My Chihuahua

Image via Wikipedia

He's a cat
in a dog's body.
Tiny, he roars
at everything.
His dainty mouth
and ears,
and feet,
belie the tiger within.
Is he the descendent
of the ancestor
of both the cat and dog?
We are related way back.
He know this
and chases our feet
trying to get back
to where we were the same.

© Julianne Carlile

2010

Men's Tiny Brains

Image via Wikipedia

What tells my tiny dog
it is time to chase?
He sees something move,
and he is on the case.

It's almost like his brain,
as small as it is,
is tuned to just one thing--
and better if it's kids.

But he's not prejudiced,
all's in his purview:
trucks or geese or leaves, or
me or even you.

Some men will not play with him
because of his trait--
when he chases their feet
feeling turns to hate.

© Julianne Carlile

2010

My Rose

My roses are making their last bloom.
They fight season's end but they show no care
for it, they come on still.
Fewer flowers than first,
but the bush is much bigger and greener as if cursed
in June to look puny.
I took one two days before the first hard frost.
It sat on my table really not looking lost.
And as it opened slowly to its own fullness
winter descended with a great "OH!"
It answered in kind.

© Julianne Carlile

2010

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

Snot

Image via Wikipedia

I lie awake in my bed
in  between short dozes,
fighting with snot:

dripping from my nose to my ear,

no decongestant, no Nyquil will
absorb this never ending flow--
drowning in snot.

Fourteen blows and it's still there,
surrounded by tissues everywhere--
suffocating in snot.

My ears are ringing; I'm all alone,
no one can see me, no one will come--
my only friend: snot.

© Julianne Carlile

1993

Dignity

Image by rcameraw via Flickr

I was happy until today
my father died in a coma the way
he did...but no longer.
He went without fanfare of any kind,
just like a clock winding down
or a leaf drying up and blowing away.
It seems so insulting,
so lacking in dignity,
after suffering such mortal pain,
to go like water, emptying,
running, down a drain.

© Julianne Carlile

2010

Not From Below

Image via Wikipedia

Memory is a strange thing: It fills the mind
with things that couldn't be,
and yet it seems so real that only heaven
wishes for me.

It's a very hard thing to think or believe;
it's like a TV show,
remembering visits from an angel friend
(not from below).

© Julianne Carlile

2010

We'd Coldly Haunt

Eclipse of the Sun by Saturn (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I do not want the world to end;
that's all I want.
If there are problems, would you mend?
It's scary to look at earth's end.
The universe would have to flaunt
a decent place for us to go,
and many people do not want
to find themselves in Saturn's flow--
we'd coldly haunt.

© Julianne Carlile

2010

I Live On a Well-Traveled Road

Image via Wikipedia

I live where I'm displayed along
a road where many go.
The traffic's loud as a rock song--
my windows see the show.

I hate to go in front of it,
the building where I live.
The ambiance out there is lit
with massive hurt to give.

All feeling drains out of my heart
when I am safe inside,
and I feel exposed and apart
like the sand at low tide.

© Julianne Carlile

2010

A Poem About How Much I Like Emily Dickinson's

Image via Wikipedia

I wanted to write a poem as light as
her one from yesterday (IX).
It's good for the heart not to have to look
at troubles every day.

I want to have the same effect as she:
to not affect the spirit,
But leave it at the end of the day
as if you'd never read it.

It's pleasing the way she uses nature
to describe human feelings;
she creates a pretty picture that
I would love to go in.

Her poem is so sweet I hope it was read.
I'm writing against the clock.
On me it had the effect she'd want:
there are riches inside to unlock.

© Julianne Carlile

2010