going gray

go swiftly into

the darkened night

my beautiful gray russian blue

go swiftly into a rainbow bridge

I will stroke your fur one last time

as I cry these horrible teardrops

which feel heavy salty with bitter regrets.

go swiftly into darkened night

go gray beautiful sweet kitty

i will always remember our 16 years

together as owner and friend

go swiftly and silently to sleep

closing those emerald eyes one last time

but before you go always know

I have loved you long and well

I will miss you so.

Rest in peace my gray ghost Godzilla.

2000-2016

 

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missing pieces

IMG_0784missing pieces 10-24-15

you’ve passed away two days now

and there are pieces of you everywhere.

its the missing pieces, that i miss.

the sound of your sharp howl bark

the snap of your jaws and teeth-(as you would try to “speak”)

the click-clackey clack of your paws and nails

on our wood floors.

there’s even bits and pieces of your thick

wool like fur on the staircases.

there’s the empty spot where you would lay

under the dining room table.

these missing pieces of the old dog I loved.

the house feels lonely and much quieter now.

letting you go was very hard.

now your somewhere better and hopefully

at peace. No longer in pain just another dog angel

in a sky filled of stardust. But I’m left with memories

and missing pieces of my friend.IMG_0225

Wool

Wool-

Weds 10-21-15

Wool-

your fur feels like wool

my loyal shiba inu

but as i pet you it comes off in patches.

my breath catches,

deep in my throat -deep down in the place

where tear rivers flow.

and I don’t know

how to say goodbye?

Lord only knows

how hard we tried

to save you from illness and grief.

now as a last resort

is putting you to sleep.

But that’s for tomorrow.

today is for saying goodbye

and your fur feels like wool.

your sleeping most of the time now.

at 13 or 14 years old your no longer

our spunky friend.

you’ve slowed down but we both love you so much.

Tomorrow morning will come soon enough.

I wish there was a way to properly

say goodbye and i love you

my loyal shiba inu.IMG_0225

Rest in peace Moshi Moshi Feb 2001-10/22/15

The Weeping Widow

The weeping widow-12/31/14

Emily Sturgill

The Weeping Widow

She always is in a state of

emotional disarray, turmoil, nothing

can change or stop this

it never goes away.

The Weeping Widow

She is often at her wits end,

constantly in mourning

grieving each and every lost

relative or friend.

The Weeping Widow

relives each death like a cassette

tape on the rewind.

It is the only thing she focuses

on, her mourning, their deaths, her pain.

I watch her go through these moments

almost daily.

It’s obvious to me, she clearly needs

therapy, yet she refuses to go.

I am so unsure why Death

has such a huge hold on her,

but it does and she will not let it go.

It seems like everyday on our calendar is

a reminder-to her-of the death of someone

She once loved and lost,

she turns to me

confides in me

constantly

but I am unable to bear this burden

her cross

her loss.

I cannot replace who is missing-

all  I can do is offer to listen.

And then there comes this sharp ended

point where I cannot hear it anymore.

 

The Weeping Widow

relives each death like a cassette

tape on the rewind.

It is the only thing she focuses

on, her mourning, their deaths, her pain.

I watch her go through these moments

almost daily.

 

 

Not enough

Not enough-

Dec 26th, 2014

Friday Afternoon 2:49 EST

Not enough

Never enough

Not enough

sleep.

Not enough,

to eat.

Not enough,

to touch the sky & kidnap the Sun.

Not enough, to learn how to fly,

just enough to become

untied

undone.

Not enough to reach outwards and find it.

Not enough to reach out, and grab the happy

right off someone else’s face,

because my happy

its become erased

misplaced

lost confusion.

It’s just not enough,

to fix up this place.

It’s not enough to straighten

this room, to clean between the cracks, to sweep

a broom across this dusty room

deep inside my minds eye.

Not enough,

to touch the sky & kidnap the Sun.

Not enough, to learn how to fly,

just enough to become

untied

undone.

It’s not enough to

try to run, to sprint, to finish

the race.

I’m fresh out of lungs

the air is too sharp, cold and dry-

It’s not enough,

to just sit here

waiting for you

to get home.

