as she grows older,
my fear turns colder;
i ache to see how time wastes
sight, hearing, tastes.
she is my daughter,
my tears, my laughter,
she is my night mate,
she is linked to my fate;
she follows me around,
she longs to be found;
my heart is she,
what else could she be?
i really love her so,
even more than i could know,
yes, she causes my fear,
i always want her near;
for her, its the same,
i’m as sure as her name,
if she could speak,
i wouldnt be this weak;
all she wants to convey,
is a wish to play and play.
i hope God is kind this time,
to this heart of mine.
Tag: pet
The Moon.
The moon is bright in a sky of midnight blue,
and I can hear the howling of a wolf – and wind, too.
I walk onto the dark porch and hear the trees sigh,
and I lean down and stroke my dog lying nearby.
The grass is not trimmed, it moves in the breeze,
Somewhere in the house I hear my sister sneeze.
The porch light is broken, but the moon seems enough,
And the flying leaves prove the wind isn’t that rough.
I look up at the moon and hear the wolf’s lament,
Then squeeze my eyes shut and take in the firmament.
I wrap my arms around me in a warm embrace;
And let the moonlight and shadows play on my face.
My dog leans up and nudges my knee,
As if to ask me what thoughts I see.
I look down and gaze into her gentle soft eyes,
And think of telling her a few white lies.
Then I smile and, leaning close, whisper in her ear,
“Tonight the moon tells me I am not to fear.”
“Fear?” She cocks her large head at me,
“Oh never mind,” I chastise her, albeit fondly.
I look back at the moon and some clouds have her now,
I wait till I see her again with some stars on her brow,
I turn half not wanting to – and thank her with a smile,
For easing some of life’s worries for just a little while.
10th April
To Rolfe – an Elegy
(Episode One – 16th November 2001)
I never did like you.
That I think you know.
You must have known,
When we left you in that cage:
Locked from home and things familiar.
Your mind being physically jerked.
You lying there,
Quiet in your vomit;
Lying there and looking at me,
Up at me, with your chin on the floor,
Looking with eyes that don’t see –
But speak volumes:
Liquid, soft, scared – quiet.
We are all brought here somehow,
To suffer somehow,
And survive somehow, with life or with death.
But somehow – somehow – you should be exempt from all of this.
Yet there you were –
As I left for home –
Walking haphazard,
Dry nose against clapped iron,
After three days of fast,
Three days of gut wrenches,
Three days of muted pain.
All rewarded by an indefinite exile in Howl Hole.
(We have it far easier –
At least there is someone
Waiting
Outside.)
I never did like you.
But if they would
I would be waiting outside.
That I think you know.
(Episode Two – 19th November 2001)
Fifth day.
You were quiet and weak.
They were non-committal and complacent.
We were ignorant of all
But your suffering – or were we?
I misunderstood your yells
As you lay immobile – pierced everywhere.
Fed you with trickles of water,
After a five day fast.
Five days.
What were they like to you?
And the nights?
What horror did you feel –
Alone – in a cage – sick to the bone?
My punishment is my regret.
If any consolation
(If one can call it that)
Is when you returned home:
Within mere minutes,
You were at peace.
R.I.P.
Hearts Still Care 
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