Sonnet 75 — to awaken fully healed
Didst thou awaken on this morning fine?
Didst thou sense the light through window yon?
Was thou bewarmed by earliest sunshine?
Then, thou stand tall and greet the early dawn.
To sleep each night is an act of faith
That thou shall waken in the morn.
Renewed by sleep, we rouse, suffering no scaith.
No corpse are we, no soul needs to mourn.
It is a simple act, to gently close one’s eyes
And give the mind and soul a time to heal
Whilst in the sleep, one’s body’s free to fly,
And who’s to say, it’s not the dream that’s real?
To sleep, perchance to dream, sayeth the Bard
To awaken fully healed, and never scarred.
We lost Otzi in January, 2019; one week after my Father died at 86. We lost Lucy in August, 2020. This past month, Millie, too, passed on. Brave, loyal, loving, funny — our dogs were all those, and more.
They all possessed the true hearts of dogs.
Sonnet 143 — The Heart of dogs
’Tis rare the heart that’s worth the love of dogs;
few are so clean of heart and pure of soul.
I say this with much certainty because
’tis in the hearts of dogs sit troves of gold.
No dog has ever robbed another blind,
Great books arise from a convergence of trifles. The best books are not built on cataclysm or epiphany. Great books are built around a series of human incidents, until, like a set of Legos® which becomes a dinosaur,, something magical has been constructed.
Imagine for a moment, in 2016, another book is released about the tragedy of 9/11. It was a horrible day, that day in 2001. However, with fourteen years of academic hindsight; those acts dissected through our understanding of terrorism, history, economics, anger, marginalization, hate — a book is published that interests few who are not scholars.
This piece originally appeared on Dads Roundtable.
2019 Update- We’re down to two. My dad, Mort, died in January at 87.
On the second Sunday in April, I sat on the edge of the couch with Mort, my 82 year old Dad, and his 21 year old grandson Aaron; my only child. It was Masters Sunday; 63 holes played, only the back nine to go, where the Masters tourney is won and lost. …
March has been a difficult month.
Indeed, losing a pup is always terrible. We hold them so close, and they, too, love us back. We lost Millie (above) two weeks ago. Inoperable brain tumor. We lost our Lucy in August. To put down our deeply ailing pets is an act of kindness, honor, and heartache. Over the last few weeks, I’ve written a lot of stuff about our dogs. Thanks for reading and clapping and all the kind things you do. Much love, friends.
Sonnet 141 — a dog’s heartsong
Our dog patrolled her yard for one last time.
It has been a difficult month…
It has been a difficult month. Millie, we discovered late February, had an inoperable brain tumor. It affected her motor skills, her balance, and it stole her vision. She started to have seizures; uncontrollable , heartbreaking seizures. Our vet: a kind, gentle, loving, and bright man, tried to manage her with several meds. He was up front, we were buying time, and as a science guy, I appreciated his honesty.
Sonnet 139 — the seizure
I watch my pup; around the yard she stumbles.
She’s older now, and blind; no longer spry. …
We moved into our house twenty years ago. I was a teacher, and spent the summer at work in the yard. I supervised the external make-over. I did what I could to make the inside of the house shipshape. I spent a lot of time driving to the hardware store and lumber yard. I noticed that on many of my drives out of the neighborhood, I often saw the same young woman out on a walk. She was around thirty. I mentioned her one day to my wife.
“You mean that woman with the dark hair,” Cath asked, “in the…
Number 10 in my protest series of sonnets.
Fain I stood; proud and tall atop the hill.
Such vantage point, I watched the twinkling lights.
For I’d been charged with keeping beacons filled,
safeguard henceforth, each lamp burn stellar bright.
Fair was the post, lamps vouchsafed to my care.
Ne’er once did I let one lone light quiver;
whilst in my presence, breathing selfsame air,
’twas oft a gift to be true care giver.
We weathered many storms, my lamps and I,
Illness, snow fall, lightning, and the rest
In times of grief, we clung as one and cried;
we prayed that all might be heaven blest.
There is great joy, to keep those lamps a’lit.
May my stone read thus, when my life is writ.
— — June 2020. [David L. Stanley:DStan58]
None of us can save the world alone. Yet, all of us must try.
Number 9 in my #BlackLivesMatter protest series.
Sonnet 72 — i must try
For too long, I found myself heartbroken
each time I heard another racist storm.
At every onslaught, I was more awoken;
today, I fight. This cannot be the norm.
Black men lynched; I am dead amongst the trees.
“Tis my life snuffed; cops shot Breonna dead.
That’s my son I see, crushed by blue line knees.
When hate prevails, all souls on Earth are bled.
I cannot stand and witness one more death.
If you can make it through the early morning, with nothing but your racing thoughts for company, you can do anything.
Sonnet 71 — the bleak times
Two in the morning, words lose their meaning.
Three in the morning, they are but raw sounds.
Four in the morning, one should be dreaming,
Five in the morning, when one comes unwound.
The hours of darkness let one’s mind wander.
Not always to the most cheerful of sights.
It’s in those bleak times one starts to ponder
If one wants to fight through one more dark night.
You saddle your courage, get…
DStan58 is a teacher, a writer, a dad, a voice-over actor and poet. He's a melanoma survivor and a pulmonary embolism survivor. He's bringing sonnets back,