I wish I could sleep peacefully like a housecat,
snuggled into a reclining chair,
without a care in the world.
But instead
I toss and turn with the thought
that I’m not sure where I’ll be resting my body to sleep
6 months
or a year from now.
I lie awake with the worries
of missing home and feeling guilty
for leaving my needy parents behind.
The thought of distance separating you and I,
causing us to not be together
keeps my eyes open,
so that I cannot close my eyes to sleep -
not even a wink.

First Contact
"How did I get here,I can't remember,
my brains burning out like a dwindling ember,
are those tears in my eyes?-no its pourin' rain,
I'm lying on my back in the bottom of a stormdrain,
hunted like an animal,but still I'm deadly,
like a wounded lion,you better bet ye,
will lose more men than I've already taken(taken sample),
the hunter hunted? I think you're mistaken,
I'm a one man army,armed or not,
you didn't bring enough manpower,have you forgot?,
that the sandman(badman,phantoms in the dark)
has more in his bite than you do in your bark,
it's getting dark now,tables turning,

tyger,tyger,my eyes are burning,

better keep your guard up,I've been confronted...
but how can you tell who's hunter or hunted? 16.

Riposte

Better count your sentries,I think ones missin,
when you see his blood glistenin your pants your ****** in,
should have been listenin,I gave you a chance,
now its time for the Sandman to do his dance,
like a praying Mantis I move so swiftly,
bullet's fly like locusts,but each one missed me,
the Locus and Focus of my 3rd eyes movin,
got your sentries rifle,but I won't even use it,
taunt you haunt you,flaunt skills I honed,
from a broken home,to the streets to battlezones,
catch you alone,smash your skull with a hanbo,
appear behind you from the mud like Rambo,
bodies placed like hannibal,a deadly scene,
you're a ****** housecat and I'm wolverine,
told your boss you could get me now you know you fronted,
cat and mouse reversed-YOU'RE the one who's hunted.

Denoument*

Now I know who you are,and I know where you live,
and in this line of work I can't forget or forgive.

We were partners once now you've betrayed my trust,
taught you everything you know,now it's ashes and dust
your bodyguards are good,but they know I'll get ya,
more ghost than man,a modern day ninja,
leave you injured,begging for mercy,
but you know the concept is alien to me,
grabbed the bull by the horns,my hand you forced,
you're a moveable object,I'm unstoppable force,
force feed your limbs til you beg for death,
line your family up and slowly take their heads,
then I'm in the wind,gone like keyser sozey,
the word is spread,don't try to **** me,
you were my friend,but you crossed the line,
try to hunt the Sandman,"you're all ****** dyin"

The lion dog’s muscles ripple
as he descends the stairs
toward the source of food
guarded by another creature
smaller but just as wild.

The standoff happens in the kitchen -
a 110-pound Rhodesian Ridgeback
a pet who wants his kibbles
and the housecat
who thinks she owns the place.

The hound approaches
slow and deliberate
his huge head depending
from a neck
thick like a phone pole.

The cat sits alert but unconcerned
until their noses touch -
then the cat flashes surprising claws
ripping the hound’s nose
and he runs yelping into the living room
to hide behind the couch
to fall asleep
dreaming of the hunt
the rush of his tawny brothers
across dusty savannahs
toward great African lions
with paws like dinner plates
and sabertooth mouths.

One he was the tiger
The other, the tigger
And the other, he was
The housecat with awkward fuzz.

Somehow he had more
Than nine lives, or
This kitty was a fright
That gave Life such delight.

A little known secret of actors:
you can force yourself to cry by
simply thinking about how badly
you want to.

Here's how it's done.

Start with fertilizer. Remember how
you felt that first year you
did so excellently at school, all-year
struggling and so devoted, woke up
Christmas to your mother's purchase,
eager for sugar plums and hedonist
things, ripped merrily into math workbooks.
The seed comes next, budding in the
open tunnels of self-worth - when
he told you that the thing you were
best used for could be done by anyone, really,
the oldest profession, and how you
liberated your oils on canvas long exiled
to make a scene of Rahab and Joshua,
and cried yourself away on alien bedding.

