Old Jack
The beagle is outside again trying to eat
the bees who cannot quit our Russian sage.
No, this is not the beagle’s first rodeo and
yes, historically this has not gone well.
He always ends up bucked off with stingers
in his jowls and his dog-nity quite bruised.
I’ve had the won’t-you-ever-learn-pal? talk with him many times now, and I do suppose I will once more, for like the bees that refuse to quit I too cannot give up on Old Jack for when not face-first in the purple sage he sticks closer than a brother.
I’ve had the won’t-you-ever-learn-pal? talk with him many times now, and I do suppose I will once more, for like the bees that refuse to quit I too cannot give up on Old Jack for when not face-first in the purple sage he sticks closer than a brother.
I now declare that your dog poems as good as (and perhaps better than) those of Mary Oliver. And so you know, I (alone, it seems) enjoyed Dog Songs immensely.
I also love Dog Songs and this poem too.
love “the bees who will not quite our Russian sage.” Also loved the phrasing and imagery from a few days back, “go mow the emerald grass in diagonal rows and pull purple thistles from the fence and startle the grey rabbit.” There seems to be a new layer of something in your last few. can’t put my finger on it, but it does tug