Papillon

She grew from a sweet, joyous puppy into a kind and gentle old lady. She loved us without reservation and scorned her bed to sleep in front of our door. She guarded our home faithfully into the last days of her life.

Everyone loved her. Vets who see hundreds of dogs a day commented how sweet she was. People who were afraid of dogs were charmed into petting and cuddling her. She had the gift of happiness.

I do not for pray for mercy, for she needs none. The Judge of all things pets her head and tells her she's a good dog, and she wags her tail and smiles.

"Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferosity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
PAPILLON, a DOG."

adapted from Byron's "Epitaph to a Dog"

5 Things About October

Mushtaq tagged me for "5 Random Things". My collection isn't very random, but there it is.

I love October wind
scattering gold in front
of a grey storm-wall. I love Ray Bradbury
who invented October (before him
it was just another page on the calendar),
and I love the candles
in the jack-o-lantern hearts
of my city. I love the stained-glass
leaves on the Tartar maples.
I love the smell of windfall apples
on the sidewalk. Allah,
how beautiful is Thy creation.

Let's hear from...
Rafael
Mike
Rethabile

Y'all don't have to do it in poetry...

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Anvil Turbulence

Today the clouds are distant palaces
with alabaster domes and marble walls
of swirled grey. No floors. The chalices
of rain are carried down the sloping halls
by angels poised to some true vertical
on arbitrary levels. Under vaults
of moisture dangerous with electrical
discharge, they polish steel lightning bolts
and glassy drops of hail. They ballroom-waltz
through three dimensions, rise-and-fall gavotte
around the floating thunder-catapaults.
These storm-attending Terpsichores are not
confined to pinheads. Anvil turbulence
is where you go to find if angels dance.

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October Song

Golden summer's gone to silver shadows on the sky
Fallen leaves have stained the sidewalk with their copper dye
Tarnish dims the sun and leaden clouds come cruising by
Metal in my heart reflects the metal in my eye.

Shuttered windows turn their blinded faces to the storm
Windows that were edged with lacework back when it was warm
Put that parasol away now, can't you see it's torn
Turn my shuttered heart away from this cold winter morn.

Music plays inside the walls, it's cold and dark outside
Daylight, give me back an hour for one October ride
Winter's wind is cold and bitter, winter's wings are wide
Shed no tears for summer laughter, those have all been cried.

For Read Write Poem's October prompt

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Vowel Cosmorama

The English language, said to be
the bastard progeny of Norman soldiers
and Saxon barmaids—exploded
after the conquest, it's true, chelating
consonants with reckless caprice.

Ancient reprobates must have croaked
vehement complaints against the new
ways of speaking—but the irresistible
insolence of the exulting new generations
swept them thrashing away.

A poor investment of effort, trying
to hold back the congress of tongues
in the name of "purity"—as though
vowels could be held to the moral
standards of a private cosmos.

words courtesy of Read Write Poem
Yeah, "cosmic" for "cosmorama" was a stretch.
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Short stuff

I mentioned 350 Words in a previous post. I dug up an old piece, "Vanport: 2050", and republished it on 350 Words as "The New Vanport Flood".

Here's the interesting thing. The original piece was 600+ words. I cut it by almost half, and managed not to lose anything I considered essential. (Except, I see that the 350 Words site seems to have destroyed the paragraph breaks. Oh, well.)

In the intro to the short stoy "The Last Defender of Camelot", (anthologized in a collection by the same title) Roger Zelazny wrote that when he originally wrote the story, the first place he submitted it said they'd take it if he could cut the length by half. He tried taking out every other word, but it made the story sound funny.

I didn't try that. But I did decide to go for a word-by-word cull, rather than, say, chopping out the paragraph about the St. Johns Bridge. It was a fascinating exercise: I'd had no idea there were so many ways you could get rid of the word "the", for instance.

More details Outside Over There.

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Wind-Breath

October is when the wind gets inside my skin
turns me inside-out, becomes my breath
as a spray of scarlet leaves becomes my heart.
And my bones know what the black stones
in the old retaining wall at the corner know--
black basalt, come from the hottest fires of earth
as the soul comes hot from God's forge.

Wind-breath, God-breath, stirring the city
you speak in so many strange tongues
moaning around buildings, whispering in trees
chattering with dead leaves. Flesh can't contain
such knowledge; it leaks away with each exhale.

So this is the season of skeletons and bare branches
fleshless fingers pointing the way. Yes, I will
follow the fading candles down an avenue
of jack o'lantern skulls. In time. In time,

for now I am held fast by the fragrance
(as delicate as a cobweb across my face)
of tiny pale tea roses, the last of summer.

keeping up with Read Write Poem's October challenge
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350 Words

is a website that's part of the 350 global climate change event. Check out the event. Also check out 350 Words. Write them something.

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Woolly Bears

Woolly Bears

This time of year they're slow and plump,
wrapped in plush coats of rust and brown,
burrowed into dead-leaf blankets for warmth.

Soon they'll sleep, and dream of spring air
caressing giant ostrich-plume antennae
and eyed wings dusted with delicate fur.

They sleep. Their bodies dissolve.
They rise from the earth in new forms
condensed entirely from dreams.

Cocooned in chenille sweaters and alpaca wrap
I wonder. What drowsy October dreams
could free my soul to rise on ochre wings?

Read Write Poem: October mini-challenge

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Vitamin D

My body craves it
drinking every last drop of
October sunshine

for Read Write Poem's October mini-challenge.

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On the Wing

3 Word Wednesday: Fallow. Limit. Vocal.

above fallow earth
vocal southbound migrants soar
past summer's limits

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Head

It's not that the surgery was painful
But I begin to fear
That they took out the wrong things
For my head feels empty.
There's burning, Doctor
(I am afraid to look in the mirror)
The pills don't help.
I can't close my eyes
I cannot sleep or relax
My face is frozen in this terrible grimace.
I'm afraid to look in the mirror.
I can't find my hairbrush.
My skin feels waxy, hard
Was my head this big before?
Don't make me look in the mirror
Don't-- Aaaaah! Doctor, Doctor
you've replaced my head with a pumpkin!

For Read Write Poem's October mini-challenge.
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Elbow Month

October is an elbow of a month:
a change of season, odd articulation
angled like a leafless branch against
a sky from which the sun retreats. A hinge
between two quarters of the year's bright rim,
a bend that hides the road ahead from view.
A joint that aches with flex and pressure-change,
a meditation on exceeded reach.

Goosebumps bristle on my forearms, bare
to warmthless afternoon and iron evening.
Heavy sweaters hang in closets, waiting
to be summoned from their summer's rest.
The harvest moon above an empty field
gilds stubble with a hint of early frost.

--for Miss Rumphius' October prompt and Read Write Poem's mini-challenge

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New Quarter

We pass through equinox as through
a swinging door, into a new garden,
this one faded and disheveled with October.

But what awaits me here is what always has,
it's I who've changed, moved to a new quarter.
It's my leaves streaked with gold and rust

and the new dews of fall. I turn above
the stationary earth. I need to be pruned,
mulched, and settled in for the winter.

On this side of the door there are still
a few days, golden but too short for all
the work that needs doing. I will

fall short as always, do what I can, before
winter comes, and with it sleep.

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