She is a brilliant Writer on Medium and is willing to take the journey along with me at A Cornered Gurlvia Medium. For the next two weeks, her first contribution to the publication,To Conclude, will be featured here. Everything about this work makes me love the authenticity of writing poetry, of releasing, of capturing love and all its counterparts in a most precise way. Smita does that and ends the poem solidly too.
Please encourage her heart, beautiful people.
Nothing ever ends well.
The sense of dread
you sometimes get
is all too real. Don’t brush it off.
Deals will be broken.
Your heart too.
What you thought would never
end on a bad note becomes a pool of dried blood,
a flood on the floor
that leaves a stain
with jagged edges that will scrape
at your heels and pinch your toes
so hard to make your eyes smart.
Nothing ever ends well. Don’t get fooled by promises
made and sealed
with a kiss.
You let the friend go
when you took on the lover
and if it turns with the weather
you will always and forever
need a thick sweater
to keep out the cold.
Remember, nothing ever ends well. It’s a myth made by minds
that want to go into enchanted forests
eat wild berries that stain the tongue
and swing widely from rungs
to fall into waiting arms
that won’t be there.
The leaves will crunch and crackle
under your weight
as your spine breaks
and you may never walk again.
The spirit may remake itself, sure.
But that’s the subject of another poem.
Tonight, just remember
nothing, when it ends, ends well.
nicknames aren’t what most aspire to.
we’re often saddled with descriptions
that lessen our personality,
but “the little Monster” suits Jernee.
on walks, she sets her eyes
curiously on nature’s green gifts,
sniffing out the elite versus the subpar.
she has a system.
I am watchful, yet patient.
I admire her investigative process, her
obsession with marking her territory.
I give her space to explore
crumbled earth between her toes,
the dust settling on her paws
becomes a lickable treat after two miles.
we break for hydration and deep breaths,
neither of us — as young as we feel.
during Winter, the dew-drenched grass
is slick and tricky but doesn’t trip
the quick pace of a four-legged athlete.
she glides through the sea of green
life is less difficult with her around.
the walks we take, they are glue
for pieces of me prone to breaking and
in need of constant repair.
she senses my love for them, for her.
in every step, I witness a pet
who is confident in her role as
caregiver, as companion.
I don’t have to be anyone else.
she gives me space to adapt
whenever adaptation is necessary.
I favor the weekend morning walk.
we stroll and strut and spend
our time wisely.
just us, the wind, God, and the clouds…
and the knowledge of a connection between a woman and her dog.
This is my eleventh year with Jernee by my side. You may hear people say, “I don’t know who rescued who,” but I do know and I can say without one shadow of doubt, that with her — I am much better. With her, I am alive.