the garage guard dog
next to him leaning in close
his young replacement

My Doberman

My Doberman killed a rabbit.
From inside the house I heard

the high-pitched squealing of it,

like a piglet or a baby crying.

When I went out to see he dropped it,

shamefaced, at my feet—

bloody, torn, broken,

formless as a hobo’s shoe.

To My Little Dog

Do not worry my precious little one,

when relatives' dogs come to stay,

please know you are my only one.

Though I will feed them one by one

and I will feel affection for their play,

do not worry my precious little one.

When in the yard I throw the ball for one,

you look at me and feel you should stay,

please know you are my only one.

When at the vet and you are number one,

and I hold you on the table to make you stay,

do not worry my precious little one.

After the vet, when we are done,

and we are home and you are once again gay,

please know you are my only one.

After you are gone I will miss all the fun,

I will try not to think of that terrible last day.

Do not worry my precious little one,

please know you are my only one.

© Julianne Carlile

The Mukwonago River

I drive by the Mukwonago River,

where arrowheads were found for many years.

The river is a really big giver

of crappies; fishermen shed happy tears.

I’ve never walked there, though I’ve been here years;

it’s for other people, but not for me.

I smell it when I go by and my leers

rival those I have for a lake I see.

The deep, wet odor, earthy and salty,

and the mist, tickling and teasing my skin.

I resist the pull as it calls to me.

It calls: come to me please, and please come in.
And I wonder if I will ever go;
the years I have left do not go by slow.

© Julianne Carlile

Dog Haiku

Add caption

I bark all night long
my owner is not at home
but I do my job

© Julianne Carlile

Bumblebee (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

on purple thistle

a bumblebee lulled and still

sun slips heaven sways

© Julianne Carlile

What Is It About the Bee?

English: Yellow jacket queen Image copyleft: (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What is it about the bee

that makes it bite me so excruciatingly?

Or is it its cousins I’m thinking of?

Either way I do not love

any of that family.

Too bad the bee and the planet are hand in glove—

maybe if we just killed the other three?

© Julianne Carlile

The Dream Fish

My grandmother used to take us fishing.

Feet dangling from the pier,

she’d bait our hooks and

take the fish off.

Most too small to keep,

she’d throw them back.

Sometimes, we’d get one we could take home.

Once in a while we’d catch a crab.

They were tenacious and hard to shake off,

despite our best work,

and Grandma was often tasked there too.

Years later I had a dream of that shore:

I’d waded in, hands in the water,

trying to catch a great big fish.

The fish was beautiful,

all the colors of the rainbow and more:

it seemed to shine with gold and silver;
it had a preternatural light.

No matter how hard I tried,

I could not grab that fish.

Long after I awoke, the dream stayed with me.

I couldn’t catch it,

and I couldn’t let it go.

© Julianne Carlile