Ode to Dog Hair

A walk-through dog wash would be perfect. One
at my back door that washes, brushes
and dries my dogs. In minutes they’re done.
With a magic dog cleanser that rushes
To their skin, lifts the dust, with a smell dogs like
(And I like too). Once a day would be enough.
When night falls, or after a muddy hike
When fur is wet, their paws dirty and rough.
Instead of this I must groom them myself,
Brush in hand, unwilling pup at my feet.
I could have smaller dogs, the size of elves,
even a shedless dog, curly-haired and sweet.
As fate and love would have it, their furry
filaments are my burden to curry.

This is a Shakespearean sonnet, more or less. 14 lines, ababcdcdefefgg. Iambic pentameter (10 syllable lines with the stress on every other syllable, but I’m not a fetishist about that). The final six lines are supposed to set up a situation established by or counter to the first 8 lines. I’m not big on rules, though, other than the rhyme and syllable thing. I’m writing sonnets as a mental challenge, mostly, but once in a while one might be good. I started writing sonnets when I realized I just don’t have much more to say in one of my customary blog posts at the moment.

Still, I don’t know if Shakespeare (or anyone) before me has written a sonnet to dog hair. We might be witnessing a moment (low or high, you judge) in literary history.

Thoughts on a Walk Today With Bear

Pastel spring breaks through shyly, hesitant,
“What if?” Knowing snow could fall on the land
before white winter’s determined, rampant
cycle fades toward fecund summer’s grand
promises. Ambivalent, spring pauses, slow
to leave in this high valley. Soft showers
yield to summer’s green trees and fruitful show
of barley in the fields, potato flowers.
Then, come September, summer surrenders
Weary. Its moment too short for many,
Fine with me. Among season’s contenders,
Winter season is better than any.
Nature rests in winter’s patient freeze,
Ice crystals in the air, hoar frost on trees.

~~~

This is a Shakespearean sonnet, more or less. 14 lines, ababcdcdefefgg. Iambic pentameter (10 syllable lines with the stress on every other syllable, but I’m not a fetishist about that). The final six lines are supposed to set up a situation established by or counter to the first 8 lines. I’m not big on rules, though, other than the rhyme and syllable thing. I’m writing sonnets as a mental challenge, mostly, but once in a while one might be good. I started writing sonnets when I realized I just don’t have much more to say in one of my customary blog posts at the moment.

P.S. I never imagined writing 2 in a day but it was so pretty out there at the Refuge in the rain, what could I do? Now I have to go cover the beans. Freeze and snow in the forecast. 🙂

Rainy Day

The dark clouds gather; it’s starting to rain.
The dry fields need it. Crops don’t grow in dust.
In deserts it’s not easy to grow grain.
A plowed field can fill the sky in a gust.
My dog comes in to tell me, “It’s raining!”
Not much moisture yet, but the breeze smells sweet.
The air is cool, fresh, humid, earth-settling.
Petrichor rises from the empty street,
A brief sprinkle with the promise of more.
The clouds have settled for the duration,
A break from endless sunny skies restores
The mind beneath the cloud formations.
Rainy days in this bright dry valley are
Worth celebrating, so precious, so rare.

~~~

And, once again, I enter this with all good intentions of using the word of the prompt and I forget. Well there’s a glimpse of hope for tomorrow.

This is a Shakespearean sonnet, more or less. 14 lines, ababcdcdefefgg. Iambic pentameter (10 syllable lines with the stress on every other syllable, but I’m not a fetishist about that). The final six lines are supposed to set up a situation established by or counter to the first 8 lines. I’m not big on rules, though, other than the rhyme and syllable thing. I’m writing sonnets as a mental challenge, mostly, but once in a while one might be good. I started writing sonnets when I realized I just don’t have much more to say in one of my customary blog posts at the moment.

The Scarlet Emperor Beans of 2021

The snows fell in summer last year, my beans
Were twelve feet tall, vulnerable, OH NO!!
I covered them with sheets to keep them green
They mostly made it, continued to grow
Gave me seeds for this year, purple and black
Beautiful promises I took gratefully.
And I put them in a small, red sack
In a pink metal box to wait safely
For this spring to come. The beans from 2020
In small pots ahead of summer, have grown
So happily and tall, my house can barely
Hold them till they are safely in the ground.
These undaunted beans are not a metaphor,
But lovely, joyous seeds from a hard, strange year.

Here’s the backstory of the Beans of 2020

I’m gobsmacked by how these beans have grown. In past years at this point in the spring, they might be a foot high. But what should I have expected from the seeds of the dauntless surviving beans of last year? I think I’m going to have to put them in the ground soon even though more cold could come. It’s a problem. They’re saying “We’ll be fine” but I know they might not be. Many years a hard frost hits the apple blossoms in late May. BUT some of them are going out there today. I still have the sheets under which they were formed. ❤

~~~


This is a Shakespearean sonnet, more or less. 14 lines, ababcdcdefefgg. Iambic pentameter (10 syllable lines with the stress on every other syllable, but I’m not a fetishist about that). The final six lines are supposed to set up a situation established by or counter to the first 8 lines. I’m not big on rules, though, other than the rhyme and syllable thing. I’m writing sonnets as a mental challenge, mostly, but once in a while one might be good. I started writing sonnets when I realized I just don’t have much more to say in one of my customary blog posts at the moment.





April 22

Dusty boots have been my best friends
Taking me where I’ve been and where I’ve dreamed.
Across destiny’s bitter hills again and again,
Ancient lakes, morning’s snowbound trails, frozen streams.
Far, shining Alpine peaks, out of my reach,
Layers of clay, bright-colored, time-kissed,
The tracks of dinosaurs on a rock-hard beach,
Juniper bushes, scorpions and mist.
Through time, disaster or inspiration,
Tree-held or wasted, sage scrub and forest,
Sand and shore, wild lilac, golden aspen,
Sorrow or hope, the yearning heart rests.
Where my eyes point, squint, captured by color,
Summits or dreams, one foot, then the other

The poem is a Shakespearean sonnet, though I’m not a fetishist about iambic pentameter since it’s the natural rhythm of the English language anyway. Iambic pentameter is ba-BOOM, ba-BOOM for ten syllables. A Shakespearean sonnet is 14 lines with the scheme of ababcdcdefefgg. It’s easy for a dyslexic person like me who’s likely to mess up the rhyme scheme if it has too many variables. The story is that Shakespeare wrote his sonnets like this because the traditional Italian sonnet (the Petrarchan sonnet) is immensely challenging in English because of the natural rhythm of English vs. the natural rhythm of Italian. I don’t know if this is true or not but I’m buying it anyway.