poetry
is coming
[and going]
this morning
nothing sticking around long enough
to become a full fledged poem
but damn, are my tried and true topics
flinging themselves towards my brain
making me start
multiple
pieces
just to get bored and toss them aside
(or get distracted by other things
and totally lose my stride)
so
poetry
this morning
is coming
and it’s going
and i’m just a vessel
half finished poems
can flow through
[maybe to you]
most mornings
as i write my silly morning poems
i have a cat
on my lap.
since the new puppy’s arrival,
the cat has avoided all points of potential contact
and not set foot in the entire downstairs area,
save for moments when the pup is
well caged away
(crate and gates and the like)
but even then,
a cat paw on the main floor
is a rare sight indeed
theses days
so instead
of a cat on my lap
i must write this poem
with a dog by my side
barely touching
but still comforting
to have her there
as a reminder
that there are creatures around this house
(human and non)
when i get so lonely
hanging out with
just my own words…
it is
very
hard to concentrate this morning
and i don’t know if it’s from
the stress of last night
or
the vividness of the dreams
or
the sadness of this morning
or
the lack of coffee in my bloodstream
or what
but
it is
very
extremely
extraordinarily
bizarrely
quite
hard to concentrate this morning.
~~~
i feel like i’m getting a better handle
on what makes my poetry
my poetry
(but i really have
absolutely
no idea
still
about what makes any poetry
‘good poetry’)
~~~
i would like to write
another
slam poem;
start a flow
and just go,
balance out the rhythm and rhyme
with internal structure,
alliteration,
and find
the transitions,
the cues,
from one section
to anther,
playing with words
and meaning
and framing
the repeating
as metaphor
as a tool
as a lock to turn the key
and find out something new
about me,
about life,
about our home planet earth,
and our collective strife
to stay alive
when all we want
is eternal sleep
(not necessarily because
death is the answer we’re looking for,
but because all these
isms
and power structures
and so-ingrained made up concepts
keep us so wide awake
that sleep seems a necessity
we never get to get
[when was the last time you had
an actual
honest to goodness
no stress
very good
night’s sleep?]
so i guess
that’s what this poem’s about:
the collective trauma
that is
white supremacy/capitalism/america
and how the one thing
that could give us
the fight
we need
to dismantle it
is the the thing
it keeps us
from doing
every
single
night.
(and are my daytime naps
my making up
for this lack,
or is that just a symptom
of the depression
my awareness
of these systems
gives me?)
((or is that a subject
for another poem
for another day?))
so much poetry
about tired/sleepiness
about writing poetry
about grief and grieving
but where’s the poetry for me?
where’s the poetry where i actually wake up?
where’s the poetry where i analyze and create new forms/
new words/
new kinds of poetry?
where’s the poetry where i feel
(at least a little)
more healed after writing it?
where’s the poetry where i have a sense of accomplishment
post-writing
rather than a sense of
‘well, i guess that’s ok enough to stick on the poetry blog’?
where’s my big/epic poem?
breathe through
the pain
and the guilt
and the hard moments of missing
and soak in
the memories
and the change in yourself
you’ve seen
over the last 7.75 years
she taught you
well
how to be a good dog parent
and you taught her
well
how to see she was already
such a good dog
~~~
Kip writing down
all the memories
of Louka
is such a sweet thing
and has helped them
i don’t think i’m in a place
just yet
to write my memories
without weeping
(and that’s ok;
Kip’s words have such a beautiful balance
of intrigue
and comedy,
even in the saddest of parts
there is still so much humor there,
as gentle as the dog was)
so Kip can [and should] have their moments
with memories
and prose
and i can talk through poems
and photos
piecing together my remembrances
pixel by pixel
and ponderment by ponderment
and we are each grieving
and remembering
in our own ways
and loving
in that way
that is so very Kip;
wholeheartedly
(just like i wanted)
~~~
oh boy
the tears
they seep out
of my sockets
with only a half second’s warning
and they feel
today
like good tears.
even though
it’s getting slightly easier
every day,
it sure is hard.
~~~
trying to write
about not Louka
(not because i don’t want to write about her,
but because i know
i’ll just let myself write about her
and be sad
for p much
the rest of my life
(/or i’ll write for so long
that the first day i do end up writing
about not her
i’ll feel so guilt-ridden
it’ll eat me from
the inside-out)
but i suppose i should appreciate
and admit
that she still is on my mind
and will be
for a long, long time,
and grief will be there
for almost as long,
and the best thing to do
for her memory
and my own sanity
is not to force
any
thing
(the forced stopping
is probably as bad as
the forced continuation
of poems solely about
Louka the Good Dog)
so, please, forgive me
as i ride this roller coaster of emotions,
the highs of the silly memories
and the lows of the guilt
of needing to make the choice for her
and her failing body
to let her go
across the Rainbow Bridge/
up to Dog Heaven/
transition to the next life/
the next body/
whatever happens
next,
and Louka,
please know,
our love is with you
always.
