Not my Dog

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“Cats rule, dogs drool.” Ain’t that the truth! 
Gobs of slobber hanging at the ready so that
with a mere shake of the head they become blobby
missiles of slime slinging through the air
to attach to the nearest person or food or furniture.

But not my dog. 
Oh there may be the occasional teeny tiny droplet
of saliva as he sits patiently waiting for a treat
but a simple dab of the floor cleans it right up and for
anything more problematic he uses the handkerchief
he always carries in his pocket.

Cats sneeze, dogs have fleas
and ticks and intestinal worms and
we won’t even go into the host of gross
and despicable things they pick up from rolling
on the ground just before coming into the house and
jumping on the couch to use it as their
personal clean up towel but really they're
just grinding the grunge deeper into their fur.

But not my dog. 
Bugs are naturally repelled by the aura of cleanness
that encircles him like a shield that even the most
tenacious insect cannot penetrate and his fur is like
teflon so if he encounter any foreign matter it slides right
off him and when he enters the house he wipes his
feet carefully on the door mat and politely asks if he is
adequately presentable before venturing inside. 

Cats blink, dogs stink.
Boy do they! Imagine a grungy gym bag that has been
sitting in a locker with a load of sweat-laden clothing
and then that gym bag falls into a ditch full of putrid
standing water and then is dragged across a not-so-well
picked up dog park and then is left in a moldy shed
to marinate for weeks and that’s how dogs smell.

But not my dog. 
He smells like a freshly washed linen sheet just pulled from
the outdoor clothesline of a country cottage except when he is
wet and then he smells like a freshly washed linen sheet that 
has been left out on the clothesline during a brief 
springtime rain shower. 

Cats purr, dogs shed fur
in great quantities flying everywhere to land on clothing
and furniture and into food dishes and drinking glasses
and if you are wearing black it will come from a white dog
and if you’re wearing white it will be a brown or black dog 
that blasts you like a porcupine releasing its quills. 

But not my dog.
Oh I find the occasional strand of fur in the bathroom sink
after he has finished with his morning ablutions of tooth brushing
and face washing and running a brush through his ringlets of hair
and it is so pretty with a sheen like fine tinsel that I just 
leave it there to enliven the otherwise dull bathroom decor.

And so now you can understand why I am a confirmed 
cat person and would never ever even consider
owning a canine – except, of course – my dog.

It’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!

Day Eight prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: In your poem for today, use a simple phrase repeatedly, and then make statements that invert or contradict that phrase.

Garden Gait

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Dead nettle in a kettle, 
     gonna brew some tea. 

Dandelion makes a wine, 
     bitter as can be.

Chickweed gone to seed, 
    feed it to the hens.

Plantain, purslane, 
    salads out of weeds.

It’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!

Day Seven prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: In her poem, “Front Yard Rhyme,” Cecily Parks evokes the sing-songy beats that accompany girls’ clapping games, and jump-rope and skipping rhymes. Today, we challenge you to write your own poem that emulates these songs – something to snap, clap, and jump around to.

Persona

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I can read  minds, you know, and it’s not always pleasant. 
Like right now, you’re showing interest and kind of nodding along like you totally buy into what I’m telling you, because 
that’s the persona you want to project: openmindedness.
But what you’re really thinking is that my purported ability to 
read minds is totally bonkers, and I must be, too. 

We all have personas that we try to sell.
Intellectual, confident, bad ass, honest and open…
Yep, that last one is a projection, too. I mean, maybe you are 
honest and open. I’m not saying you aren’t. 
But you also want to be seen as honest and open,
because that’s your persona. 

So here’s the problem with reading minds:
I can read who you are, who you think you are, 
who you think other people think you are,
who you wish you were, who you wish others would think you were…
That's a lot of reading, and -- as I said -- not so pleasant. 

So, what about me? Who am I? Who do I think I am? 
Who do other people think I am? Besides bonkers, that is. 
I really haven’t a clue. What do you think I am, a mind reader?

It’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!

Day Six prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: In your poem today, try writing with a breezy, conversational tone, while including at least one thing that could only happen in a dream.

The Odious Ode

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To think that something so revered
could set my teeth to grinding gears,
	one only needs to ken
	I hate to structures bend.

Too oft I fail to recollect 
the rules an ode dost interject.
	I’m simply left to guess
	and strive to do my best.

I’m sure this poem proves my case
though I confess 'twas penned in haste;
	the ode – no friend to me –
	remains a mystery.

It’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!

Day Five prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: write a poem in which you talk about disliking something – particularly something utterly innocuous, like clover. Be over the top! Be a bit silly and overdramatic.

Horizontal Rain

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It blusters, it billows,
the rain comes in droves.
It's typical winter 
on the north Oregon coast. 

