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

Irresistible

Violet pearlescent eye shadow;
watermelon tinted chap stick;
cover stick to cover the blemishes and
give you that glow;
rose gold eye cream, only to be worn
at night at some posh function.
You can never wear too much blue eye shadow
someone once said in a movie and, by George, it's true!
A fresh tube of lipstick, a new shade...
oh, wait, it's the same as the one in my drawer.
Time in front of a mirror with a palette
to choose from, my face the blank canvas...
I have a cousin who's never worn make-up.
Of course, she's very beautiful, but how can she resist
the irresistible? 

© Julianne Carlile

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

Sestina for My Cat

I remember seeing my cat,
his eyes were taken up with black
pupils on the day of his death.
I went home to lie in my bed,
trying not to think of the sex
he never had. Never because alive

is better to a cat than bringing forth life.
At least that's what we say to ourselves, to the cat.
But is it really so important--sex?
It makes the eyes become all black,
which shows emotional interest. A bed
surely has better things to hold than death.

Did my cat enjoy his death?
Is that why his pupils were larger than in life?
And what about the bag, ground, bed?
A good final place for our cat?
Sweet, sweet honey, never hurt a soul, his pupils black,
even though he never had sex.

Why do I have to think about sex
every day, more often even than death?
Sometimes it causes depression, black,
blacker than the light of being alive.
Maybe I should just be a good cat
and go home to my bed.

But when I get home to my bed,
will I start thinking about sex
when I should be thinking about my cat?
My cat after all who is dead,
much worse than being alive.
When I die will my eyes be black?

I'll wrap myself up in the blackness
as I lie at night in my bed,
and be happy that I am alive.
I won't even think about sex.
Instead I'll concentrate on death.
I'll pray instead for my cat.

I'll think black thoughts about sex
in my bed that leads to death,
because I'm more alive than my cat.

© Julianne Carlile

1994

The Voyage

Sometimes I wonder about others

when I am on a voyage,

thinking to myself in the silence.

Where do I have to go, how far away,

to lose this incredible burden:

my talent for doing so much harm.

It is not only that I do harm,

but through my neglect the others

shoulder my terrible burden

and go off on their own voyage.

They go their own way, they go my way,

and I am left alone in the silence.

What happens to them in the silence?

They pass ahead into time; is it harm?

Why do I think any way they go is my way?

They are complete minds—they are others.

Yet, we all make the same voyage,

and to be separate is a great burden.

Not to see you as me is a burden,

a painful wall of immense silence

that causes us to go alone on our voyage.

On the other hand, harm

can also be seen in seeing others

exactly as myself. I want my way.

This is why I run or walk away

with my sack, my mysterious burden

which I hide from all the others.

Do you think they know in the silence

that I almost wish to do them harm,

that I am jealous of their voyage?

Do we protect others on their voyage

by making them believe they own their way?

Or could it be that we’re doing harm,

causing them to carry their burden

through an eternity of silence--

a silence that leads each of us to be an other.

On my voyage I’ll remember a burden

that took me away in the silence,

where my harm is equal to others’.

© Julianne Carlile 

1994