Old Man’s Dog
O let the long night winds blow
I hear Old Man’s dog howl down the road
then limps on
to yet another restless soul
past shadow-flits among tall trees
breezes whistle-play rust-rotted eaves
of this old house that’s not my home
silent figure slices through night’s dark
uncertain of the Old Dog’s bark
watching - waiting - agitating
then disappears from view
my house limps like Old Man’s Dog
inertia moving down the halls -
passing fears on floating ghosts
all remains are rotting bones
my soul picked clean from womb to tomb
no chance for change, no primal scream
no man’s best friend for me - alas
no St. Bernard to cross my path -
no freedom - no exit - no next dream
and tonight death is my soul’s repast.
Janet Leigh Revised 02.15.08
2 comments:
No matter, dear readers, what you think of, or make of Janet's deep and dark poetry, one must admit that Paul Klee's painting, HOWLING DOG makes the perfect illustration for it, enit?
Glenn
Janet: With your blessings, I have been selecting some of your masterful poems to post on FEEL FREE TO READ. You are aware of this, and it is fun to find illustrations to compliment them. The latest one of your poems I have picked was OLD MAN’S DOG, something lovely, dark, deep, full of despair, restlessness, pain, reaching out, pulling back into a curled ball, lotus, fetus, make the harshness go away. Death has come close to you, brushed you with its flithy rags, filled your lovely nostrils with its fetid breath, smiled its dead smile into your terror, and moved on, melting into the shadows, merging into night.
Silent figure slices through night’s dark/uncertain/of the Old Dog’s bark/watching–waiting–agitating/then disappears from view.
oh yeah, the demons of our mind, the evil fousted upon us by circumstance; with the wind as its ally, that your heart, like that old rickety house has been rammed, violated, and the once pink and vibrant flesh, lies brown and gray with inertia, like rot on meat, like “rotting bones”. We could call you Mistress Poe with this one, dear; middle of the night kind of poetry, of anguish, of anger, of desolation, as you feel done for, done in, or at least your protagonist poeticus does; nowhere to hide, nowhere to travel to,/my soul picked clean/–no chance for change/no primal scream/; the worst kind, the silent scream, void of vibrance, void of life already, worn down, beat down, no savior, not even a St. Bernard /no freedom/no exit/and tonight/death is my soul’s repast.
This paints the old picture of death, the grim reaper, the last resort. But think of Death as a friend, like Robert Redford on that old TWILIGHT ZONE, a kind blond cop who takes the old woman’s hand gently and leads her out of pain; death is a doorway, a transition. This poem was your penance, your catharsis–and now your lovely soul can move on, back into the light.
Glenn
omg, you give good crit! You’re interpreting my poems soooo spot-on that I’m beginning to wonder if you know me personally and blogging under a nom de plume, Glenn. What a gift you have!
I’m making this a short response as I’ve just come from your blog having written extensively. Hope you understand..:)
I go to bed now..:)
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