Two years ago, our sweet boy Luke died. We’ll miss him forever.
8 photos
Luke the Lovehound
Tag Archives: dogs
Luke the Lovehound (a flickr album)
Testing the flickr block function in WP.
rise
Like a monk rising before dawn,
I am unalarmed as claws clatter in the hall.
He stands by the bed
to call me to service.
I perform my ritual,
bowing my head over his bowl,
murmuring my prayer: “good boy.”
If you are troubled,
rise quietly before dawn.
A world growing brighter
will lift your heart. mjh
11-20-07
Where Is She?
When I come in from the garage
the dog’s look asks,
“Where is she?”
Gone, I say, she’s gone.
He stands at the door
head tilted, he listens
for you.
I open the door
and he walks around the car
pausing to look up into the
windows on both sides.
“Where is she?”
All night he sits by the window
rising up at any sound
he looks and waits
for your return.
And I am there beside him
sharing his hope
for your return.
Where is she? mjh
6/19/2004
When poetry strikes
I walk the dog around the park,
Muttering a poem.
He looks askance
as I repeat lines
to etch them on gray parchment.
I nod distractedly to leery passers-by,
hoping I don’t look crazy
reciting rhyme to a dog.
If I ask the postal worker for paper and pen,
will he reach for his pepper spray, instead?
Will the news report “Postman repels park poet,”
“Park poet provokes postman,”
or simply
“Poet goes postal”? mjh
12-16-02
legacy
I’ve become the caretaker
of a small collection of works
by a minor poet
who abruptly stopped writing
when his muse moved on.
Did he feel like a man
whose mistress has taken
a younger lover?
Or was this as bad as
the day the dog died?
He never could say. mjh
04/04/13
Billy
It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
that all the members of the orchestra
are dogs.
Some in tuxedos,
some in black gowns,
sitting, waiting — good dogs! —
for the conductor
to raise a long meaty bone.
Some clear their throats,
some drool,
none look away for a moment.
It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
that everyone in the audience
is in a tutu.
Men and women dressed for the
ballet, though this is a concert,
each holding a pen and pad
planning to pounce
to snatch some new idea.
As if Beethoven for Dogs
weren’t enough.
It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
in the end
when the conductor puts down his baton,
most of the meat shaken off
to the delight of the First Chair.
He turns and bows
and then I recognize him:
the poet laureate,
the old dog himself. mjh
8/13/02