wild is relative to tame

The wildcat lazes in my lap,
his sleep disturbed suddenly by my human
sounds-briefly he stirs to make certain it was not him,
my stomach growls at him,
when his attention snaps suddenly, pupils go black
above me, behind and over my head,
enrapt in some blurred glassy vision-
I see-I feel nothing-my vision is going-
and he is cautious, cowering without stalking-it moves
His focus-
Upward again,
I peak-

A cobweb, or ghost spider home
flutters downward over us.
The hall light flickers, like my pulse
and then I can only close my eyes
and pretend I am purring along.

We rest our heavy animal heads
and listen in deeper
but fall into the same trap
as our hairs, split evenly
and stroked lightly
by an errant cool breeze.
It was touching
to be chosen

likewise.

a little birdie knows no wordies

Little tawny thrush
why so jumpy? Spring has not sprung.
And you have certainly known before now
the cats that live here-this pride.

Silly sparrow, 'twas all made up
those felines would not know what to do
with you-yet how they do like watching
all the twitching
you do.

Look over here! Cackles rise,
this tweet and grub dash,
fidget and dart,
you cool hearted busy birdy,
on holiday.

The cat sees your ploy-a quick dip
in the fountain-this one couldn't care,
he laughs a hoarse then licks his nails.
Oh, this little bunting
gets behind his pinprick hot holed ears
and says-or chirps-
POTUS, po' po' us, po' us another
wergle fumpus, with yellow belly feathers, like a lilly livered loiterer,
tethered to others, such as the not so rare big-billion-billed cuckoo,
Who, who, who knew-
how to flap in place.

Polly-ana-cracker-barrell-of-monks like these-
Just look at that jittery pulpy face,
ask, just ask, he is fluffed and full of flock
puffy and inflated on a fence takes no flight
path to escape,
the last words were purr-purr
after the cat
finally got his tongue.

Painting by Louis Émile Pinel de Grandchamp [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Silent Sunday Services

The clock on the wall hammers away
in the quiet house before sunrise, oblivious to Sunday morning
rituals.

Nary a breath escapes while the beat skips on along-
long whole, holy, sunny sun days-
while others pray I lay behind dreaming doors,
light pouring in, purring snores,
while that clock ticks off
and takes, takes, takes
its sweet time,
this time I think-the time-
Time-it takes too long to make every single
second
count
may be wrong.

***********************
The kitchen sink taps a tune
into a rose colored glass
muffling its measure
by the minute
becoming
optimistic by the hour.

Between that quiet space
of steady shine and rise
coming up on-
it is too easy to lose the pace
or miss the place
where to chime in...
.........................................
The fridge hums steady and warm,
the oven clean and cool
both standing white in the background.




Painting By Catherine Wiley (Tennessee Portrait Project) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Homelessness

It is an ordinary thing:
a baby looking over the shoulder,
a child transfixed,
because they sense mother-ness or homeliness
I guess.

Then the cats,
the felines that follow
nearly silently,
like the prowling puma in the wilderness
they all watch back from the bush-
paw prints have proven this-
And then the ways skittish strays
locate
remembering how to purr...

Nary a soul sees the magic in these,
except
the extraordinary poet
who thinks one blink, and it could all
change.



Photo Credit © CEphoto, Uwe Aranas / ,via Wikimedia Commons at (https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bangkok_Thailand_Stray-cat-in-Wat-Hua-Lamphong-01.jpg)