~~~
there are certain things
we haven’t done yet
and continue to not be able to do:
long walks
around the neighborhood,
meandering around
these streets/
up to the college/
saying hi to everyone else
walking,
taking the side path
from the backyard/door
to the front
(our path with Louka
because stairs weren’t great
for her old arthritis legs),
having bagels for breakfast again…
but there are some things
we are starting to do,
tentatively,
still with the presence of
Louka
in mind:
yesterday i tried to nap,
and though the cat is not quite as great
of a nap buddy
as the dog was,
she still stayed with me
until i drifted off to sleep
at least once,
and today we are listening to music
in the morning
once more
(though apparently it’s easier
to have music we’ve never heard before),
but it’s all still very hard
but we’ll make it through
with those memories of Louka
with us.
let’s see
if i can get a little bit of writing done
a little bit of wandering through my brain
a little bit of active meditation
before i start my day
my day, which is decidedly different
lonelier
lost
without her
(her being my dog
and i know it sounds over exaggerated
but damn,
those creatures have a way
of infecting every part of your life;
the companionship
throughout the day,
the routine that makes time
into a full day…
and now we are left
damn near floundering
looking
for something else to fill thee time
the void in our hearts where love needs to go
(our cat can only take so much affection, so…)
even going outside
feels cheapened
without her,
even naps
to pass this hard time
unconsciously
i’m unsure if i can do
because guess who
was the being i used to
nap with
you know who)
so a day
is just a day
not necessarily an adventure
not necessarily a struggle
it can just be a day
(maybe eve with some little adventures and struggles inside it)
and i’m unsure where i’m going
with this poem
and i’m unsure where i’m going
with my day
and i’m unsure where i’m going
with my life
but at least i have my kip and my cat
to hold and grieve
and to distract and entertain
and maybe
in a few days
or weeks
or months
there will be a new dog in the house
who needs our love
as much as we need them to receive ours
and Louka will be proud
of how well she trained us
to be such good dog parents
(and i hope
all my hope
that everything i’ve been saying
and assuming
and observing
was true:
that she did have a full dog life
in the nearly eight years she spent with us,
and that our love did block out
the struggle that was
her first six years of life,
and that she did enjoy this house
more than any other inside she was ever in,
and that when she dreamed, it was of running around our big Madison yard,
and that she wasn’t in too much pain
up until those last few days,
and that she was ready to go
when we[had to make]made that decision for her,
(she did
she really did
look like
she was looking for a place
like her soul was looking to escape
but her body was still holding on),
and i hope she knew
that when we held her
it was for love
and that she loved it
even though she sighed at us so much,
and there’s so many other things i wish
but if i think too much
the tears will come
and i won’t be able to do
much else today
except cry
(which i’ve already done
for days)
)
and wow
this poem started out
vaguely trying to
not
be about Louka
but that’s just how much
she’s infected our lives
and how much it feels wrong
to go from bed to wardrobe
without saying “excuse me, Louka,”
and to go from upstairs to downstairs
without some cajoling,
and to go from waking up
to morning pages and coffee
without a morning walk in-between,
and to go throughout a day
without worrying
when
walks are needed
and timing things out
and coming home to make sure
and checking in on the little donut dog on the couch
and i’m doing it again
falling into the trap
of writing lists
instead of dealing with emotions
and i hope Dog Heaven is real
and that we get to join her someday
and that she’s there now
learning
(from other dogs)
exactly how to play
(or not, whatever Louka wants)
whatever Louka wants
trying to write
and failing
because there’s so much convey
it makes the tears start falling
is way more off-putting
than
trying to write
and failing
because you just can’t think of anything to say
[i love you forever, Louka]
i have so much to say
(otherwise, how would i write a poem
a day
for a whole damn year?)
but so much of my time is spent
figuring out
in words
what exactly i’d like to say
and then
overthinking
how someone might
misconstrue my sentences
so i nitpick
and pick out
word
by word
by punctuation
by phrasing
adding extra notes
to prevent
misunderstanding
even though i understand
not everyone understands
where i’m coming from
and not everyone wants to
truly
listen
and not everyone
will read my words
so carefully
delicately
chosen
and not everyone
has the same associations
with words
and things
as i do
but i still
hover
over my buffet of words
hoping to make art
out of language
hoping to create meaning
where once there was nothing
but i spend so much time
figuring out how to say things
that sometimes i forget
what i was trying to say
in the first place.
and some days
it’s the procrastination
that turns to housework
that’s all that’s needed
and the sadness
that turns to book-reading
that really mattered
and the morning poetry
awkwardly completed at night
that was what had to be done.
kipventures 