curled in feline C
curve tail to touch
in dream-timed breath
modulated flesh waves roll
fur-soft purr sounds sated
of dinner's lap o love
is my daily joy
First published in Angel Animals 8-13-05.
Miles--our Love Cat
Some call it God, My Lord or Master.
Heavy the measure of justice in yesterday’s night.
Fight each reason remembering the riches
For all is of the holy cup.
I thirst. I drink.
I recall the laughter of last vacation
a month before winter.
The storm last night:
Listen to its answer in the moment of hours.
Call in the cards fanned to stretch the ages
of metered justice and reason’s plight.
Freedom is my cup
and its charge—
this morning light.
Shady dock. Red canoe.
Green algae paints the water line
on rock wooded shore.
Red and yellow bottomed turtles sunning,
plop from logs as we approach.
Gold-leaf boat sails beneath
the web-wrapped snag.
Water skippers playing tag.
Muskrat swims along the bank,
circles, circles back and back
to hidden mud leaf,
rush and reed.
Dead trees tell of bridge and ship
builders’ ancient dream.
Beam and masts still stand
unused till after world.
Breeze touches lake away from shore.
What fish jumps in silver
light so near afar?
Two ducks quack-flap off
from willow shade.
Love for life, or fly away
from rendezvous of water feast,
leave by south and northeast.
Pasture of apples, gold and red,
electric fence protecting
from waterfront and beast of trek.
Reflect sky travel on the dock,
thirty of the summer’s clock.
Boys sharing, comparing
tools of survivor’s trade,
happy in the shade of this still lake.
Cold this morning.
And hearts overflowing at the window.
Our breaths alternating
with the wind
blown in from the near side of winter.
Only yesterday I held your hand and asked for yes.
And now I hold your hand and remember
all the yeses, and all the times two made one.
Listen to the autumn rain.
A thousand lovers tapping.
A stairwell white
Plaster walls this spiral way of even steps
Twist down the walk that tightens in its turn
Then rise of step drops further than the tread.
I tilt my head and even knees bump top
The tiny box of twisted, plaster steps
Wind down from white-wash caste
To bleeding brown on browns and tan, the taste
And black with blood from others past lost in descent
Dried and crusted in the cracks of these crocked straits.
The light above has vanished
And I bump down this funnel of apparent death.
Cannot lift legs or heels to catch the last tread ledge
Only gravity now rules
And I slide
A final pull this spiral trough bent in a twist of fate.
My face wipes abrasive wall as arms reach where dim light once shown
And hands cannot grasp even the last foothold
Yet, I still hold this pen, this light.
You see its message here.
Unless no one has found the truth of this trap, this pit.
I write to find the sun.
Where ink-black still shows on tan
Perhaps to gain the white of precious paper page
No plaster surface walls
Call the readers from the grave to see this script
And wish it to this paper page
Spiral light or winding, dark descent.
Written on the walls of hope or discontent.
Journal of a journey through this lent and back to light by writing of the fall.
White paint of plaster, spiral way still holds the light
Of a window to the sun
Shines now hopeful by this pen
Would that you read and do not follow me.
Though free at last I, soul, wrenched from the wedge of flesh and pit
I join the light
My eyes are open now
I was asleep
There is an easier ascent.
Than pulled by passions of an underworld.
I see you read.
And know that rise and fall are on the same staircase.