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Wags
| Open Poetry #12 |
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Wags |
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Packratmike Senior Member
since 2001-02-25
Posts 632California, USA 
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I'm not sure how to classify this. Just something I felt like sharing and I hope it's worthy.....Mike Wags The shovel blade speared into the damp clay surface with a metallic hiss. Sparse grass roots popped in protest as Dad pried and pulled aside the dark brown sod. No grunts or groans to show his exertion, just the steady, mechanical motions of digging, turning, emptying, turning and digging again. I watched expressionless, thinking back to ancient history where a chubby black and white pup, slept on a bed of rags in our kitchen. The warmth of the oven and the constant ticking of an old alarm clock placed next to him comforted him and allowed him to sleep like he was within the love of his mother's tummy. That's what Mom and Dad would say and I would go off to my own room and sleep soundly, oblivious of his midnight wails and whimpers for attention. It was an odd Spring day. Not a breeze to rustle the leaves to help hide a sniffle or sob so I bit my lip and placed my thoughts elsewhere. I hid in memories of Wags with excited licks and floppy ears, a protective growl for strangers, the fetch of a twisted stick or the naps we two would take together.... I hid in these memories yet they still led back to here..... to this damnable Spring day where Dad was digging with no grunts or moans to show his emotions. All was quiet except for his footsteps as I watched him lay down his shovel and gently pick up the old blanket and its contents. He moved carefully to the freshly dug hole and slowly placed it inside. An old clock dropped loudly in the dirt with a half ring. Dad muttered angrily and hurriedly stuffed it back into the blanket glancing at me with an embarrassed look. I couldn't pretend I didn't see it. I just put my hand across my tight lips and forced myself to look away. Dull thuds of damp dirt hitting the faded blanket took me back to Wags, tugging at a braided rug hanging across the clothesline as Mom pounded the dust out of it. "Go away! Get out of here!" she screamed half laughing, feigning anger. Dad finished up, tamping the dirt into a neatly groomed pile. He straightened his back with an audible pop and smeared a bead of sweat across his cheek with the heel of his dirty hand. Not looking at me, he turned and walked away saying, "I'll see ya back at the house." I watched him as he walked down the path, shovel over his shoulder and hand in his pocket searching for a forgotten handkerchief. At last, we were both alone to freely grieve on a horribly quiet Spring day. "HEY, DON'T THROW THAT AWAY, I MIGHT NEED IT SOMEDAY!!!" Packratmike [This message has been edited by Packratmike (edited 03-23-2001).] |
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| © Copyright 2001 Mike Powers - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Paula Finn Member Ascendant
since 2000-06-17
Posts 5546missouri |
Oh Mike...oh man...your friend he was...faithful and true...Ive shed tears for my lil lost pups...and will again when my babes now go...I have three...Yoshe...Jericho...Sasha...all curled up in my bed right now...doesnt leave much room for mom |
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Severn Member Rara Avis
since 1999-07-17
Posts 7704 |
This is written in such a narrative style it almost could be prose/poetry... I like it a lot Mike...a lot. Nice imagery, nice tension..  K |
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Packratmike Senior Member
since 2001-02-25
Posts 632California, USA |
Paula....I've lost many a pet and always say never again. Right now I'm down to a hamster and a few fish. This fish don't bother me too much when they go, but I'm not sure how I'm going to react when my furry little hamster leaves. Sounds funny, but he is a little personality around here. Severn...thanks for the comments, glad you liked it. Part of the tension I tried to relate here was the inability to openly or freely express one's feelings of loss around others. In this piece, grief was struggled with but did not win over the father and son until they found themselves alone. Mike |
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Marge Tindal 
since 1999-11-06
Posts 42384Florida's Foreverly Shores |
PackRatMike~ This is poignant and wonderful and memory-evoking. Tenderly portrayed. ~*Marge*~ ~*The pen of the poet never runs out of ink, as long as we breathe.*~ |
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Packratmike Senior Member
since 2001-02-25
Posts 632California, USA |
Thank you, Marge! |
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