy them.    B. True

The conversations, the confessions bared here

through poetry and given voice through readings,

lead me to reflect on my own attempts by writing

to make sense of life. I manage to compartmentalize

the overarching unfortunate experiences, to disguise

them as abstract strokes of primary colors, confine

them in a locked drawer, or a jinni’s bottle, like a

Pandora’s box of woes bursting to escape, or

an origami enclosure that unfolds over time

like cicadas in their chrysalids awakening

after years sleeping in the earth. They emerge,

transformed, to sing to each other to sing for the world. As

should we all, emerging from the tribulations of becoming.


He struggled

He struggled to catch the

dream before it drifted

away riding thin ribbons

of smoke up and sucked

quickly out the window

clouds of ideas formed

a ball of words, a soft

block he formed them

like clay into a mold

he added them to boiling

water like bullion to flavor

perfectly the dry pages

he wanted a foundry

to heat the cubed and

balled words to smelt

the tangle of letters and

shadowed dreams in bright

medallions into commerce

that would last millennia

sleeping beneath pale layers of

Pompeii ash or soft pacific silt

an explorer an archaeologist

finding precise meaning the

exact location of each daydream

the masts laying hidden across

forgotten decks raising them

into light giving them cohesiveness

to display hopefully a grandeur

unexpected renewed displayed

graffiti etched on ancient walls

coins and medallions in rotted stores

waiting to testify to the long dark

dream risen into smoky ribbons

offered to quiet gods and

ancestors for passage for

passage from infancy to old age.

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