xo Hiro
.-= Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #4 =-.

The number four
Eases curbside,
Hiss, pop,
Flap doors open,
We step in,

Doors close.
Driver nods at my bus pass,
Glances at Hazel,
Pulls out onto Division Street.

Facing the isle, the faces,
Gauntlet of strangers, we stumble
To find a seat.
She plants her rear between my legs
Bracing against staggering stops and starts.

A dog on the bus, wearing a cape,
In service.
Gushing glances skim her soft fur,
Hands hunger, arms twitch,
Wanting, blood runs warmer, in spots.

Unspoken stir, attention gathers, minds
Wake up wondering.
Is there something wrong with the woman?
Is she blind, deaf, epileptic? Concerned,
The front-seated move, offering their place.

“Can I pet your dog?” Shoulder tap, “M’am,
What kind of dog is she, what does she do?”
“Is she a service dog? Can I touch her?”
“I could never bring my dog on a bus.”
“Mommy, look at how her eyebrows twitch.”

Life rises, mingles, slips and leaks.
Story scatters throughout the vessel.
Revealing one mystery: dog,
to touch, you, and you, to touch.
Dog, god, dog poised to give it away.

Bared hearts flail in the isle.
Trembling muscles, four-chamber symphonies
Glistening, reflecting lament, out
Of chests caught gaping for tenderness.

The number four
Eases curbside,
Hiss, pop,
Flap doors open,
We step out.

Warmer, in spots
Doors close.

Do you mind if I take your Sunday poetry ideas for dog-type poems?

Thank you for the invite. I look forward to coming back for more Sunday poetry.
.-= Kate Williams´s last post … First Words, with a Poetic Tribute to Hazel =-.

I am a river, flowing endlessly to the sea.
My eddies, rocks and waterfalls I once had dreamt were me.
But now that dream is ended,
My vision clear and free.
I know I am a river flowing endlessly to the sea.

The ocean is the Goddess.
My channel is Father Time.
Those eddies, rocks, and waterfalls
Are lives I’ve left behind.
Each bend conceals a life once lived
Reveals the one ahead,
Like beads strung on a necklace,
And the river is the thread.

I am a river, flowing endlessly to the sea;
A necklace being strung with lives
That all are lived by me.
And one day, when I reach that space
Where dreams of time are gone,
I’ll know I am the necklace
When the Goddess puts me on.
.-= Douglas Buchanan´s last post … Trivia about V for Vendetta =-.

Love, Hiro
.-= Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #4 =-.

I fell asleep
with a full moon
beaming on my leg
and I could not sleep
without writing it down
by light of ancient moon
and flashlight phone and fan
whirling summer onto goosebumps
and I said It is good—
it is good to be alive.
.-= Heidi Fischbach´s last post … What moves you? What turns you on? Shepard Fairey, at the ICA. =-.

Thank you so much for this gorgeous poem.
.-= Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #4 =-.

I watch her competent fingers
move across the neck
of the violin; her right hand
manipulates the bow and
a sounds emits.

It cuts through the kitchen
post-dinner malaise
and rings true within me, as I
sit there at the table,
As though I were the instrument…

My strings taut and tuned,
My fingerboard pressed by fingertips.
My insides hollowed out to produce both
both music and musician.
The womb

Creative, yet fallow,
reaches forward to claim
that which it no longer contains,
nurtures or protects.
The practiced notes evade its grasp

Intangible as smoke.
.-= amypalko´s last post … And The Day Came When… =-.