I'm in a cool group.
To stay on top
of my writing, and to
promote and market
my poetry, I often
publish online.
If Lord Byron could
hear that.

In this place that
I belong,
I have deadlines.
I procrastinate until
the very last day, and then
scribble some ******
lines and get angry with
myself for putting the
writing off.

I have a couple of
weeks before I need
to write a sonnet or villanelle.
I'm getting anxiety.
It's not producing the
desired effect of
hard work or discipline.
No
Not that.
It is getting me thinking.
That is sometimes productive,
and usually comical.

I'm thinking about
the 15 months I've
been sober.
For many years,
I was miserable.
Drinking and writing.
Writing and drinking.
Holding the bottle of
***** to my shivering
lips to get the last
spider of liquid.
My clothes smelled of
decay and cowardice, and
everything tasted like
rotten meat.

Now, I have a beautiful
maple desk that my three
cats like to sleep
on while I write
poems about
procrastination and sobriety.
Such fuzzy black miracles.
They twitch as they
dream of fish and catnip,
and just maybe they
dream about writing a
sonnet for me.
We are all
addicted to something.

In welcome old Fido is barking
But cats are too haughty for marking
If tenants are home,
Or off on a roam.  
A shut-in gets cranky and carking.

My old cat in spring
twitches his ear at passing bees
and sniffs at the lavender scented breeze
then he warms his belly and starts to purr
with a little less winter stuck to his fur

Impatient, a lion will roar
And kitty’s meowing at the door,
Because paws are fumbling;
At doorknobs it’s grumbling.
Once launching a robin can soar.

The pre-dawn rang
as cat choirs sang
in waring gangs
sharp and rank
before they sprang
with claw and fang.

Isn’t it an overweening piety
to think that diverse cat societies
would address conflicts more politely
observe more cultural propriety
and politic more peacefully and quietly
than our own species, which behaves so violently

Are we not, in part, their masters?
Don’t we war for goals we’re after?
Aren’t some of our leaders practically gangsters?

Humans are - frankly - alpha-predator *******.
Does any species author more disasters?

If the language of cats, we could unscramble,
and into their feral dialogs we could wrangle,
perhaps we’d see that they’re just following our example.

When the sun goes down
And the Moon is high
The padding of feet can be heard
Along we with a small scratch at my door
It would go unheard if I did not know to listen for it

In the dead of the night
A black, starless night
No other sounds are being made
Except for the croaking of frogs
Not yet the chirping of birds

He comes to my bedroom door
And expects to be let in
So I leave the warm embrace of my bed
And let him in so he can be a good friend

Tears streak down my face
Because of the sadness my body holds
I reach down and embrace him in my arms
His body warms mine with his soft fur and beating heart

Together we make our way back to the bed

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.

If these paws could write, I would tell you thank you. For my food bowl, for the water bowl, for the treat bowl I loved ever so.

If these paws could write, they would tell you how much I loved your warm clothes from the dryer. The way you held me in your lap while I slept. I would write about how much I loved being your baby.

If these paws could write, they would write about how you saved my life and gave me a second chance. I would write unending about how I could fit in the palm of your hand, and how you gifted me with sight that I would not otherwise have had.

If these paws could write, they would tell you how grateful I am that I got to see you and to be loved by you; how wonderful to have become part of such a large family, and to be surrounded by my own kind and people that loved me.

If these paws could write, I would write you a sonnet that Shakespeare could never dream of. I would tell you how happy I was to make biscuits in your lap, and how you put up with my sharp claws that dug into you with love because I felt safe.

If these paws could write, I would write to you about how happy I am now: to be free of pain, to be able to see without any problems, and to be with my sister, brothers and nephew again.

If these paws could write, I would tell you this: do not be sad because I am gone, but be thankful that I was here. Cry if you need to, but not for too long. I understand that goodbyes are hard, but you will see me again. Don't let your heart get so heavy, that you don't let another in.

And since these paws do not write, I will say that I love you, and my last word will be the first one I said to you:

Mama.

They've been
monkeying
around with
my town, when
I wasn't looking.
The space and
landmarks have
been shifted.
Something is
cooking in the air.
It smells ultra
bright, with a
hint of juniper
berries.

Even, the kittens
are sitting up on
their haunches and
taking notice.

next to the flat
the neighbourhood
tabby swatting at
the drain.

sinewed fur-lined,
feline; finding
some poor animal
in a cage
outside its making.

i can’t see
below the earth.
the poor thing,
fighting.