Link – Elizabeth Oakley Weaver

Cult

photo by HH at Poodle Day in Carmel, 2022

I wonder if other dogs think poodles are members of a weird religious cult.

Rita Rudner

Wholeness

Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.

Roger Caras

Inception

INCEPTION


She asks,
wants him 
to be the first. 
As if the other 
were a ripened peach,
easily bruised,
they time their movements
to the ancient 
pulse of 
hearts 
then
seas.

Sharp tears through
hidden flesh
steal her breath.
They stop,
begin again,
relentless clock counts towards curfew.

Soothed by his hot sweet breath,
she rests in his embrace—
linear time shifts to the relative distance
between innocence and experience—

she arches,
accepts whispers
fingers
lips
as he eases her through
surmountable pain.

Her chrysalis rips,
new life emerges:
    	the harsh sun
    	scent of clary sage
    	wings drying in a warm breeze.

Thank you to the editors of Hot Flashes: sexy little stories and poems for first publishing this poem.

Nicer If

The world would be a nicer place if everyone had the ability to love us as unconditionally as a dog.

M.K. Clinton

Music

Because music is a language that lives in the spiritual realms,
we can hear it,
we can notate it and create it, 
but we cannot hold it in our hands.

Joy Harjo, from CRAZY BRAVE

Iris Love

"things 
that can't move
learn to see"

Louise Glück, The Wild Iris

Bearded Irises

Trees

Years ago, my friend dreamt she was a camp counselor leading a group of children through the forest. She woke herself when she exclaimed aloud: “Trees are our friends!”

Frank Lloyd Wright, Stanley and I agree.

photo by Elizabeth, Flat Stanley loves the redwoods

Perspective

I have stared long enough at the glowing flat rectangles of 
computer screens. Let us give more time for doing 
things in the real world...plant a plant, walk the dogs, 
read a real book, go to the opera.

~ Edward Tufte

Paradox

I learned to make my mind
large, as the universe is
large,
so that there is room
for paradoxes.


Maxine Hong Kingston

America

AMERICA

Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth.
Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,
Giving me strength erect against her hate,
Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.
Yet, as a rebel fronts a king in state,
I stand within her walls with not a shred
Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand. 


Claude McKay, 1921 

Shenandoah Literary