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They were twin
Maltese poodles
We were twin
Boys

My dad was 44
My mom was 43
When we were
Born

I was #6 of 6
Or #7 depending on
How we look
At

Late miscarriages
Cause when I was
Only 2 years old
Mom

Told me I said
I was the misscarriage
That I died and went
Back

To get my twin
Brother, identical twins
Number 6 and number
Seven

Colin Reed Robinson
Casey Wilford Robinson
Each named after a
Grandpa

But his was alive
Mine died exactly 18 months
To the date I was
Born

Wilford was a rebel
A chemist and farm owner
He left the Mormon church
Back

When nobody did yet
Not many in Laketown
Left the church, especially
Then

And lately I feel such
A strong bond with him
The Wilford I'll never meet
Maybe

I'm not Mormon anymore
I don't know what I am
But I hope I'll meet him
If

Only so I can say thanks
It may be my dumbness
But sometimes I get inspired
By

Ghosts and his ghost real
Or imagined has been haunting
Me this year over and over, deja
Vu
Thanks
Wilford
...
Rascal and Squirt
...
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3299802/the-butler-bobcat/
Probability lurks behind the veil of your
Vintage velvety hair locks.
       Why don't you let them grow
Fond of the silk windwhirled fingertips

       I'm falling apart like the society's white lies
When I first saw the picture of your oldtime lesser plie
          Bohemian rascal poetic spirit


Do you still believe in soulfull foolishnesses?
     Where do you play your music??

Let's chill under the Flatland area's arbol

   Abbreviations of your blown up ****** desires
Are being revolutionized and mutinized by these

Enchanting  darklings

Dear dear darling
deep  romantic eyes     &
Suddenly I'm lost  inbetween days
Do you want it!!!?
~For You Fantastic Homeland Poet ~
CV Jun 2014
A name chosen well for you.
Every time I visited my friend,
your little feet would pit-pat-pit
right straight up to the door.
ESPECIALLY when mom came.

My friend was allergic, and
you absolutely loved my mom.
So we welcomed you with open arms
and very open hearts into our home.

When I first saw you in the house
it was strange, I wasn't used to hearing
your pit-pat-pit towards our door,
but it would be a sound that I would
give anything to hear one more time.

For six years you brought light into our house.
Sometimes you were so obnoxious,
and other days you were quiet as a mouse.
But no matter what, we loved you.

I watched you today, as the thunderstorm
went on. You were always afraid of them,
I needed to make sure you were okay.
I handed you food, your water dish,
you wanted nothing.

Then you were starting to pass.
My mother screamed and cried
as my brother and I tried to calm her.
She didn't want you to go.

But you had to.

Simple as that.

It was your time.

But we all weren't ready.

The last goodbyes were painful,
I've never seen my father cry like that.
Neither my two brothers, but I guess
that's how important you were
to each and every one of us.

And you lived up to your name.
You lived up to it, to the very last moment.
I love you little dude, and I'll miss you.
Rest in peace buddy.
(I put a trigger warning for death right at the title in case, I didn't want someone to go through the whole poem to find it right at the end.)

RIP Rascal, you were the best dog I've ever known.
2005-2014.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.

— The End —