Between Creating: Ode to Max

Max cold nose warm heartIn The space between creating–

NOT my special place to be

It’s full of sad and “arms are empty”

listless, flat and empty . . .


He gave me purpose

when I felt alone and useless looking for another place to anchor life.

How can smalls be so large when

large things are empty

and ceased to care or be the part of what they are to me

the smalls are nice and good and kind except for Maxie Boy bit mine

when I would try to interfere

with some imagined slight I might have messed with sense of self

I do not know

a thing so small can bring such joy and join me to the call of love I cannot feel when all else fails I want to feel


and loving is so easy with a small and feisty soul whose garrulousness behold

said not a word against me no,

but a bite, or two, would work for “no”.

I think a bite is much preferred to words or silences of hate–a bite–Max cold nose warm heartyes there’s an antidote for that.

But where’s the salve for punctured hearts and lonely souls????


Author: Margaret Huntley Harrison

I’m a painter using my gifts to transform the seemingly ordinary into the beautiful and extraordinary. What I love more than anything is tracking down, creating, and spreading the beauty in our amazing world! And I LOVE helping you find and spread your beauty into your home, your family and your world. Art for sale: Margaret Huntley Harrison

4 thoughts on “Between Creating: Ode to Max”

  1. Dear Margaret, I am grieved at Max’s passing and the empty arms you now have. This is a gut-wrenching yet beautifully composed lament and I pray you will be enabled to transpose your grief into more artistic expressions such as this. May the Lord be with you as you grieve the loss of your friend. Much love, Jennifer

    1. Thank you so much Jennifer! I wrote this 3 weeks after he passed–just this last Thursday night. I friend in my online group had suggested I write some little stories about Max and that might help. I have found that when I’m sad a poem is what needs to come out. And it is weird how they do–seem to come out with very little effort–maybe a little book in the future with my poems on one side of the page and a happy painting on the other. The painting the salve for the cry of the soul. I know you understand this as you feel very deeply dear friend. Love you, Margaret

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