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Jacqueline Kinloch Poem
Time may change me
But I can't trace time
-David Bowie
piercing morning winds threaten
to strip the trees of their
orange, golden and crimson gowns;
the resilient foliage
gripping tightly to the branches,
determined to stay tethered
and ablaze for another day.
over coffee I look into my
daughter’s hazel eyes,
her once determined gaze
lacks purpose, motivation
fear of failure and exhaustion
inhabit her pale, freckled face.
like the autumn leaves,
she is not ready to let go.
Copyright © Jacqueline Kinloch | Year Posted 2023
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Details |
Jacqueline Kinloch Poem
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
Yesterday she was running and playing.
Today she is lying on her right side,
head resting motionless on the quilt
she loved and destroyed as a playful pup.
Her tail wags as I enter the room.
Her left eye following my every move.
I try to calm her fears and confusion,
stroking her head, kissing her gentle face,
whispering that everything is OK,
although I’m lying and she knows it.
The veterinarian enters the room.
It is time to say our final goodbyes.
I plant one last kiss on her tawny head
and rest my hand on her outstretched paw.
The final moments of her life, determined now
by the last push of the syringe.
She does not linger; with one last exhalation
I feel her spirit desert her tired body.
A wave of sorrow overcomes me.
Gutted and overwhelmed with grief,
I let the tears flow.
She seems at peace but I don’t want to
abandon my trusted companion
in this bright, sterile room.
I shut off the lights and sit with her for a few minutes.
Twelve years of memories muddled
with the sadness of today’s events.
My grief; the price I must pay for
her unconditional love.
Copyright © Jacqueline Kinloch | Year Posted 2023
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Details |
Jacqueline Kinloch Poem
What is the point of grandma’s lullaby
if the child nestled in her arms
cannot be soothed?
Or the wail of the bagpipes,
lost as easily as the soldier’s body,
bloody and bruised.
See the shrike
and her cries in the wind,
left unheard and reproved.
By this, music is forgotten,
and seen as a mere
needle in a groove.
Copyright © Jacqueline Kinloch | Year Posted 2023
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