One more dog poem…

Shelter Dog

I buried a part of me
when I buried my Ridgeback,
planted a tree in his memory,
and closed the kennel gate
once and for all.
Or so I thought.
Then here comes Bucky–
rambunctious, unschooled Bucky,
giddy with freedom,
in need of a home.
I unpack the leash,
the whistle,
the rulebook;
teach him the basics:
sit, stay, and come.
And how he comes–that dog,
streaking across the meadow,
barreling toward me–
happy, effusive Bucky
on a direct collision course
with my legs
and my heart.

–Carol Ann Lantz

“Mother Nature’s Seduction”

Mother Nature’s Seduction

When I dream
of blown leaves
and the lullaby
they create upon the ground
as the wind whispers them along
gentle scrapes that leave behind
no trace or scars
just an empty space
where the colors of fall
used to reside
each a soft wet kiss
leaving only its hand print behind

Poem by ~erw7984, inspired by a photo called “When I Dream” by Mike Shaw. Both at www.deviantart.com (no longer onfile).

“The Fish”, by Mary Oliver (American Primitive)

The Fish

The first fish
I ever caught
would not lie down
quiet in the pail
but flailed and sucked
at the burning
amazement of the air
and died
in the slow pouring off
of rainbows. Later
I opened his body and separated
the flesh from the bones
and ate him. Now the sea
is in me: I am the fish, the fish
glitters in me; we are
risen, tangled together, certain to fall
back to the sea. Out of pain,
and pain, and more pain
we feed this feverish plot, we are nourished
by the mystery.

 
~ Mary Oliver ~
  
(American Primative)
Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry and the National Book Award

“Wolf Dancer”, by Gordon Henry, Jr.

Old man,
I will guide your silver canoe
to the center of the water,
where the Loon father
carries children on his back.
If I’m quiet
I will arrive as a call
from another shore,
close enough to see
the fantastic eyes
seeing me
drifting alone.

Wolf Dancer, Gordon Henry, Jr.
From The Sound of Rattles and Clappers, The University of Arizona Press

“The Idea of Ancestry”, by Etheridge Knight

My friend Juniper shared the following poem many years ago, and it has remained one of my favorites to this day.

1

Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 black faces: my father, mother, grandmothers (1 dead), grand-fathers (both dead), brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins (1st and 2nd), nieces, and nephews. They stare across the space at me sprawling on my bunk. I know their dark eyes, they know mine. I know their style, they know mine. I am all of them, they are all of me; they are farmers, I am a thief, I am me, they are thee.

I have at one time or another been in love with my mother, 1 grandmother, 2 sisters, 2 aunts (1 went to the asylum), and 5 cousins. I am now in love with a 7-yr-old niece (she sends me letters in large block print, and her picture is the only one that smiles at me).

I have the same name as 1 grandfather, 3 cousins, 3 nephews, and 1 uncle. The uncle disappeared when he was 15, just took off and caught a freight (they say). He’s discussed each year when the family has a reunion, he causes uneasiness in the clan, he is an empty space. My father’s mother, who is 93 and who keeps the Family Bible with everbody’s birth dates (and death dates) in it, always mentions him. There is no place in her Bible for “whereabouts unknown.”

2

Each fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown hills and red gullies of mississippi send out their electric messages, galvanizing my genes. Last yr/like a salmon quitting the cold ocean-leaping and bucking up his birth stream/I hitchhiked my way from LA with 16 caps in my pocket and a monkey on my back. And I almost kicked it with the kinfolks. I walked barefooted in my grandmother’s backyard/I smelled the old land and the woods/I sipped cornwhiskey from fruit jars with the men/I flirted with the women/I had a ball till the caps ran out and my habit came down. That night I looked at my grandmother and split/my guts were screaming for junk/but I was almost contented/I had almost caught up with me. (The next day in Memphis I cracked a croaker’s crib for a fix.)

This yr there is a gray stone wall damming my stream, and when the falling leaves stir my genes, I pace my cell or flop on my bunk and stare at 47 black faces across the space. I am all of them, they are all of me, I am me, they are thee, and I have no children to float in the space between.

_______________________________

For more wikipedia info on Etheridge Knight