Night comes on like
an old hound lumbering
in from the field.
I don't fight it.
I'm getting too old.
I sit with pen in hand,
and wait for the
darkness to show
me something.

I think about vaginas and
Ireland and fish that
hunt a t night.
I think about
Bukowski and
Beethoven, and the
*******, and a kernel
of corn.
I think about my
life and this night, and
how it is better than
those near-death years of
caterwauling and chaos;
drunk by the river, lonely
as a glass snake.
I was living to drink, and
didn't give a **** about
anyone.
I was searching.
I found it
when the light came.

I'm unsure what it is about these majestic creatures that first drew me in
From a young age I longed to be surrounded by them

I made friends with a neighbour
she tolerated my company well enough. That smell, molasses and grains barrels high. Her dusty old feed shed with hands just as grey

I made friends with a girl who was just as obsessed. We would play "horses" all recess. I would stay every weekend holidays too quizzing each other on horse facts we knew

I'm unsure how I still admire these creatures. I've been kicked. Though never bit.
I've been holding on for dear life while the horse gallops and kicks
Yet I'd get on a horse tomorrow and feel just as I did as a kid

Your song always finds me sweet little piwakawaka
Reminding me to stop
To slow down among the chaos
To appreciate each blessing no matter how small

Your song it guides me Sweet little piwakawaka
Finding me among the thicket dancing around me as I make my way along

Your song it fills my heart with love sweet little piwakawaka
Reminding me of the gifts I've been given bearing life into the world
Reminding me of the ones that have passed keeping them in my heart

Your song it lifts me sweet little piwakawaka
Out of darkness and the gloom

The cats gather
en masse every
time I sit
down to write.
One by one, they
jump up on the
big maple desk,
and walk across the
keyboard.

Mojo swats at
Shadow's tail.
Bukowski nips at
my fingers as they
peck at the keys.
It's going to be
a long night.
The cats don't
understand poetry
or marketing.
Shadow hisses, and
jumps down.
Bukowski gets
bored, and bites at
the cords.
He gets overly
excited, and slips off
the back of the desk.
The wild look in
his eyes flash
centuries of power
and sadness.

I think of my feral
days on the streets,
stealing *****, and
sleeping under
bridges in
December.
I wrote my words on
the walls of the
abandoned
houses.
And now,
such beautiful
providence.
I quit drinking and
I live in a town with
a clear lake.  I catch
fish and eat them.
I've published three
books and I write my
poetry on a
computer that my
three cats view as
a playground.

Sometimes,
it all seems like a
furry dream.

How it started
Running around the playground squealing with laughter.
Building stables on the field
Or witchy poo on the fort
Over 2 decades of knowing you. Experiencing life alongside you.
I watched in awe as you raised your family, and held it together all of these years Watching you grow into this unstoppable, firecly strong woman you are today
Ever need me, I'll be there
I'll never be in your pocket, or the other end of the phone every day
You'll always be like family to me, sorry but you ain't getting rid of me