Poem is My Dog
Sprite is my dog,
To whom I pour my laughter and tear.
It leads me through damp fog,
In the morning walks when it senses my fear.
“Arf arf”--joy overflows its tiny torso.
“Nnn...nnn…”this contagious clump of sadness weeps in a corner.
A believer of constant catharsis, as it
chases ferociously its indocile tail,
indulges obliviously in its rawhide chew--
A jester, a loco; a childish child, a mournful mourner.
Sprite is my dog
Who inspires my curiosity--
Why do leaves fall instead of flying toward the sky?
Why is a caterpillar also a butterfly?
Why can’t I eat two bowls of biscuits?
Why do I poop red when I steal mommy’s bowl of beets?
I adventure in a world so marvellous,
To satisfy my inquisitiveness.
Every day I explore,
as ferociously as when my dog wuffs for more.
Poem, to me, is like Sprite:
Sometimes fastidious: a haiku as Sprite carefully approaching a blue jay;
Sometimes wild and crazy: a Whitman as Sprite waddling in a puddle;
Sometimes as cheery as Sprite’s staring eyes;
Sometimes as sullen as the little sad figure after a bad haircut.
I learn, I grow, I celebrate my failure and success,
As joyfully as my fellow squirrel chaser.
I love and I hate and I live and I express.
“Love” as my hoarded bone collection; “hate” as the cats of the neighbor.
Sprite will leave me one day, but never will poem.
As I weave my thoughts into countless verses,
A million times, as the “fetches” that Sprite rehearses.