He Kicks Like a Bull

On Guard (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

He stands still as a small statue,
but the eyes keep rolling,
looking for movement...

Any sign at all that someone’s there in His territory

is a big NO and will not be tolerated,
no way, no how, no reason for it.

It always happens, something moves or someone,

some wrong thing that must be told right away:
"You are not wanted here."

His hind end quivers all over,
growls come from deep down in his throat,
his eyes light up with fires damped until now,
and he starts his familiar dance.

His leg stretches out in back

and points like a ballerina at barre.
Then the other leg vibrates.

It's all over with,

both legs kick in rhythm,

clumps of grass are lifted and fly backwards.

His front feet paw the ground in frenzy.
His head lowers and raises as he snorts and sneezes –

completely lost in it now,
he has not thought of me or looked.

But now he stops, his look so clear:
"It's really something, isn't it?"

© Julianne Carlile

Southern Illinois

How many times my father took us to his home,
the land of his ancestors and of his birth,
so we could get in touch with our past and his:
to love a life gone.
And we saw land more dry and dusty than sand,
filled with not much culture, but farms,
and people as dry and dusty as the land,
as if they rose from it.
Now I go down to the place that he came from,
alone to all the places that he loved,
and find that things have not really changed so much,
except that he's not there.
The family reunion's filled with all his kin.
Young ones keep coming and old ones keep going.
The cemetery keeps growing with those he loved--
the ground cries for him.

© Julianne Carlile