My Cats

(This poem was written at Candlemas [Feb. 2], 2012, and is among the fifteen or so selections included in my touring show, Oceans of Feelings: A Concert of Poetry. For more information on that show, go here.)



My Cats: The Puker (left) and The Fattie

My cats are getting the best of me,

they think they run the house,
and if I assert my rightful place
as proprietor of our domestic space
I’m sure to feel like a louse.

The one overeats and pukes it up,

the other overeats and grows fat.
So, as I buy the food they so abuse
and also pay the rent,
it seems reasonable, at least to me,
to regulate their daily feed.

Instead of their bowls always full,

which is the way they like it,
I set meals at four a day,
with portions evenly distributed.
That’s breakfast, lunch, and supper
with also a midnight snack.
But neither of them likes the change.
They want to turn it back.

 The puker, with her owl-like stare,

who no longer pukes so much,
occupies my office space,
perched upon an open shelf
just behind my writing desk,
a few inches above my head.
From there she beams her evil eye
deep into my receptive brain.
“Feed me at once or you will die!”
Way more than any cat should claim!
I whirl in my chair,
snatch her up with a bark,
deposit her outside in the hall,
shut the door with a growl of a curse,
ignore her indignant caterwauls,
and try to resume my work!

 And when I walk about the house,

the would-be fatty, were it not for me,
runs back and forth between my feet,
desperate, starving, smooth as oil,
eyes cast up imploringly.
“Isn’t it time to fill my bowl?”
As I trip over her—damn near fall!—
and, lifting her up on top my foot,
flip her—humanely—to one side,
only to have her bounce back again,
weaving between my every step,
until I scoop her up in my arms
and deposit her on the lawn outside.

 I’m glad that summer is coming,

but I wish it here today,
so I could write outside in my yard
or over on the beach by the bay.
I think if my cats were much bigger,
with their claws and their needle-like teeth,
they’d plot to have me for their dinner,
making short work of their servant-in-chief.

But then, when they curl up in my lap,

satisfied that their feeding is done,
and purr, and seem so well-contented,
pleased with the home that they’re in,
I’m swayed from my irritability
and glad I’ve adopted them both,
so fetchingly peaceful and loving—
when they’ve gotten their way
and their bellies are full
for an hour, or two at the most.

Yet they sleep in my lap so adorably

as I scratch and stroke their warm coats.

A Medley of Poems for My Sister Kate

(These short poems were originally intended as a personal gift to my youngest sister, who grieved for the recent loss of her dog. But, as she posted them on her daily prayer blog on Jan. 27, I decided to share them as well.)

 

          1.

Unbearable grief
has many friends
among the angels.

          2.
And seeing their sorrow
the Prophet stepped forth, saying,
“When conditions are favorable for my nature,
I manifest.
When conditions are no longer favorable for my nature,
I cease to manifest.
I am not born.
I do not die.
I only change my form.”

And he continued, saying,

“Today I am as you see me,
tomorrow I am a cloud.
I am happy to be among you,
and I am happy to be a cloud.
It is a happy thing
never to be born,
never to die.”

          3.

Sorrow is the mother of happiness.
She creates him
out of longing
for the end of suffering.
Happiness cannot exist without sorrow.

Then feel the sorrow deep.

Be helpless in despair.
The happiness
about to be born
will be
so much greater
after hard labor.

          4.

I love my watch,
but the band wore out,
and Walmart’s doesn’t have
a replacement.
What kind of shit is that?
Making a watch with a band
that won’t last
and I can’t get a new one?
I see conspiracy in this,
when I pay money for a watch
I want to keep
but can’t replace the band.

Oh, well!

Once again
that thieving Time
has played a trick on me,
teaching me surrender
to what I cannot change,
detaching from a watch I love...
moving on...
leaving behind...
my old way
of telling Time.

          5

I get a lot of pleasure
when I remember those who’ve died,
a field of family, friends, and pets
living boldly in my mind.

And the tragedy of death

has no meaning then.
Once you heal from grief,
you remember only fun.

A Rare Event

At sunset last night,

an eclipsed Moon rose in the East,
a rare event we could not see
behind the storm clouds piling in,
rocking the coastal skies so violently
that the Bay-Bridge Tunnel,
engineering marvel of the twentieth century,
was forced to close.
Thunder cracked just overhead,
you thought for a moment you’d been shot.
Lights flickered, and some went out,
electric poles flashed balls of fire,
storm drains backed up to flood the streets
all across old Norfolk town
while sirens screamed from many directions
when the eclipsed Moon rose last night—
a rare event we didn’t have to see
to know what such an omen means.