Water it all in whatever leaves the garden hose.

When they whistled without a name.
When your first time hosting supper was a catastrophe.
When you failed to keep certain things alive.
When the housecat burrowed in your warm
motor, and you just wanted to leave so badly.

Funerals of people you never knew, and
bugspray in your eyes.

One neglected message stays: anyone can cry.

You were a stray
now you are a housecat with your two children
I remember how yesterday me and my Mamma got you and your two children in the house and closed the door
I remember sitting on my chair behind the door while my Mamma lured you and your children in with tuna on a plate and milk in a bowl I was hoping. . . .waiting. . . . .praying that you and your two children would come in and you did
"Now" said my Mamma which meant to close the door and I did
how scared they were at first for they were not used to their new surroundings but then they calmed down
after that four of our other cats were taken away which made me weep on the inside and cry on the outside my heart still bleeds from this wound and it is hard to feel happy anymore all I feel like doing is crying
and then I think of Onyx Stray and her two children and her older daughter Miriam and I feel a little ease of pain in feeling happy that they're no longer out in the cold
but I still feel sad in thinking about how Onyx's older son, Cookie (who was from the same litter of kitty children as Miriam)
I think of how he was scared of being in that carrier and how he hollered until  he calmed down and of how the papers were signed so that they could be adopted by somebody else who hopefully would treat them with kindness
I remember how my Mamma wanted to keep Harold (formerly our ******* cat) and how I wrongly decided that was the one she wanted to give away we cried on each other's shoulders and I asked her to forgive me for wrongly deciding by accident that was who she wanted to give away to the Humane Society
tears trickle down my cheeks and my heart pains me even now while I write this poem and I think of how we gave them away

*~Marian~

I love you...

Like women's children love laughing,
Like misery loves company,
Like we love crying,
Like women love their children...

Like ladders love painters,
Like brushes love canvas,
Like the pen loves paper,
Like the world loves Atlas...

Like bitterness loves constant dwelling
Like a housecat loves warm napping
Like soothsayers love the act of telling
Like women love their children, who love laughing.

My cat's name is Zachary Binx, and I know for a fact he could kick my *** in a fight. His claws are daggers. They are needle sharp and feather light and designed to ensnare and then shred anything his long, quick arms can ******. He is fast; he is a predator.
But he has no idea, because his environment suggests otherwise. He's artificially coerced by domestication to assume that his survival is dependent on me. He is designed to survive on his own, but his cage suggests otherwise.
So he contents himself to the role of the housecat, sitting on the windowsill, feeling dull pangs of inexplicable deja vu as he watches the sparrows bathe in the dirt outside.

her fingers feathering the dark  magnolia leaves
stroking the foilage like it were a housecat

his fingers wrapped around the taped raquet handle
in a firm yet dexterous grip, waiting to enter the fray

her fingers deep within the loamy soil
communing with the larger whole

his fingers  testing  the grain of the wood
looking for the sweet spot, the soul

her fingers  raised to lips, creating  a mask
thoughts to the rest of the day

his fingers  poised above the computer
awaiting the spark to flare

her fingers in the tresses of his hair
asking for more connection

his fingers playing across the rise of her breast
answering all her questions

her fingers, her hands hard upon his shoulder blades
seeking the length, the depth, of him

his fingers, his hands on her ****
fullfilling their need

their fingers intertwined
as they sleep....together

grey is the day,
bleak is the heart,
rough winds bellow
and sadness stirs.

the little blue cat,
burrows
under the doona,
rejecting the light.

i turn and leave,
for work
wishing i was,
a little blue housecat.

I found you on the front steps,
fed you food and lies,
made noises til you laughed.
I stitched you over,
wished you well.

The old housecat reclines in the wicker chair, his
clothesline whiskers hung with heavy drops of white milk.
The green chaise lounge and the woman with wrinkled hands
smooth over the silky, orange coat for a moment that’s
fragile like glass

His sandpaper tongue activates, suddenly,
to clean away the dust of the day and the
last traces of wrinkled hands
It is always surprising how
her youth gets stuck in his fur

There’s a preferable window-seat
on which to recline
with a red, velvet cushion.
So paws pitter-patter and teeter-totter
so soft cheek can rest on cool glass.

