First Blog Post in Five Months And Still Looking for a Rhythm

The Spider Wort in the Front Yard

Yes, the last post that I made was in January. That post got 3 views, so I guess not too many people have been waiting for another one. However, summer is upon us, I have small numbers in my online summer classes (May 26-June 24), and the previous two reasons have me writing again--rather haltingly, I must admit. I will be seeking a rhythm of writing that is successful because I still have the revisions of Atheist and Empty Spaces to complete, but I am already on page 87 of the next Dewey Lynn book. Don't forget to get your copy of Dewey Lynn Gets Arrested. Anyhow, I have revised A&E quite a bit since January--in spurts--and I'm sorry that I haven't shared each of the revised poems with you, but I will see which is the last that I did share, and I will try to share at least one a week for a while. Here is the last poem that I did fully revise. It's a little ditty about an unhealthy relationship. If you are in a relationship with someone who would say such things to you, get out!

A Love Song, Or I Am Your Whole World

If my breath was the wind,

I would whisper and send

Your soul strewing through the air.

If my eyes were the sun,

I would blind everyone

To the unbending love that you bear.

If my hands were the sky,

I would capture each cry

Escaping your lips when you’re blue.

If my heart was the sea,

I would rise up and be

A wave that comes crashing on you.

If my lips were the earth,

I would bury your mirth

In dirges too fine to perceive.

I am your whole world

And your destiny’s furled

In the purposes my wishes weave.

Also, during my hiatus from writing, our dog Luna died--or rather, we had to have her put down. Last year, Luna had some stomach issues, and we took her to the vet. After a few days of IV fluids and antibiotics, she appeared to be as good as new. In February, the same stomach symptoms appeared again, and we took her to the vet expecting the same sort of program as last year. However, this time, she had a tumor of some sort in her stomach. The initial prognosis was good. The vet would do surgery to remove what he thought was "just a lump," and then she could get back to being healthy. The vet said, "There's about a 60% chance things will go smoothly." I immediately knew it wouldn't go well. I just had a feeling, and my feelings about such things are seldom wrong. Her surgery began at 8:00 AM on Friday, February 20. At 8:30, the vet, himself, called me. He said, "Luna has a tumor that is all wrapped up in her intestines. It cannot be removed without killing her. I can stitch her back up and with pain meds and antibiotics, she may live six months, or, while she is under, I can give her a shot that will stop her heart, and she will not feel any pain. The humane things is to let her die now." So, you know what choice I made. She passed on Friday, February 20, 2026 at about 8:45 AM. We won't be having any more pets for a while.

Our Sweet Luna

Anyhow, the reason that I bring up the demise of Luna is because a recent conversation with an online friend reminded me of a pastiche (imitation) of Robert Browning' My Last Duchess, and I don't want you to think this poem had anything to do with Luna. In fact, as you can see from the original title, I published it in 2000. I never really liked the poem much, and I didn't have a copy of it, so I had to go to Amazon and by a copy of The Mercy Killing: The Death of Poetry, but I finally got it--and I revised it! Yeah, I was just typing it out making a copy, and I thought, "Why don't I change this word here, and then, what if I changed this word there." By the end, I had a poem that I like much better. I hope you will like it as well.

My Last Dog

Originally published November 4, 2000, Revised May 7, 2026

There’s my last dog in that life-like wall mount,

Looking as if she is hunting. I count

That a fine fitted piece. Paul Randolph’s hand

Stuffed and stitched, and now she points on a stand.

“Will’t do to have the huntress stuffed?” you ask.

Some other folks have taken me to task.

Some say, not too loud, that I might have spared

Her an eternity with her teeth bared.

But, to myself, I think (since she is there

And none but I live with the threat’ning stare)

This seems the way she was in life to me,

And a snarl is what came naturally

To the faithless beast. Sir, I’m not the lone

Receiver of that leer meant for a bone

Or the grisly glare she got while in chase,

But Randolph sensed some bit of canine grace

In the way her ears hitched up and her coat

Shined. On the bill, he made a special note

That read, “I found it difficult to stuff

This handsome animal with such a rough

Look of unbridled, heated aggression.”

As if doing my will was her passion

Or she cherished the touch of my warm hand.

No, sir, I did my damndest to breed her well

And bring top sires to her boarding kennel.

Sir, ‘twas all one: A papered Walker stud,

Harlan Berry’s basset, or some old mutt—

She’d give them a lusty ride—all and each—

At least the ones with legs enough to reach!

And I’ve watched her lie for some that couldn’t!

You think I should have let her? I wouldn’t

Let her litter my noted hunting blood—

I dare not!—with her shameful mongrel brood.

I might have chained or caged her, that is sure.

A man should keep his bitch’s bloodlines pure,

But I’m not one to fence a beating heart,

And it’s not likely I will ever start

Keeping my running hounds in a wire coop.

And, yet, well, there is the matter of poop.

She shit near the house right out by the stoop,

And I’ll tell you—I will not bend to scoop!

I gave commands; she growled. I whipped, no doubt,

With too much force just to straighten her out

And now the growling has ended. She stands

As if alive. Well, sir, these idle hands

Need to scramble. Let’s go look at the hounds.

Some of the sultans are making their rounds

Of the harem, so to speak, and will make

Some nobly fat pups. I hope you will take

One when the bitches are ready to whelp.

If you need a trainer, sir, I can help--

Though selling is my object. That one there,

With long floppy ears and fine brindle hair

Is my pride. His sire’s straight from Tennessee

But his bitch will always belong to me.

And, there you have it, on my first day back on the blog, you get two poems. ENJOY! And welcome back!