simple as sunshine
2 by Harry Calhoun
Half human, half dog
processing through the Himalayas
foot by foot,
claw by claw,
half human and half dog
surviving and even knowing
that half the hang of that climb
is not looking down,
I look down every instant
the way you can’t stop staring
at something you know
is scary, or eating something
bad for you, and while I might
not ever plant my flag at the peak
I plant my piton, inch by inch,
at the precarious spots
where I have stopped being afraid
of my own shadow
where my dog has overcome
his aggression to his own kind
onward and upward
Excelsior
broken
into
syllables
The poet on vacation
He writes as simple as sunshine
and crazy as the daylight moon
eating pork rinds. The poems are always
about a dog on the deck at the seashore,
looking at the sunlit ocean and dying
to get to the water. The water bowl
is full, but the dog neglects it,
treeing the beach, the ocean,
his desire. The poet understands,
a little tipsy saluting the ocean
with one swig left in his emptying
bottle of beer. It’s not the drinkable quality
or absolute quantity that matter,
in water or in life. It’s the gap
between what we need and what
we want, the galloping free space between
the water bowl and the sea.