It’s not enough, to be a failure as a housewife,

to be a successful lunatic

with a Masters Degree

and no job prospects.

It’s not enough

to be a crazy person,

living on SSDI, it’s not enough, to always

live in someone else’s shadow

it’s not enough

to be the ghost

you can come home

and answer too.

Don’t you understand?

My wings may have melted, because I flew

too closely to the Sun

but I have dreams too.

I do not long to be

someone else’s

no one.

Sad Song to an Old Dog…

Sad song

to an old dog…

You are getting older

slower, sleeping more, you seem

to be hiding from us more often.

i wish you could speak with words

instead of flowing furry feelings,

such sad eyes.

Are you old friend in pain?

Will we know when that time comes?

Will we know when saying goodbye to you,

is the most necessary and humane thing to do?

How will I be able to tell?

When you do not walk so well?

When you stop eating or drinking?

When you stop dreaming?

Will we know when the time comes to put you down?

Will we know when it is best for you, to visit, that fabled “Rainbow Bridge.”??

How do we know when it is best for us to let you go?

A sad sad song for an old mighty dog.

I cannot help but selfish wish,this choice comes later, rather than sooner.

We still love you so very much.

Your a part of Us.

You still eat your treats, wag your tail, jump up to greet us,

still long to play or have a pet between your ears.

So afraid to let go of you before your time.

We never want to hurt you-or desert you.

I hope that day comes later rather than sooner.

I am still not ready for that final goodbye. 

You still have that twinkle in your eye. That smile upon your lips.

A good friend, the best kind.

oh, gosh how will we ever know, when that time comes

to say one last goodbye?

IMG_0225

My inner wild child

My inner child

is wild, angry and more than a bit

crazy.

She sits well with rage.

The rage I cannot tell.

The kind which feels unlawful

so I hide it well.

 

I hide it beneath

piles of dirty blankets

inside my mind.

I try to smother this rage

deep inside, with the hopes

it will not eat at me

from the inside out.

I hide my anger well-

I cover it with doubt.

 

My inner child, she’s a wild thing.

She deals with all

of my secret pain,

so that I can begin again.

 

They say certain nasty

words about angry women.

It’s as if anger is never allowed.

 

I want to be the “nice girl”.

I want to be polite.

I want to fit in

and never start any fist fights.

 

But despite it all

deep within

my inner child she is ranting and raving

eager to escape at my seams,

she swallowed a sky of my

emotions and I watch

from a safe distance

 

as she erupts

like a volcano

into my dreams.

Not my circus, not my monkeys…

An old proverb
has been circling the
cybersphere lately…
Not my circus, not my monkeys.

I ponder its meaning.
As I re-examine
lost souls in my life.

sometimes the drama
is much too great
much too overwhelming
to engage in.

Not my circus, not my monkeys.
As I imagine cotton candy
high wire acts, a circus of
clowns.

Sometimes you can care
for a person quite
a lot but you do not
wish to go down the dark
hole of a tunnel
within them.

You try to lend
a helping hand
to lead them out of their darkness.

but as you try to grasp
for them their hand
just disappears and vanishes
into deep depression.

and its like a tornado
has a hold of them
and they are trying to
pull you down with their ship
like someone who is
only interested
in drowning.

and then you whisper
shellshocked,
not my circus.
not my monkeys.

Cold Coffee

Cold Coffee-5/23/14

Coffee’s getting cold.
As I sit here,
thinking
Bold…
Color combinations upon
a broken painter’s palette.

Coffee’s getting cold.
As I sit here,
feeling old…
nothing is so fleeting
as Life is Stealing
years and years from Us All,

beginning each and everyday
the thief of time
steals of years away.

but I regress…
Coffee’s getting cold.
Black liquid velvet dripping
into a cup, a cup that holds
love.

This coffee cup
from which I sip
once belong to my long-dead
Mother.

I treasure it because
it was once hers.

But Coffee’s getting cold,
as I just sit here
thinking
drinking black coffee
thinking my life away

piece by piece
word by word
poem by poem

a whisper in
the wind
lies unheard.

but…

Coffee’s getting cold.

My Mama when she was young

My Mama when she was young