Dogs Should Always Pee on Flowers

Dogs should always pee on flowers,

never on the jarring metal signposts

that multiply around each corner or

on the wooden slats that chute the

cars in place. Their tender toes must

always whisk the grass and stay away

from asphalt. And if they want to

dig, it must be in the tended mulch

that holds the blooms for with

the least excitement, they can

send it skittering across the path.

Dogs should always head for walkers’

ankles and snuff their noses at each

person’s private smells and work at

tangling their leash with others.

Downsizing

In my dreams, I am always clearing

out the cellar. Throwing away the

good things with the bad as I am

annoyed with how long they have

been there. What will we do with

all the stuff before the new owners

move in? We didn’t really move

that often, but when we did

it was life threatening. No

matter how many layers we

peeled off, there were still more.

I would love to walk through

life unencumbered but it is

not to be. I crave too many things.

So I accumulate and let go

over and over again. Even now

I wonder if I should leave all

my treasures in place for my

children to dispose of or shall

I shrink my possessions down

gradually until I am ready for

my smallest home. 

Winters without snow

mean color challenged days

of deforested ambition, a

gaunt and dampened mood.

No star-struck bits of lace

to crystallize attention

and liven up the view.

No silent print of fox who

journeyed through the quarry

secretly at night.

Instead, a plainsong chant

with poverty of pitches

like bumblebees in flight

and colors that recall old

mushrooms decomposing

along the carriage road.

Such winters never grieve

at leaving us uncovered

and shivering in the cold.

Unhinged

The Lord is my seatbelt but it’s up to me

to wrap it around myself. The Lord is a

self-defense course for my granddaughters

but they must show up for the classes. The

Lord is a peace table for the world but we

have to make our way to the seats.

There are no more swords and shields and

bucklers, just the stealth of unmanned bombs

sighted by silent computers. Sometimes

I yearn for an old-time thunderbolt to hurl at

unthinking drivers round about me or a parting

of the seas to swallow up the rude;

or maybe five smooth stones and a slingshot.

I do not go daily into the fray any longer so

it’s hard to find my enemies, but I know they

are out there searching for unguarded moments.

Maybe we could find a way to use dark matter

to hide us from the unmannerly and the unhinged.