On his own terms

National Poetry Writing Month, a poem a day, April 2013

Day 13 

Harry, a resident for about ten years at the dogs' home where I work part time, died earlier this year. This is his story, as far as we know it.

He walked into our lives one morning,

stood in the lane looking at the gate.

We didn’t do much, we stared back,

he was clearly prepared to wait.

When he appeared in the yard,

his eyes softly asking: ‘Please, may I stay?’

we found him a bed and left him be;

we didn’t have the steel to send him away.

We pondered and wondered but we knew what we’d do.

We let him sleep all day and have a good rest,

we fed him and found him some friends;

and from then on …  we all just did our best.

He lived in peace for more than ten years.

He had his own pals, with fields for a run;

plenty of good food in his bowl twice a day;

and a lovely pen where he could lie in the sun.

He ran up the fields every day with joy in his heart.

Then came the morning that dawned very cold -

we knew he was slowing down and facing the end -

he had started to look, really, quite old.

He ran first thing, happy to be free,

up the hill on the hard frozen ground;

and it was at the top that he fell down …

among his friends - they were all around.

He fought for his breath and it looked like the end.

Brown eyes watched us from a black hairy face.

We sat and talked to him in quiet voices,

this dog who knew what he wanted and found his place.

The vet was called to help him out,

and we carried him down and let him lie.

But he left us as he came - on his own terms;

… this beautiful dog made his own time to die.

http://www.napowrimo.net/

 

Grass

National Poetry Writing Month, a poem a day, April 2013

No 11

 

  

grass turns to yellow 

as garden is lost in time;

blades don’t cut new air 

http://www.napowrimo.net/

This special place

National Poetry Writing Month -- a poem a day for April 2013.

Day  9 

Written after yesterday afternoon's shift at the dogs home, where I work to clear my head, which gets stuffed full of words and writing -- 
and I end up writing about that as well!

‘This special place…’

I secure the double gates, and

it is just me and the dogs.

They welcome me with barks and wagging tails.

Worries and cares stay outside this space,

this special place;

in here it is all for them.

Some lie in their runs enjoying the sun.

They all rest quiet.

I open each pen in turn.

Two, three, sometimes four dogs are

free to roam in the lush grass together.

While I clean and tidy their beds,

fill bowls with fresh water,

they are happy to wander with their own kind.

I make time to be with those who seek human company --

play fetch with the young ones who run and jump,

scratch heads and fuss the older, slower, visitors.

I move along the rows, steady-quiet.

I love to make the beds,

take out the old, put in new,

     - the fresh warm scent of hay -

make it deep for the cosiest nights.

They all settle down again
as the sun begins to sink

…  the evening meal will be here soon.

I clear all the rubbish to the bonfire

.. watch the flames for a while ...

and secure the double gates

… as I leave them to their world.

 

http://www.napowrimo.net/

Morning mist

National Poetry Writing Month -- a poem a day for April 2013.

Day  6

 

Misty morning haze

lies muted in chill valley;

sun begins to blaze

 

http://www.napowrimo.net/

Throw away all the money

National Poetry Writing Month -- a poem a day for April 2013.

Throw away all the money

Throw away all the money,

we don’t need it any more.

Money gives power to the rulers,

they use it to make their war.                                     

Both sides make profit from fighting

but the poor they always lose;

they have to go into battle but

they don’t have the power to choose.

Make you work to pay the rent

it’s the weapon to keep you in line

-- cut your benefits, raise your taxes …

make you slave to pay your fine.

Money owns the media

that tells us only lies.

Money is used to hide the truth but

we see it if we open our eyes.

Money is used to make the markets                       

that feed the fat cat bankers.

It’s only a fragile construct

and they are a load of…  fools.

Money makes a house of paper,

it’s the god of the religion of greed;

it’s easy to pull it all down -

just realise it’s not what we need.

http://www.napowrimo.net/