Through long nursery nights he stood
By my bed unwearying,
Loomed gigantic, formless, queer,
Purring in my haunted ear
That same hideous nightmare thing,
Talking, as he lapped my blood,
In a voice cruel and flat,
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."

That one word was all he said,
That one word through all my sleep,
In monotonous mock despair.
Nonsense may be light as air,
But there's Nonsense that can keep
Horror bristling round the head,
When a voice cruel and flat
Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."

He had faded, he was gone
Years ago with Nursery Land,
When he leapt on me again
From the clank of a night train,
Overpowered me foot and head,
Lapped my blood, while on and on
The old voice cruel and flat
Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."

Morphia drowsed, again I lay
In a crater by High Wood:
He was there with straddling legs,
Staring eyes as big as eggs,
Purring as he lapped my blood,
His black bulk darkening the day,
With a voice cruel and flat,
"Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..." he said, "Cat! ... Cat!..."

When I'm shot through heart and head,
And there's no choice but to die,
The last word I'll hear, no doubt,
Won't be "Charge!" or "Bomb them out!"
Nor the stretcher-bearer's cry,
"Let that body be, he's dead!"
But a voice cruel and flat
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!"

In my childhood rumors ran
   Of a world beyond our door—
Terrors to the life of man
   That the highroad held in store.

Of mermaids' doleful game
   In deep water I heard tell,
Of lofty dragons belching flame,
   Of the hornèd fiend of Hell.

Tales like these were too absurd
   For my laughter-loving ear:
Soon I mocked at all I heard,
   Though with cause indeed for fear.

Now I know the mermaid kin
   I find them bound by natural laws:
They have neither tail nor fin,
   But are deadlier for that cause.

Dragons have no darting tongues,
   Teeth saw-edged, nor rattling scales;
No fire issues from their lungs,
   No black poison from their tails:

For they are creatures of dark air,
   Unsubstantial tossing forms,
Thunderclaps of man's despair
   In mid-whirl of mental storms.

And there's a true and only fiend
   Worse than prophets prophesy,
Whose full powers to hurt are screened
   Lest the race of man should die.

Ever in vain will courage plot
   The dragon's death, in coat of proof;
Or love abjure the mermaid grot;
   Or faith denounce the cloven hoof.

Mermaids will not be denied
   The last bubbles of our shame,
The Dragon flaunts an unpierced hide,
   The true fiend governs in God's name.

You, love, and I,
(He whispers) you and I,
And if no more than only you and I
What care you or I?

Counting the beats,
Counting the slow heart beats,
The bleeding to death of time in slow heart beats,
Wakeful they lie.

Cloudless day,
Night, and a cloudless day;
Yet the huge storm will burst upon their heads one day
From a bitter sky.

Where shall we be,
(She whispers) where shall we be,
When death strikes home, O where then shall we be
Who were you and I?

Not there but here,
(He whispers) only here,
As we are, here, together, now and here,
Always you and I.

Counting the beats,
Counting the slow heart beats,
The bleeding to death of time in slow heart beats,
Wakeful they lie.

A poem—
is just one more
scrap of paper
that has sailed off the table
in a bottle
with a cry for help.

Sons of *******
were born
with hearts of stone,
cherishing this stone
all their life.
Children of
sons of *******
were born
with hearts of grenade,
in order to
blow to pieces
everything,
and to leave as a message for their descendants —
entrails
(still smoking entrails)
of sons of *******.

On the sea-shore, smell of iodine,
and square as in Sicily, and dancing.

An intellectual that came from the common people,
preparing himself to be Rosencrantz.
He decides to serve Claudius and therefore
spy on Prince Hamlet from the fountain.

All over the world — the prison. At the world's
end a certain John plays the piano.

Already darkness, and the end is in sight :
Ophelia crying in an empty hut.
And Hamlet walks to and fro with white headband,
in order to be recognized by the Ghost in the gloom.

The Poet

Words of beauty grace the page
and images spring to bloom
Tenderness, heartbreak, rage –
sunshine bright or shadows darkly loom.

Such is the world of the Wordsmith;
of the poet’s heart, within.
The scent of apple blossoms with
the brisk zephyr for it’s kin.

The poet reaches to impart
the fitting metaphor
to open up the heart
as one might open up a door.

His bag of tricks, near magical,
his words ring clear and fine
to sing the world a madrigal
with the taste of summer wine.

Later in the evening
even the poet takes his pause
and an aging hand picks up the pen
to further shape his cause.

The body wearies with the years
but the mind stays young, and bold.
For all his laughter and his tears
the poet’s heart does not grow old.

Night has come upon him
as he closes tired eyes
sleep takes him to the rim
of sweet dreams and brighter skies.

Lin Cava©

Sadness touches the lines on her face.
A face that was once smooth with grace.
Age came visiting and left the trace,
Now she is searching to find her place.

Beauty did once belong to her,
She believed it would last forever.
But time has marked her like the weather,
She is now lost amongst the wild heather.

Once they used to call her the Celtic Queen.
For many her beauty was always seen,
Now faded like an actress on the silent screen.
She is wondering why life seems like a scene.

She sometime wishes that she could die,
Because for her faded beauty she will cry.
If to be beautiful again she would try,
Beauty has left her and she ponders why.

But if she opened her eyes to see,
That in my eyes she is always beauty.
Time come to us as it has to be.
My Celtic Queen always is beautiful to me.

The old man sat on the Stone of Knowledge,
He called the boy to him for the last time.
As the lad approached him he saw a tear drop,
flowing down the old mans cheek.
“Why do you cry?” the boy asked his master.
“I cry for you,” said the man “for you are a poet.
Your richness will be your description of poverty.
Your banquet will be the bread of the begger.
Your tears will flow with the blood of innocents.
You are like the windmill dredging words of hope
for the deaf ears of greed and the souls of despair.
This is why I cry.  Sit with me before I leave.”

The old man stroked the boys hand and spoke,
“You will need to become the petal of a sun flower,
the scent of a rose and the strength of a tree.
Dream the fall of a raindrop, the drop of a snowflake,
climb mountains and slide down rainbows,
Swim with the shy platypus and the playful dolfin.
You will not see my face again, except in your dreams,
But you will always hear me whispering in the breeze,
be still and listen and you will hear me.” He finished.

“But,” cried the boy, “where are you going?”
“All these things I have asked you to do,
I have done, and more, my time is over,
I must go now to the Land of All Knowing,
There I will hammer my fist upon the gate
and a voice shall call out ‘Who begs entry?’
I shall reply in my proudest voice,
I AM THE POET!"

21/02/2010