Star-child Sun-kissed
a Moon to swoon over
where lovers do meet

the rising of pulse
blood flushed
shaky legs...

a kiss from Moonbeams
dreamers dream
a heady mix

Hobbled by the
sun, and laid
prostrate by
days of
degenerate
behavior.
Days of
nothingness,
and worse.
Only writing
could save me.

Poor and lonely.
No warm woman to
hold.
No *****.
No home.
But, I had my
writing.
It let the light in,
and buffered me from
the crowds of
scarecrows with sewn
on smiles.

Writing keeps me
immortal and kills
the pain.
It soothes the
mice lost in
the maze, and
brings the stray cat
home to a house where
he's safe.
Writing is the
pillow that keeps
my head up, and
my heart engaged.

How many wonderful canine companions
have come through my life, I hesitate to count,
each one a dear friend that brightened my
daily existence, taught me lessons no human
could, faithfully loved me with committed
devotion and asked for so very little in return.
Yes, it is true, dogs are man's best friend.

As wee kittens she and her brother
were gifted to us from a neighboring
farm up the hill, a pair from a litter of
feral felines, welcomed on our place
as mousers and ratters.

Mostly they lived around the barn,
strolled and policed the property as
their domain. The male was always
by his disposition aloof, had no need
of close human contact, content to be
independent and on his own.

His sister was more inclined to draw
nearer, curious and at times amenable
to a pat on the head, or a small dish of
cat food. And the bearer of gifts in the
form of parts of the remains of her kills
deposited on my porch door threshold.
Proof I suppose of her doing her job,
or in gratitude for my feeding her.

One day her brother was predator taken,
though she stayed on her job, she became
a more frequent visitor to my porch, with
her litter mate gone perhaps she had become
lonely and needed companionship.

It has been a few years since the loss of
her brother and now she comes everyday
morning and evening, or whenever I call
her in. Running full speed to eagerly rub
against my legs, or flop down atop my feet,
wanting a belly rub, purring and ever so
glad to see me. For all her given affection,
she is not a fan of being picked up and held.
It offends, maybe threatens her half wild nature.

No where to be seen, yet when I go out to the
road to get the mail, to the barn or orchard
before I walk 30 feet, there she is running close
behind me, as if she had been waiting just for
that very occasion.

She is over ten now getting old like me,
she is around my inner yard or the porch
most of the time, I even let her inside the
house from time to time, she and my inside
cat, get along fine. Drink from the same
water bowl, eat side by side. They enjoy
playing together, I think he is smitten by
her as only a neutered male cat can be.

But always at some point, as if she hears
a distant calling, she goes to the door and
let's me know she is ready to return to her
life outside. Instincts are difficult to ignore.

Gallery after gallery
in the cool conditioned air
sketches and traces and objects of his art
capture the heart.
His songs played in low tune
fills the atmosphere with an unworldliness.
Here you are immune to the outside
where a hot sun scalds hungry dogs
a man carries ten times his weight
people haggle for little bargain.

The museum hides the pain
and the poet's dreamy world matters little.
But you forget and delve deeper.

The dog struggles to learn
the art of living
for a day.