Trilobite is an arthropodologist's delight:
many bizarre creatures; no two alike.

Three Poems with Non-Human Animals and Longing in Them

Suzanne Doogan


Writing a song for myself
Crying and I’m thinking—
I don’t know why I do it

The light outside looked good today
When it shined off
The smooth objects in the yard—
There’s a metal ball in the pond
There’s an orange ceramic frog
And there’s his counterpart
The California Raisin

(“Are they a set?” Meg asked about the
CA Raisin and frog
“No … but a pair,” I told her)

I’m thinking—
The light outside definitely looked good today from
The kitchen window
And it definitely looked good when I walked right into it
From out the kitchen door
Later, too

When I looked at the light shining off
The smooth objects I didn’t think
Of other scenarios in which I might
Better enjoy the light

I just enjoyed the light, and I guess I enjoyed
The not comparing
Maybe I enjoyed comparing it
To the times I did
Compare before

In my neighborhood there’s a Kadampa meditation center
Cause of the pandemic I’ve never gone in
But I go hang outside on the stone bench
Facing the stone Buddha

A few weeks ago I started
Meditating after my friend
Lent me a book

So I sat on the stone bench
Faced the Buddha
Had the song in my pocket on my phone
Robin Williams singing the sea shanty
From the smacked Harry Nilsson Popeye soundtrack

Is not real

Not expecting
Is not real

Not hoping
Is not real

But we can be less rigid
I need to be less rigid

The whack a mole
Of the mind

Every so often
An idea pops in or out

The mole in whack a mole retreats
Whether they’re clubbed away or not

And the whack a mole comes back up
Fresh every time

God my life
I lay down on the bench
And I didn’t care while the tiny piece of cigarette I had fell
Onto the ground

Writing a song
I’m writing a song for myself and
I’m crying every time

I remember how I felt before
I wanna be unknowing like the mole
Like the mole, emerged from the underworld
With the dandelion stem
Around their neck
Sojourner of darkness and life and death


The days of cicadas are loud
And the nights of the cicadas are quiet
I don’t listen to how the droning calls of the cicadas
Harmonize with the Tone Poets tape
I heard about from Colin
And downloaded from the free archive

I don’t measure time by
When the cicada sounds start to die down
In the evergreens out past my window

I measure my time by how long it’s been since we last talked
How many tears are in my eyes
How many times each day I need to lie down


Two butterflies together
One: big yellow
Two: small white
Two butterflies
By the purple flowers
Whose names I don’t remember
Whose leaves look like weed
And stems

It is a day
I feel totally dry
Yeah totally

There is no time
Like the present that’s
Why they call it