My old friend Father Time made his annual visit this past week, cleverly disguised as my 52nd birthday.  I knew who he was immediately; have for some years now.  We stood toe to toe for most of the day.  In the end, the best we could do was acknowledge that we'd meet again.  I know he'll be the victor at some point, but for now, to quote the Black Knight: "Alright.  We'll call it a draw."
     In keeping with the situation, today's verse is a piece I wrote two years ago on the occasion of my 50th birthday.  Keep in mind as you are reading that I enjoy watching birds at the feeders in my yard.

The Poet on his 50th Birthday

 

Ever the heralds of first light;

of falsely immortal mid-day;

of looming, long-shadowed twilight;

and the feeder empties quickly.

I'm slower to the refill now.

 

 

     The title of this poem is the only time you will ever see or hear me refer to myself as a poet.  Robert Frost said that poet is not a name you give yourself, but that someone else gives you.  I have a little story concerning just that, but it will wait for another time.

     It's a beautiful spring morning and I'm heading out to do some yardwork and, hopefully, spend the better part of the day and evening sitting near a campfire.  To borrow another line from my favorite poet, "You come, too."

 

 

 

 



     Today is Poem in Your Pocket Day!  Get a copy of your favorite poem, carry it in your pocket, and share it with everyone.  I'll be carrying a copy of "Out Here" by Richard Wilbur, former Poet Laureate of the United States.  This poem wonderfully describes one aspect of living in Northeastern and Central Pennsylvania.  It can be found in Wilbur's book Anterooms.
     If you will permit me, my poem today is one last dog poem.  This piece was written two years ago for my daughter and her dog, Casey.  Casey is but a few months shy of his 14th birthday and has, for these last two years, been showing his age. It is something all pet owners must endure, and probably the worst part of becoming attached to any animal.   However, an even more sad and tragic poem about a dog is "Dog's Death" by John Updike.  I also recommend Sharon Creech's Love That Dog, a story written in verse by Sharon Creech.  It is one of my favorites.
     Don't forget to carry and share a poem today.

Casey

 

Her once Black Lab now wears a mask of gray

twelve years in the making, and by the time

his aching legs coax him enough to stand

and growl or bark at whatever passes,

it's gone.  He sleeps now more than anything,

and many are the days his food remains

untouched well after noon.  She notices,

home for the summer, that her friend is old.

"It's so sad," she bleeds from her breaking heart,

"He doesn't know."  Perhaps.

                                                I like to think

he simply accepts now...and now...and now,

which leaves him better off than thinking men;

free from the knowledge that each passing day

brings the end so much closer, and yet not

unlike that one guest at every party

who drinks all night but is the only one

who doesn't know he's had more than enough.

 



     Welcome to April and, more importantly, National Poetry Month.  Celebrate the poetic muse all month by reading new or favorite poetry and supporting the poet(s) in your life.  Don't forget - April 18th is Poem in Your Pocket Day.  Choose a poem you love, carry it in your pocket, and share it with others all day.
     I have been fortunate for a number of years to have been invited and accepted as a regular guest to the Lick Run Rod and Gun Club, a rustic cabin found in the woods of central Pennsylvania where I go to recharge the battery.  Approximately 5 years ago, one of the members brought along his recently obtained dog (Emily) for the weekend.  Emily had been abused by her previous owner and, as such, was quite nervous around new people.  Her trust was hard-earned, and rightfully so.  As I recall, we all (Emily included) enjoyed a pleasant and relaxing weekend, and Emily made new friends.
     Interestingly enough, the previous week I had read an article concerning the concept of time as understood by dogs.  It seems that dogs look at the absence of their owners/masters/friends as one thing and one thing only - forever.  Whether a dog is left at home for the lenght of the work day, twenty minutes, a weekend, whatever, the dog knows only that the time passing is forever.  I happened to watch Emily with renewed interest that weekend, especially when her owner left the cabin for any period of time.  At first, she would sit staring at the door from which he had exited.  After some time, she would wander slowly from room to room looking for him, not finding him, and returning to the original exit to wait for as long as it took - never long as we understand time, but apparently forever, time and again, for her.
     This poem is for Emily.

   For Emily

 

Emily sits and waits,

patiently as she can,

then wanders room to room

for glimpse of but one man

 

who left some time ago,

promising to return,

as happens all the time.

Now, Emily's concern

 

is the eternity

passing while she must stay.

Emily sits and waits

forever...or all day.