I glance over at your tree barks
standing like Bohemian soldiers
in your yard never touched,
hoping to find you wandering
on the same path as me,
or riding the water of ocean waves,
when I suddenly bump into your psyche
in the ethers which connect us,
as you quietly ask my name
and together we scribble something
the world outside us
is of no essence—
what only matters
is your name in fantasies and dreams
we weave inside already planted roots.
You urge me to scribe and shape
what sleeps in my broken, lust-free heart,
what’s gathered upon its collapsed chambers,
but I glance up to waters which connect us,
in front of the table where
your wine was served
centuries ago when you promised
to strip the shadows of my mind
in the hope to give back
all that the world has taken away
on the water where you wrote
the word lust for me with the sun’s morning rays.
In my face in your face in the world’s face
that’s where my dog’s butt was during every hour last night and I wish I could say that he thought he was protecting me from the Lock Ness monster or something, but it was just him telling me his deep-seated fear, probably established by some childhood trauma, which is what people do these days, blame shit on their childhood because they don’t want to take responsibility for who the hell they are, but while writing, I realize that there’s no way my dog, as smart as he is because he knows I am coming home even before I do, could possibly be so psychologically in-tune, but who knows, anyway, back to the monster wind and my eight hours of interrupted sleep, worse than the kind of my newborn babies who were at least consoled by me jamming my milk-swollen breast into their small innocent mouths to shut them up, but no this dog was inconsolable and thought by licking every inch of my exposed skin and making circles on every inch of my bed to find the perfect position parading back and forth on my still body trying to hold a book to read while wagging his tail back and forth upon its pages, just because he thought I could protect him from the monster wind which was only after him and the sleep which I wish I had. do they make ear plugs for canines? please send asap.
Diana Raab, Ph.D. is an award-winning poet, memoirist, blogger, essayist and speaker. Her book, “Writing for Bliss: A Seven-Step Plan for Telling Your Story and Transforming Your Life” is forthcoming in 2017.
Raab is a regular blogger for Psychology Today, Huff50 (The Huffington Post), and PsychAlive. More at dianaraab.com.
Diana Raab Ph.D.