The Day the Magic Died

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Yesterday morning, one day before my birthday, a tragically short five years and six months after Magic entered into my life, transformed it, brought wonder into it, brought unending happiness, brought his massive yet gentle strength into my life, brought his antics, his sense of wonder, his joy, his vitality, his total awareness of everything around him, one day before my birthday, my solace and strength in my isolation, my companion, the evanescent life of German Shepherd dog Magic ended. An as yet unknown person had carelessly or wantonly strewn rodent poison where Magic couldn’t help but find it.

Last night I knew that if I walked into the bedroom I would feel Magic happily trotting after me, eager to take his place on his blanket beside my bed. I did not want to wake up this morning and not feel his probing nose, Magic’s way of saying

:::come on alpha new day nothing but delicious food and chew toys and tennis balls and rabbits and seedpods and butterflies and birds up in the sky to chase sunshine and fun out there.:::

I sat on the couch in a semi-darkened room all night. I hoped to meditate, but how foolish, how could my mind not replay the years of Magic? Magic was his name because the word described his soul better than any other word could possibly describe it.

Magic is not a name you can just hand to a vital living creature. The first moment they look into your eyes, they announce in a matter of fact yet certain way, a way you will never doubt, that your life needs magic and they are that magic.

:::that’s me call for magic i’ll come running:::

Those eyes talk because a magical creature needs no words, dismisses them, cares not a bit about words.

:::that’s us together we’re magic we become one:::

Two large dark eyes look deeply into your eyes, their warm and gentle bearer yips and licks and wiggles

:::we found a home a mission a promise of unending happiness we found you:::

They say

:::just give us a tennis ball that squeaks or a piece of fresh chicken and we’re good to go never to leave your side there is no otherness all that we see hear and smell is one all of us are one endless web of unbroken vibrating energy eternally now without a past of sorrows don’t question it because we don’t question it as it embraces us all it is us it is a promise it is connection it is good:::

Magic continues

:::we’ll always remind you of something it is more important than anything in the universe even more than squeaky tennis balls and fresh chicken:::

To take you for a walk? To rub your belly?

:::foolish alpha without as much sense and knowing as we have know this there is magic beyond everything we all see or don’t see an unknowable essence of creation that makes all things has made all things from the beginning without a beginning and end that never ends our love proves it all connectedness demonstrates and glorifies it try not to forget the connection is forever call it magic:::

I brought home a warm puppy who matured into a prince of his species, like a mythical magnificent Pegasus, who embodied all of its charisma, and its legends.

That’s all I can say right now.

Magic Ghibor, 2 Oct. 2008 – 31 May 2014

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The Wild Swans At Coole By William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

The Wild Swans At Coole
By William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

William Butler Yeats Irish Poet

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.
Unwearied still, lover By lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake’s edge or pool
Delight men’s eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?

William Butler Yeats Irish Poet

 

 

“William Butler Yeats (1865–1939) was an Irish poet and one of the foremost figures of 20th century literature. A pillar of both the Irish and British literary establishments.” (Wikipedia)

Dirge Without Music By Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

Dirge Without Music By Edna St. Vincent Millay

Dirge Without Music (Excerpt)
By Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

“More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.”

Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

“Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950) was an American lyrical poet and playwright. She received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923, the third woman to win the award for poetry, and was also known for her feminist activism and her many love affairs.” (Wikipedia)

Ode To A Nightingale By John Keats (1795-1821)

Ode To A Nightingale By John Keats (1795-1821)

…tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster’d around By all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

John Keats (Wikipedia)

John Keats (Wikipedia)

 

 

John Keats (1795–1821) was one of the English Romantic poets. “He was one of the main figures of the second generation of Romantic poets along with Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley.” (Wikipedia)

Winter Stars By Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

Winter Stars By Sara Teasdale

I went out at night alone;
The young blood flowing beyond the sea
Seemed to have drenched my spirit’s wings—
I bore my sorrow heavily.
But when I lifted up my head
From shadows shaken on the snow,
I saw Orion in the east
Burn steadily as long ago.
From windows in my father’s house,
Dreaming my dreams on winter nights,
I watched Orion as a girl
Above another city’s lights.
Years go, dreams go, and youth goes too,
The world’s heart breaks beneath its wars,
All things are changed, save in the east
The faithful beauty of the stars.

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

Sara Teasdale (Wikimedia Image)

 

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933) was an American lyric poet.”In 1918 she won a Pulitzer Prize for her 1917 poetry collection Love Songs. It was ‘made possible by a special grant from The Poetry Society’ but the sponsoring organization now lists it as the earliest Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.” (Wikipedia)

The Solitary Reaper By William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

The Solitary Reaper By William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing By herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

 

Part 1. Verses 1 and 2 of 4. Graphical illustration in digital media of classic British poetry by William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

The Solitary Reaper By William Wordsworth-Part 2

The Solitary Reaper By William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;—
I listen’d, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

Part 2. Verses 3 and 4 of 4. Graphical illustration in digital media of classic British poetry by William Wordsworth (1770-1850).