"clowder" poems
Creased felines crossing lines,
Pressing claws into dust.
Western hemisphere,
Reviving the pilgrimage.
Bubbles and logs
Satiate their under garments.
Enhancing hair follicles
Resembling shards and spurs.
At a woodsy bar,
A tabby liberated the fangs
He rented last holiday.
The bartender shook with perplexity.
Reacting simultaneously-
A minor character, Little Leon.
The dusty town called him
Leon, for he was alone.
Little Leon got taller
In a basement full
Of water. The dusty town
Was an adjustment.
The tabby and Little Leon
Faced off for recognition.
Leon wretchedly charged
The floor boards with sopping ends.
Crayon versus colored pencil;
They chose their weapons
Anxiously. It was
Bring your son to work day.
The bent bartender
Spared his child’s eyes.
“I’m not your little boy,”
The child shrilled at him.
“I don’t want trains,
Or fake guns meant for play.
I miss my mom,
And dresses on Sunday.”
Cats on a pilgrimage,
Rarely stop from
Slurping a drink. Pity refilled
Cups, as tails twitched in trial.
The tabby and Leon
Came to a halt, seeing as
Punishment was engraved atop
The bartender’s grungy mitts.
The clowder gathered,
As the Tabby scolded the man
Behind the bar. “Remember where
you leave your beverage.”
And that was that.
Leon’s internal complexity,
Being left with only himself,
Dissipated. There are others
Who feel more alone.
Tabby picked up his crayon.
His spurs clanked
And spun, as his guided
His feline friends out the front.
Tumbleweed skidded
Outside the bar.
The bartender finally saw
That his son was not a son.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
points of dust, moted light,
coded messages,
of indecipherable love,
from the sun and this day's dieties smile.
are....
siphoned through,
the dappled, green eucalypt
to become....
shafts of godly grace,
that tickle, wrinkle
and play hide and seek,
with the contours of your
handsome face,
weekend stubbled
and lax within,
the shadows of sleep's
suburban fringe.
curled up, on your lap
your child, golden, halo haired, head,
asleep.
ear at your heart's designation,
hand anchored,
in the flannel of your shirt,
foot tucked into, your trouser pocket.
a little, love limpet,
attatched firmly, to you.
you, and the littler you lie, serene and unaware,
in the old, striped deck chair.
quiet and together in,
restful, repose.
the remains of lunch...
now just, crumbs and
sticky fodder,
for busy trails of ants
and attracting the lazy bee's of bumble, that hover and hum, above.
and book reading's are open,
unfunished, scattered on the table..... waiting for the
eventual waking...
along with the cat,
perched imperial,
and purring,
on one ant free corner
of the old and faded,
rattan chair.
he stands watch,
dotingly, over,
his dozing clowder....
this is ... the wonder of,
sunday afternoon naptime.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
I have always dreamed to have a kingdom by the sea
Just like how Edgar Allan Poe described his Annabel Lee
But instead, I’m just the only who will live there
No kinsmen, no guard, no lover to pair.
I will bring an enormous clowder for company
Have a large stock of cat stuff, catfoods, and catnips, if there were any
I will make them my servants, my ever trusted ones
For I know their service is ever irrevocable, will never leave me behind.
My kingdom must be unknown by everyone
Nobody will tracked me down, nor visit for a homage
For when I died, I will never make a fuss
I will let my cats grieve, and devour me at rise.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
Feline glowering
At **** Clowder of Sphinxes.
Felix caught a chill.
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 2:26 AM UTC
standing in the cool of
the summer night,
the grass, lush dampness beneath my naked feet.
i want to grow roots down into this place
the stars, stammer in the sky
bright chips and slivers of diamantine, on an inked cloth.
i want to **** my heart onto this place
to the west, the ridge of mountains, nestle with chocolate ease into clouds
of clotted cream.
i want to hunger from my heart, to feed and comfort this place
the lights of the town below,
gleam like a clowder of feral cat's, their eyes watching.
i want to tame this place
to the east, the beaches tide and sand, the white breakers
glisten.
i want to dive and delve the depths of this place.
the air is scented with orange blossom and jasmine and fresh hope.
i want to breathe the breath
of this place.
behind me, a half renovated
teak farmhouse.
inside, my new lover resides
i want to make this place home.
i am going to make this place,
this man, my home.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
you'll be the last thing i abandon,
and i can't stand the thought of it.
(chord)
(chord)
when sun rays charge the sky with color,
not with hate and sin,
i thought that i had better let you know i love you
while i still have the chance to say i love you.
(chord) (enter drums + band)
i mean it ***** it does, it does!
i wish that i had traveled light
but one day you'll remind me how
we always travel light
never said that i was perfect,
we don't always win the fight
i mean it ***** (it does! it does!)
it ***** to say goodbye.
to say goodbye.
(instrumental)
you'll be the last thing i let go of
and it breaks me to be broken
didn't realize this was math class
would've paid more ... attention
i expressed the need for loss
when i experienced detention
i didn't want to let you go
i should have paid you more attention.
(drop)
it feels like choking on love to love
it feels like choking on love to be loved
it feels like being in love to love
this feels like being in love!
it feels like choking on life to live
it feels like wasting the thing that you give
all my confessions are endless
it feels like being in love...
x2
you'll be the first thing i remember
when i wake up in the morning
but i'll suffer something awful
when i wake up (pause)
and you're mourning (pause)
we could live out the impossible,
but words contain a warning:
there's a snake inside your garden,
my medulla reassures me.
it feels like choking on love to love
it feels like choking on love to be loved
it feels like being in love to love
this feels like being in love!
it feels like choking on life to live
it feels like wasting the thing that you give
all my confessions are endless
it feels like being in love...
(retardando, repeat)
THIS FEELS LIKE BEING IN...
LOVE (emphatic, rapid strumming to end)
(one last strum)
Jan 30, 2022
Jan 30, 2022 at 9:40 PM UTC