The sun outside is melting into the horizon,
reflected in green, tired eyes.
The gummy drops of rain
sliding off of slick windowpanes:
nature’s gift of game,
as paws paw at runny rain.

The sun retires,
and the housecat does, too:
eyes soft and sweet
Flutter shut like the shutters by the window-seat
To dream of grassy fields and plump mice to eat.

I lost a beloved friend a few years back...
The big 'C' got him, thankfully it took him fast.
He died around this time four years passed,
it truly feels like yesterday that his spirit was here,
blessing the ground we both walked upon.

He was a real funny ****, always with the quips.
He'd send me texts and call them e-quips.

Once while shopping at The Great Canadian Tire Store,
we bantered about how it came to pass that the black culture in the western world used slang terms to denigrate the white. Calling them ****** and *******. The latter referring to the slave master's whip braking the speed of sound on the back of a family man stopped from even a pleasure of a good read.

My friend said to me "*******": I prefer "saltines". To our surprise we had come to understand the term '******' derived when white 'John's' would cruse black neighbourhoods to solicit prostitutes.

They would signal they were prospective clients by honking their horns. For they feared leaving their vehicles under an assumed threat of physical violence.

These days I feel I am channeling my dear friend. For me, it's always with the quips and puns and non sequiturs. Some end up as titles for this work I produce. Like, for an example: Are Plastic Surgeons Recyclable.

Although you may not, I just have to laugh at my self. Some say my jokes aren't funny, they are an irritation. To which I state, that is the optimal effect, my true aim.

                                      Pat Two

At his funeral, his brother delivered his eulogy. Telling the childhood story of the family pet, a housecat had gone to the basement and Dave stood at the top of the stairs coaxing "Here Kitty kitty, come here kitty".
His father says, "Call him louder", and without missing a beat or changing his tone or volume Dave says "Here louder louder, come here kitty".

We shared puns and jokes that in this day-and-age, some would deem offensive. To be honest about the matter, some were. But... to qualify, maybe to justify. The jokes were always in jest, never meant to harm. It could be me, in the attempt to excuse poor behavior. Perhaps it's so, that is to say I don't know for sure. I've yet to make up my mind.

                                         Part Three

The point being, for I have strayed and I digress. The love I have for my friend still lives on and perhaps will never end. If it is David that I channel, so be it! I feel blessed.

Although I have, I never had to say good-bye to my dear friend Dave. For he never really left. He lives on in the hearts and minds of his chosen friends. And will continue to long after the day of my demise.

For the life of me, as I sit in the corner on a crooked chair, flanked by a lamp and a potted plant on an end-table. The end of this year approaches quickly and I wonder to myself, when will I again meet-up with my old friend.


end

Snow white heartbeat
Snoring softly near me
Side wise paws

Bright Eyes
I know you stare at me while I sleep
I wake in the night
to discover you're gone,
But the truth is you live
in my dreams before dawn
I wish I could sleep peacefully like a housecat,
snuggled into a reclining chair,
without a care in the world
I know that probably you hate me
I know all this but still my rotting heart has me saying this
I've been thinking about you,missing you,
I've been writing to you but they are all drafted
All the madness I have in me
You tamed it graciously
How can I forget
The passion of love
You melted us and made us apart.

the housecat's whiskers
make a proper clothesline for
heavy drops of milk

I woke in the darkness full of words
primal, deep, true, real
A lioness hunting on the savannah
I reveled in them, letting the words wash over me
Arranging themselves in luscious imagery

Then, sunlight peaked around the curtain
The animals needed feeding
The fridge, cleaning
The dishes, washing
The clothes, folding

Finally, I find a moment, sit
Release the words to the page

Only the poem had become domestic
Edited, cleaned, folded, scrubbed down
It was cute, a cuddly housecat with a bell

Pleasant on it's own for sure
A hint of tooth and claw remain
But forever locked deep inside
Remains the caged beast of the night