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As wee kittens she and her brother
were gifted to us from a neighboring
farm up the hill, a pair from a litter of
feral felines, welcomed on our place
as mousers and ratters.

Mostly they lived around the barn,
strolled and policed the property as
their domain. The male was always
by his disposition aloof, had no need
of close human contact, content to be
independent and on his own.

His sister was more inclined to draw
nearer, curious and at times amenable
to a pat on the head, or a small dish of
cat food. And the bearer of gifts in the
form of parts of the remains of her kills
deposited on my porch door threshold.
Proof I suppose of her doing her job,
or in gratitude for my feeding her.

One day her brother was predator taken,
though she stayed on her job, she became
a more frequent visitor to my porch, with
her litter mate gone perhaps she had become
lonely and needed companionship.

It has been a few years since the loss of
her brother and now she comes everyday
morning and evening, or whenever I call
her in. Running full speed to eagerly rub
against my legs, or flop down atop my feet,
wanting a belly rub, purring and ever so
glad to see me. For all her given affection,
she is not a fan of being picked up and held.
It offends, maybe threatens her half wild nature.

No where to be seen, yet when I go out to the
road to get the mail, to the barn or orchard
before I walk 30 feet, there she is running close
behind me, as if she had been waiting just for
that very occasion.

She is over ten now getting old like me,
she is around my inner yard or the porch
most of the time, I even let her inside the
house from time to time, she and my inside
cat, get along fine. Drink from the same
water bowl, eat side by side. They enjoy
playing together, I think he is smitten by
her as only a neutered male cat can be.

But always at some point, as if she hears
a distant calling, she goes to the door and
let's me know she is ready to return to her
life outside. Instincts are difficult to ignore.
She is no less my friend than my inside
house cat, companions both, one day
when I call her name, she will not come
running, like her brother she will just
disappear, and I shall sincerely miss her.
There is a
screaming
screeching pain
that is so raw.
It's like a
mouse caught in
a glue trap.
It must be locked
away for no one
to see or handle.

And sometimes
on moonless nights
when no one is
around, and the
owls have killed
their prey, and the
teardrops have been
bottled and sold on
the black market,
you may be tempted
to take that pain out,
like a slice of pie,
and taste it.
Be careful.
It may have
fermented and
developed a mind of
its own.
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The line in the sand

is at such incredible depth

but suddenly obtainable

through unspoken tragic demarcation

whatever the outcome

the 91st floor comes from underneath

they say today is happening

outside of me

and from a window

along the stress fracture

it's falling decidedly at your feet
Every part of me recycled
into flies, maggots and dirt.
Give back all that made me
from my fathers lust squirt.

Mom's heavy lifting pregnant.
Her piles, puke and constipated
the zygotes don't know or care.
One day they'll be cremated.
I'll bring my wounded heart.
I know you'll bring yours.
We're both old soldiers
been through many tours.
my carnival heart rides
the Ferris wheel

got lost in the tunnel of love

(lost my love on the merry go round)

the minute hand of my watch, forever

back and forth
tap, tap, tapping on midnight, i'm

tossed and tumbled
like the rodeo clown
riding a bull
I'm holding aces and eights tucked tightly
against my chest so

play the long shot

I pray for the gypsy wind
wild and flowing

my heart is true.

precious love
my precious love
Thinking of him flings me from these plains
to the nearest body
of water whose mist smells of salt and life
the unrestrained passion
and ****** of sea.

The book, Odes to Common Things,
a gift of a dear friend
who knew not the arousal,
the seed of near sensual desire
it would plant in me
like the buttery aroma of a woman’s hair
or the taste of her moist lips.

Even a thought of Neruda
takes me to the stormy stirrings
wrought from the ***** of the Pacific.
and sounding on the shores of Chile.

How could the writing of a man
a continent away
foment in my chest
a fervor akin
to a spiritual awakening?

I read him in English
but feel the thump
of his Latin heart
in my body.
I read that his book, translated into English as Residence on Earth, was born of Neruda’s feelings of alienation. It seems that a large part of me feels as if I have been on the margins of society and maybe that is why I feel that thumping of Neruda’s heart within me. Spanish poet Garcia Lorca calls Pablo “a poet closer to death than to philosophy, closer to pain that to insight, closer to blood than to ink. “A poet filled with mysterious voices that fortunately he himself does not know how to decipher.” * I thank oldpoet MK https://hellopoetry.com/MK/  and his poem Broadcasting the Seed of Poems https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4845320/broadcasting-the-seed-of-poems/  for the inspiration for this poem.

“The Thumping of a Latin Heart,” Copyright 2024 by Glenn Currier
Written 6-23-24


*From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/pablo-neruda
In this instance,
I have an insidious inclination to
incessantly remark upon the
repeated incidence of your
innocuous inability to integrate
your irascibility into an immutable
impression of inceptive incertitude.  
So There!
                 ljm
I don't understand a jot of it either.  I just like to play with words.
The screech owl hoots
Sad lyrics to a song
Only he knows the words to,
While perched on a bent willow
Tree in a time no one can recall
Or know the way to find again.

He is not lost or injured,
Exiled or reclusive, but
Where he knows that he belongs.
He’s hooting out his message
To a wind that rumbles in
From another era never
Spoken of in history books.

What could he be saying-
This sadly hooting owl?
The caterpiller knows and tells
But the butterflies won’t listen
And the mushrooms are all deaf.

The wind hears pleas
From elsewhere and is gone.
The bent willow tree has heard
And understands the message
But it’s roots are deep and
It cannot pull them up to move.
So the owl hoots his song to silence
And the only one who knows about it
Happens to be me.
ljm
I wrote it but I can't explain it. Funny world I live in.
If I couldn't walk
would you be my cane?
If I couldn't think
would you be my brain?

If I couldn't talk
would you be my tongue?
If I couldn't breathe
would you be my lung?

If I couldn't see
would you be my eyes?
If I fall down
would you help me rise?

If I get lonely
would you be by my side?
If I lose my way
would you be my guide?

If I get sick
would you comfort me?
If I'm locked up
would you be my key?

If I lose someone
would you help me grieve?
If I lost hope
would you help me believe?

If I get riled
would you calm me down?
If I get sad
would you be my clown?

I need you more
than I’d dare say.
If I asked you
would you promise to stay?
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