His Master’s Voice?

They must think us dogs

salivating to their bells

doing tricks for tiny treats!


And how can they not

when we drool at every cue

playing games they tell us to?


Is there any choice?

After all, they hold the cards

and set the rules we must regard.


Why must we regard

their arbitrary edicts

when their only care

is their self-serving interests?

Bite the hands that feed, I say!

Ignore their strident bellows!

Exercise our every freedom!

Let us run across the meadows!

A Teatime Long Forgotten 

While strolling through the forest,

I find a thinning of the trees,

where broken bricks jut from the earth

among a floor of emerald green

and daffodils, in stately rows,

march between the younger trees.

A pair of boxwood side by side

thrive in mounds, both tall and wide,

grown unruly, no tending love,

as wisteria drape the boughs above.

There is a silence hanging here, 

A sense of expectation breathes,

And there, amid the blades of grass,

a china cup, half filled with leaves.


Today I taught him,

my son, to shave.

And again I feel

that familiar twang,

joy,mixed with sorrow,

with sadness, with joy.

Elated, I am, to share this with him.

Sorry, that is was not my old man,

whose legacy, this day, I pass down.

Sad in that way, this one more time.

Yet filled, am I, once more 

with the love, for my grandpa,

my mentor,

my namesake,

my friend,

who taught me

to shave,

to live,

to love, 

and to be a man.

* this one’s for you guys:

Andrew Vought Garrabrant 

26 May 1915 – 4 May 2006


Ian Andrew Garrabrant