Black Dog In Muddy Weather
For Quinn, my dog
He hops out the boot of my car like he always has,
thrashes his thick club of tail at the cold air, warning
that joy is on the way.
At some point in life I forgot how to play, but never him,
blessed angel who warms my bed and cleans my plate,
they didn't watch the gate when this one got out of heaven.
Miracles occur, and this one is mine, and he trots over there
to sniff dirt or let a stranger stroke his head,
paws disgusting with February caked in the grooves.
I don't care, I don't care, I simply don't care;
if I can watch a creature love the idea of life,
let him roll in whatever he pleases, it's of no consequence to me.
Sam Woodbridge
Food for Thought, 6 February 2025
Prompt poem: Black Rook In Rainy Weather, by Sylvia Plath
caves
‘These are my caves’ I gesture with outspread arms
to the rooms where I drown, revive and drown.
Dark waters never heard low tide
Waist deep in the basement
Welcome to sludge life, baby you'll hate it here.
But look at me, trying anyway
Nothing to prove
No one to prove to
And still failing along the bell curve
of trial and error
Cataclysmic outlier.
I tuck in my corners like envelopes smothering
scented letters to nobody
Climb under myself
Perceivable dimensions reduced like sauce to resuscitate
Cocoon the bed, floor of the sea
You know where I'm at
You know where I be
It's so over; we're so back.
Dry yourself off: it's the year of the snake.
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Sam Woodbridge, January 16, 2025
Inspired by: Inner Acreage, by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer