I wonder if other dogs think poodles are members of a weird religious cult.
Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.
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.
The world would be a nicer place if everyone had the ability to love us as unconditionally as a dog.
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
"things that can't move learn to see" Louise Glück, The Wild Iris
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.
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
I learned to make my mind large, as the universe is large, so that there is room for paradoxes. Maxine Hong Kingston
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