^         ^
       My kitty
        cat's an                                        
           imp
       ra cti cal                            
    purrrrrrfect
  little dainty fat                    
    little lady cat                                                         .
       who uses                                                                  s
         her litter box while wearing her white sock
                                     

to be the kind of person
who will glimpse
the cherry blossom tree
beautifully delicate
in its early bloom
fluttering the palest pink
against a fragile white
desperate against even
the gentlest of breeze
but only observe
the black and the white
of what the premature
might mean for later
commenting how soon
these branches will lose
their graceful lustre
no longer to inspire
those hopeful wanderers
only to appear barren
and lifeless once again

With the burden of a million curses,

she scuffs in an unflagging way,

fondling zillions as it passes,

the aroma of hope it does spray.

What if time complies with us?

What if she ceases to budge ?

What if she gives in to our pleadings?

What if she doesn’t move even if we nudge?

With time sufferings would linger,

tears ceaselessly would wet your face,

that ” time almost heals everything”

would not descend to embrace.

Your wounds wouldn’t metamorphose to scars,

contusions would continue to reek,

pain would mangle you in its grip,

recovery, from none you can seek.

Despair would clad you eternally,

you will find no light at the tunnel’s end,

darkness would compel you to succumb,

no ray of hope would glisten to amend.

The woes of ailing men wouldn’t stop,

they would dangle on their death beds,

time wouldn’t pass rewarding salvation,

making you realise how tarrying time dreads.

Sorrow would prevail for good,

worries would always conjure up,

a wait would end no more,

an ocean would never come of a drop.

Joy wouldn’t replace despondency,

neither well being, malaise,

spring wouldn’t follow winter,

neither clarity , haze.

The crux of life is transience,

perpetuity we can’t endure,

let time slither as she does,

for each agony she’ll leave a cure.

No Imelda Marcos, she,
One good pair of shoes for me,
Plain, flat, sensible, black,
No **** high heels, alack,
But I can walk where I want to be,
One good pair of shoes for me!