I dare to care for what's touchable on this crazy black-dog day. Flute music and dish for lunch may make the day a miser's hoard, each hour golden, upwelling like buttercups, dandelions, tiger lilies. Wait, sit, stay-- I am on one end of the leash teaching anger to lie down at my heels.
Karen Douglass, Author 
2 responses to “Leashed”
I read you religiously, my friend, but don’t often enough think to let you know how much I enjoy your work. This poem, in this age of anger, especially bowled me over. Yes … for anger not to be dangerous, it has to submit to restraint, to discipline. So hard in this Age of Cults and con-people (have to open up the gender to include the likes of MTG). Keep the poetry coming, amiga!
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Thanks, good to hear from you ☺️
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