No point in umbrellas,
The wind is a beast;
shreds the cloth with its talons,
snaps the ribs in its teeth.

The rain hits you sideways
soaking deep to the skin,
but springtime comes swiftly
to atone winter's sins.

Now the rain’s slightly warmer
when it slaps at your face.
Umbrellas still useless
as the winds keep their pace. 

You can spot season’s changes:
birds perched high lest they drown,
and the newly sprung flowers
soon blown flat to the ground. 

It blusters, it billows,
the rain comes in droves.
It's a typical spring day
on the north Oregon coast.

It’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!

Day Four prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: craft [a] short poem that involves a weather phenomenon and some aspect of the season. Try using rhyme and keeping your lines of roughly even length.

Stat

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He listens carefully to the recounting of symptoms,
performs some preliminary tests, 
and they discuss options for treatment.

A clean cloth is laid out at his side, with a
tidy row of tools he will use to 
perform the operation

He selects the appropriate instruments, 
and sets to work. 
Prep, syphon, excavate the offending material,
rinse, close, seal. 

“All done,” he says, washing up at the sink
with anti-microbial soap.
“I fixed the leak, cleared out the s-trap, 
and replaced some worn washers.
Your toilet should work fine now.” 

“Oh, thanks, man,” says the homeowner to the plumber. 
“You saved my life.”

It’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!

Day Three prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: Today, we challenge you to write a poem in which a profession or vocation is described differently than it typically is considered to be. 

The Art Lesson

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The canvas panel lays before me, blank and pristine.
Or almost pristine. Scuff marked and yellow tinged;  
it's been sitting around for a while.

A horizontal penciled line, not quite centered.
Top portion is the sky. 
Paint it blue, I’m told.

But skies aren’t out-of-the-tube blue on flat canvas.
They’re deep, dappled with clouds sometimes,
softened by invisible breezes at other times.
Troubled by storms, 
subdued by dawn’s tentative tendrils. 
That all comes later, I’m told.

I dab at the blue mound on waxed paper.
Oil or acrylic, I don’t recall.

Mom sits nearby, chatting with her friend
who is -- ostensibly -- here to teach me art.
They gossip – well, the friend does.
Mom listens, jokes, commiserates. Passes judgment.

A large book lies open on the table,
showing step-by-step how to recreate the painting:
an old barn on a rutted dirt road alongside a 
generic, leafless tree. 

Sketch the outlines as illustrated, I'm told.
I don’t want to. 
This is someone else's painting, not mine. 
I don’t know what the barn has seen,
what the tree has felt.

Who traversed the road to carve the ruts,
Where were they headed? 
What did they find upon arrival? 

I put lines on the canvas with a #2 pencil. 
That’s enough for tonight, I’m told.
My mom and her friend barely glance at my work,
make vague plans for a return visit. 
The friend leaves.

The half-blue, scuffed canvas sits on the floor 
in a dark corner of my bedroom closet.
For years. 

When I am forty, I paint skunk cabbage.


It’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!

Day Two prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: “write [a] poem in which you recount a childhood memory. Try to incorporate a sense of how that experience indicated to you, even then, something about the person you’d grow up to be.”

Beauty in the Eye of the Eyesore

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“Your yard gets a lot of attention from my visitors!” my neighbor calls from the edge of her manicured lawn. I survey my property, a burgeoning habitat for native plants and the native critters that feed upon them. 

“Yeah,” I reply. “Someone recently asked me if I was letting the yard go wild to reduce my property taxes.” 

My neighbor laughs, and then admits the nature of the “attention” to which she had alluded.

“My visitors ask, ‘Does she mean for her yard to look that way?’ ‘She’s planting all that brush intentionally?’” 

bear grass and buckbrush,
coyote bush and deer fern…
and skunk cabbage? Please!

I wonder if those are the thoughts of visitors or of my neighbor, or maybe of all who see my native landscaping. So be it. I settle into the rocking chair on my back porch and watch bees – legs plump with pollen – buzz through the California poppies. Ladybugs dine on aphids among the large-leaved lupines, and a pair of mourning doves peck for seeds beneath  a clump of prairie june grass. 

summer solstice nears
farewell-to-spring’s pink petals
blossoming on cue

dVerse Haibun Monday: Summer or Winter

Fleeting Blossoms

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While walking through the park, my dog Chules and I pause at an apple tree. I am drawn to the white-pink blossoms and the bees that float among them. Chules is more intrigued by the base of the trunk, and the invisible messages left there by other dogs. He lifts his leg and adds his own note to the trunk. 

cherry blossoms wane

pink petals carpet the ground 

apple tree looks on

Day 29 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo). In response to dVerse prompt: Haibun Monday: late cherry blossoms.