This is just poetry. It won't save you, but it may locate you so that a rescue party can be sent out. — Dean Blehert

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Your Sweetness

I stroke his head. His tail wags wildly,
pink tongue flicking up at me, politely
begging to touch my face. Yesterday
he met a baby bird that swelled
its feathers in fear before his solemn
curiosity. When I dawdle too long
before our walk, he talks to me
in a deep sweet questioning lilt.
In Bosnia, Afghanistan, Somalia
men slaughter each other. At home lies
burrow termite tunnels beneath social
smiles. Old dog, it is outrageous, it is
intolerable, your sweetness.

Note: This poem is not recent, but only the names of some of the countries have changed, plus the dog died in 1996 -- aged 16. He was much nicer than me.

High Potential

I am basically
nothing at all,
which makes me

very flexible.

Saturday, August 4, 2007


The clouds break open.
Sunbeams streak up each tree
like squirrels.

Self Knowledge

Know myself:
Lean forward enough
to miss my belly
when I spit.


Gull wings ripple the sky,
bits of loose wave
escaped into the air.

Note: Gulls in flight here seen from behind or in front, where one sees two curved concavities facing downwards, like eyebrows.