Our faithful black Labrador, who was an old lady when I was just a boy, had six pups and despite the grey on her muzzle, produced enough milk for them all. She would take her bowl to the sink when thirsty, tinned-meat to the can-opener when hungry. When tired, she would sprawl out on a rug before the coal fire, on occasion, licking her master’s feet before falling asleep.
     Sometimes, I would rest my head upon her chest, listening to her breathing. In her dreams she would sometimes yelp softly and I would soothe her nightmares away by stroking her sleek black coat.
In our garden, during the pleasant sunshine of a warm afternoon, we used to play together. Throwing a tennis ball that she would chase then fetch back and drop in my waiting hands for me to throw again. This was by far, her favourite game.
     Some considered that she ran out in front of the School Teacher’s speeding car deliberately. “Because of her age,” they said, and “her inability to cope with the pups, only just turned two weeks old,” — that my mother reared, against all predictions.  
     I never accepted this nonsense. At the time, such a thing never crossed my mind as I looked at her, sprawled across the roadside verge. Her eyes were open, but through my tears I could see they were sightless. I also saw the muddy tyre-print across her unmoving ribs and how her legs twisted at an unnatural angle. I could not help my crying, but I felt no shame: none at all.  
     The sad regret I saw in the School Teacher’s red-rimmed eyes did nothing to ease my pain.  If anything, her sorrow made me feel even worse. I felt guilty because I wanted to hate her. Perhaps I did hate her! I can barely remember now. With the passage of time the pain and the hate, if indeed there was any hate, has faded.
     Whenever I pass our old house, where Moss is buried in the garden in which she played, I recall our times together and give her good thoughts. For good thoughts are all that I have for our faithful black Labrador, who was an old lady when I was just a boy.

planted deep in the human heart
love waits for an invitation
an act of the will, if you like
a decision to commit
to go where love will lead
a grain of faith to build on
no matter what may come your way

she is seen to appear in moonlit nights
in her bridal dress and sparkling jewelry
though the sparkles may just be fireflies
and her bridal dress a will-o-wisp
silhouetted by the playful moon
smiling in broken ripples on her toe.

she stands on the pond's edge
gazing at the crested sparks of moon
fathoming the depth of the grey slime
where he once reached to lay in peace
and she followed through fireflies and ripples
leaving in the winds her echoes.

~~~
for yloH
who gifted me this one,
so I could gift it right back at ya
~~~

will your poems age well?

I ask myself that all the time

unavoidable query

when you are doing sums,
and the bottom line, always the same,

your poems are all you got

that is,
100% all you,
more unique than your cell's DNA,
how they doing boy,
they hanging about,
are they aging well,
when you meet them in heaven,
what will you answer them?

•


Enough, enough and so to sleep
Without a dream or answer deep
From the Cobbler’s castle keep
My longing makes a leap

Awaking with such laudable strains
Abounding audible in my brain
Meaningful morsels, muck and mane;
The not knowing is such pain


Are all these songs that I get in the middle of the night coming from you?
Your subtlety sometimes is like a blinding light. What’s a boy to do?

Messages that the songs convey
Will sometimes drain my doubt away
But then again the very next day
“It’s artifice”, I’ll say

When will my longing cease?
Have I spent enough time on my knees?
Do I have demons to release
To hear the holy breeze?
...
If feelings weren’t just chemicals
Arriving in their ports of call
If they were tangible at all
I might avoid this fall

--
Reach out and touch the space
Right here, behind my face

I’m opening the door
But it don’t work no more

I am a
  mess of nerves…
Exposed and weathered at the curves

But the one who’s blessed
  ...is the one who serves
So here…have some hors d’oeurvres

--
I ask that you would calm me down
Gently bring me back around
To a place I once had found
Quiet, holy ground

This rhyme scheme is strained at best
And draws attention to my jest
So please just hollow out my chest
And give me holy rest


Are all these songs that I get in the middle of the night
Coming from You?
The way you leave it all so hazy just ain’t right
…Is that you comin’ through?