Riding past this house on the left
on County Rd. 109,
Pops, my best friend, ( I will introduce you (later in this series)),
tells me about this woman who lived there. Every time we go by.
I guess we went by there at least ten times last  week.
The way he tells the story , (1000 times now),
she had this pit bull, trained for her protection.
He said she bragged how, on her command,  her dog would ****.
I guess that made her feel protected.
Then one night, as he tells it, she walked by his (the pit bull's) food dish.
He ate her.

~

beside a warm fire on a late winter's morn,
with the help of three midwives their baby was born.
wrapping him gently to shield from morn's frost,
hearing his first breaths while holding him close.
singing a lullaby, they rock him to sleep;
cradled in their arms, they watch him dream.

twenty five winters; good years, though some long,
as a man was being forged in their little boy.
in many ways wise, encourager and friend,
the tenderest heart, persevering to the end.
through illness, through setbacks, he always believed;
and opening their arms they watch him dream.

beside a warm fire on a late winter's morn,
alone with the angels their son was re-born.
closing his eyes as he lay down to dream,
his last breath watched lovingly, he drifted to sleep.
then carried so gently to a new home above,
to awake in the arms of the many he'd loved.

today by the fire on this mid-winter's morn,
they find themselves still letting go of their son.
surrounded by memories wherever they gaze,
this earth seems clouded, though they see through its haze.
they find themselves longing for their loved one above,
and dreaming of holding this son that they love.

~

post script.

written in January of 2011, two years after his goodbye.  dusted off just a bit this morning with a few of its wrinkles ironed just for posting.  

this time of winter, these cold, blustery days with blue skies overhead, it seems to bring the out melencholy. might be its time to head out to one of his favorite trails not too far from here... maybe we,'ll try the Columbia Gorge's Eagle Creek trail up to Punchbowl Falls... he loved it out there away from the city.

Steve

When you came from mountains
came washed from seas
you gave me words
told me everything
like two birds or flowers
blooming in the Spring
the green of everything
soft and mossy dream
it spoke of love
told me everything
when you came
gentle, sweet with rain
not an ordinary day
the way you came
and told me everything.

wind scatters the fallen leaves

mother roams helpless
child in her arms

fleas merrily peel the stray
and her two pups

girl offers her flower
for a dime

as the clock strikes three
the devout race for a glimpse

the deity’s stone carved face
beams with divine grace.

~~
Sometimes Loudly
Sometimes Silently
Yellow leaves have fallen,
Becoming dry
Pale
Passing through as the grained Sound on the Street

Slowly dark flees across the evenings
What an Illusion!
What Shadows!
Has Shuffled
The Past
Present
Future

Your form that creates metaphors
And what a wonderful feel
Through out its gravity
Night dancing,
When aroma of Night-Queen
Moving in the air,
Plays with the moonlit
As if Reminds
The First love Poem

Has burned within the form
Standing to fascinate
Away, a dense bunch
Of vine Forest
Bored Air moving
Listening the murmur
Of dried leaves
In the passing wind of banner
As if Someone Calling with
My old name

Empty
Restless Heart
Today is the tune that somewhere else
Like a flow
Of a distant river melody,
Surging waves of the attack
In the Strange night of Spring

Continuous grey leaves falling
Falling on the Floor
Whispering the words on the street goes through
What an Illusion!
What Shadows!
~~
@ Musfiq us shaleheen