Today Is My Father's Birthday

That should be the first line of a poem.  Maybe someday it will be.

Old Mother to Middle-Aged Daughter

Old Mother to Middle-Aged Daughter:    "Our journey is nearly over. 

        Carry me."

Middle-Aged Daughter to Old Mother:   "'Filial' means 'carry the father.'  

   There is no word 

   for what you want."

Semi Haiku: Hitting Eighty-five

Semi Haiku:  Hitting Eighty-five

You drive past yourself

wave goodbye.

Is there an age limit on this road?

Tie the Knot

Tie the Knot

"I often have the sense, when someone tells me anxiously about some knot they find themselves in, that what they perceive as an impossible and painful situation calling for professional intervention is simply the complexity of human life once again manifesting itself."  Thomas More, Care of the Soul

Once I went into a wonderful bead store in Arcata, California, where I bought  silver beads to combine with  black ceramic beads  in a necklace I had bought a few years previously in Oaxaca.  I took apart the old necklace, combined it with the new silver beads.  The necklace came together quickly, and I was pleased.  However,  I thought it would be bolder if I added a pendant.

That night, imagining the compliments I would receive and the pleasure in saying, "I made it," I tied a double knot in the cord and went to bed.  I vaguely remembered the girl at the bead store

saying, "Tie the knot, but leave a quarter inch tail and burn the ends.  That will secure the knot."

I didn't do that.  I didn't think it was necessary.

In the bead store the next day, I held up the necklace to show the girl what I wanted.  It fell apart.  Black and silver beads rattled and bounced everywhere.    The young woman felt terrible.  "It's not your fault, " I told her.  "I didn't tie the knot the way you told me to."

Now I would have to start over.  

What did I learn?  I thought I knew what was important and what wasn't.  Tying the knot in the right way was crucial.  I didn't understand that.  Now I do.

 

Ladies with or without Pet Dogs: A series of prose poems: III

Lady Without a Pet Dog

I know a woman who insists on throwing a bright red ball into her empty yard.  When she finally retreats to her house, she is angry  that no clever canine returned the ball to her nicely slippered feet.

When friends confront her with a simple solution,  "Why don't you buy a dog?," she  shakes her head.  "Too much training and trouble.  I'd  rather play fetch with my own disappointment."

Ladies with or without Pet Dogs: A series of prose poems: II

Still Another Lady with a Pet Dog

She acquired the dog fifteen years ago.  She talks about getting rid of it.

Sometimes she says, "Don't visit today.  The dog might bite you," or "I can't go out today.  The dog wouldn't like it."  Sometimes she confides, "He doesn't like anyone to get too near me," and it is difficult to tell whether she is proud of this possessive dog or afraid of it.

Over the years she has developed two explanations for its behavior.  "It's the breed," she says.  Or, as if the mystery lies in its early kennel life, she says, "I didn't train it, you know."

No one in her family likes the dog.  At first they were intimidated by its pedigree and their lack of familiarity with the breed.   They admired certain traits;   its fastidious eating habits, for example.  After a while they began making fun of it, imitating its clipped bark and peculiar wagging.  

In the beginning, she took the dog to family gatherings, but the dog didn't travel well, disliked their yard, and created a dilemma for her:  take the dog or leave it.

Fifteen years of ownership made her reluctant to part with her problematic pet.  She has spoken wistfully that perhaps someday the dog will run off.  Her friends tell her, "You can't spend your life  waiting for your dog to disappear."

Lately, she blames herself for the dog's recalcitrance.  "I'm not a good owner," she says.  "I haven't learned the right commands.  My voice is too soft."  Once, in a moment of soul searching, she said, "Maybe I don't like dogs.  Or this dog."

In the meantime, she feeds it vitamins and gourmet dog chow and keeps its kennel  beautiful and spotlessly clean.

Frankly, I think this is an incredible amount of trouble to go to.  After all, it's just a dog.

Ladies with or without Pet Dogs: A series of prose poems: I

Yet Another  Lady with a Pet Dog

I knew a woman who owned the most devoted dog.  With floppy ears and big feet, this genial mix of mongrel and pedigree followed her everywhere. When she said, "Sit," it sat.  When she said, "fetch," it lay the teeth-marked checkbook at her feet.

Everyone remarked how fortunate she was to have one whose loyal eyes followed her about the room, who bounced and wagged in the driveway when she returned from a trip, a dog who was grateful to sleep at the foot of her bed and who lapped the crumbs beneath her table.

Unfortunately, the dog's devotion began to get on her nerves.  Some days, when she looked at him,  the canine's eyes appeared  red-rimmed and rheumy, and, when she peered into his brown pupils, she suspected dog dementia.

Whenever she prepared for a trip, the dog sensed her departure and lay directly on her feet.  When she opened the door of her flashy coupe, the big dog made himself small and tried to fit into the back seat.  Angry at  dog hairs and muddy paws, she raised her hand and yelled, "Get out!  Get out!"  As the dog retreated from the car with his tail between his legs, she hated him for making her feel mean and coarse.

The feeling didn't go away.  At night, she began to loathe the sound of his breathing.  One day, she once again yelled, "Get out!  Get out!" and the dog skulked down the stairs.  Her ire only increased his vigilance and devotion.

One day she realized that the dog, the house, the village itself had become intolerable.  She packed a bag, jumped into her coupe, and drove to the other side of the world.

The dog waits for her return.