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Kate Little Sep 2012
‘Tis the eyes of the Lobster: all beady and black
Little black pearls; but luster they lack
They stare and stare with nary a blink.
And heavens to Betsy if you know what they think!
With pinchers and crushers and blood of blue
I’m not so sure I’d want one in my stew!
The new year dawns and here am I
Writing of lobsters and I’m not sure why!
Oh, but I jest and of course I do!
‘Twas a bet! I lost! And now pay my due.
Sincere apologies to those who read.
I know it’s rough. I must complete this deed.
          I hope this ditty; whatever it be
          Fits the bill and you’re more than pleased, --!
With my sincerest apologies to Lewis Carroll who wrote 'Tis the Voice of the Lobster'.

**-- [in the vane of Lewis Carroll I have omitted the last words here ie name of my friend to whom I lost the bet!]

© Kate Little
January 2012
All Rights Reserved
Kate Little Aug 2012
with a heavy heart and heavy steps

i climb the stairs

and enter the void.

Emptiness - my silent, inhospitable host.

She has prepared nothing --

offers nothing.

nothing but Her smothering, palpable, deafening presence.

my shoulders drop all the more as She takes hold and draws me in.

then, for the longest time i stand,

having moved no further than those few steps into Her house.

She does not care to make me comfortable.

why should She?

from within my being

hunger cries out.

an insatiable yearning

no, not for food but for more --

so much more.

i long for him to hold me close;

for his breath to settle upon my neck.

i crave his nearness as he whispers in my ear;

telling me everything will be alright.

my body aches to be touched.

my being cries to be held.

my heart hungers for something it has tasted,

but knows it cannot have.

i know not how to satisfy those needs;

only the simplest of necessities.

i have not eaten this long and busy day

and so, as i do many days of late,

i take from Her cupboard

and prepare a dinner of breakfast cereal.

there seems no point in sitting.

why seek comfort with one that does not wish to give it?

so i stand beside the island bench in Her kitchen;

eat out of necessity;

and drink in Her ceaseless, deafening mockery.

"how apt", i think,

and  then smirk along with Her;

as i realise i truly am standing on an island --

All Rights Reserved
Kate Little
(c) August 2012
Kate Little Jan 2012
lonely hours pass into days
and I know not where I should turn
in the dead of a summer haze
my sorry heart doth mutely yearn

with comfort and caress long gone
and hope but a fanciful dream
should all reveries be withdrawn
and solitude held in esteem

where is reason and where is rhyme
they move not forward nor restart
the pulse of life and love mark time
and dimly march upon my heart

what’s it called - this place without name
this place without beat and cadence
perhaps … inertial reference frame
or is it ... a place to commence
© Kate Little
January 2012
All Rights Reserved
Kate Little Nov 2011
On ever-changing tides
they floated for nigh a lifetime
growing worn
and frayed around the edges

They were tangible once
and precious
even solemn

somewhere along the way
they were neglected
and abandoned

On the darkest of stormy seas they bobble now –
decayed and fetid

The things of a lifetime
rotting -
in their cold
watery grave
© Kate Little - November 2011
All Rights Reserved
Kate Little Sep 2011
in the hush of the moment
there is much to cherish --

a child at play
with his imaginary friend

a shimmering glimmer
in almond-brown eyes

the dance above town
of birds in flight --
crisscrossing the sky

a winter’s eve
and a hot, deep bath

candlelight flicker
the moon and the stars

a rainy day
spent snug in my bed

the sun that smiles
and kisses my head --
my soul well fed

those sleepy eyes
from sweet dreams wake

a hug he gives
my day he makes

and you, my love
you fill my heart

the gift of you
my world thou art

I close my eyes
my prayers I send

in the hush of the moment
these things never ...
Feedback ... suggestions for improvement ... very welcome.

©  Kate Little 2011
All Rights Reserved
Kate Little Sep 2011
Tall, frightful, mountainous man
the fear you strike within is easy to explain
sheer size causes my heart to pound
so fast and loud that it is all I can do to contain
it from leaping outside my tiny frame

With whisker twitching and hide flinching
I crept from the safety of my hole, inching
one small step by paltry step
seeking meagre crumbs; mere scraps of food
to feed my hungry brood

And there I chanced upon you
(well, it was your dark and menacing shoe
that first caught my beady little eye)
then, fleetingly, thoughts I was about to die
stopped me in my tracks, and there was I,
wondering ~ should I fight or fly?

Yes, there I stood, frozen in time
and it seemed that you were too
as we, the two of us, both you and I,
for one moment (or was it two?)
took measure and looked each other in the eye

But I am not a silly fool
and though I am just an insignificant being
I have learned a golden rule ~
at the very instant a man moves his feet
it is time I must be fleeing!
A rejoinder to Robert Burns' poem, "To A Mouse".'

© Kate Little 2011
All Rights Reserved
Kate Little Sep 2011
On golden fields
your painting so vivid
far and wide
burgeoning with hope and cheer

and mine eyes behold

Your orchestra
a beautiful golden-yellow symphony
trumpets trumpeting
sometimes a little boastful
perhaps even narcissistic

and mine ears respect

Across your gilded seas
the bells toll
heralding new beginnings
in unison
but not

wandering lonely
silently drowning in unrequited pleas

forever holding faith

and I, your witness
© Kate Little
All Rights Reserved
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