AN ANABOOBOO!

She takes off
all her clothes

just for
the fun of it

every now & then I
catch a glimpse

of naked ***

as it runs not   here
or there   but helter-skelter.

She who only
mastered the art of walking

not so long ago

now glorying
in her limbs.

'Hey Cherub! '
I call out to her

& she turns
& comes

not because she's
understood

but understands the love
dripping form the words

an honeycomb
of language.

She tries to clothe
the nakedness of her

experiences

in a dress
of words.

She is surprised
to find

that her
anabooboo

doesn't stick
to the cat

and the cat
wanders aimlessly off

discarding with disdain
her attempt

at naming him.

Soon the cat
will become its sound

(me! how?)  

then finally
making it to being

C A T
(just like that) .

It's a long journey
into knowing.

I almost prefer
her almost Martian naming

her alien
way of seeing.

I curtly call the cat that
and even name the next cat that

an ANABOOBOO

and still can drive her
mad

years later
in a future far from here

calling my teenage
daughter

to say her date
is here.

'Hey Anabooboo! '

& see a blushing
Princess

descending the stairs

lithe of limb
and(thankfully)  

fully clothed!



I draw/spell her
C/A/T
she copycats my cat



Teaching Tilly her letters in the long long ago...it's funny the little scraps that survive the years. I tore a bit off an old copy book and scribbled this C/A/T into being to her great delight...and here he is still prowling about in his own peculiar C/A/T way.

kaleidoscope, hanging rope
so many options, so many ways to go
but so many ways to fall
can you handle my all
I guess only time knows
time is so fickle but so are my fears
time is so riddled with endings
that's why I keep you near
interlaced, preventing heartbreak
but no matter the amount of effort the sum is pain
so I worship the rain in my dry spell
I focus on the power in myself
to stand tall and plan for the many ways I can fall
I wish the best for myself

Sometimes tears
don’t come from grief
or sudden pain,
from moments moved
by others’ stories
real or sharply imagined

Sometimes it’s just the steady
incessant
tap tap tap
of life that just won’t pause
for any cause or reason
for any chance of respite

We’ll often deny those tears
as weak
but listen as they speak
or they will never, ever stop

we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections

The fabric usually feels the same
a cloth that remains soft
similar to everyday
until, perhaps, a stain
a rip, a tear

I would love to wear the world
as was before all this
but perhaps my prior idiocy
is why we remember

THE USELESSNESS OF MAPS

You were always
the bit

where the map creased & tore
leaving us unsure

looking through a hole
at our own big toe.

You were always
the bit

where the map was folded in four
and had to be awkwardly unfolded

just to see
where you were.

You were always
the bit

that was just off this map

ending in mid air...

...see next map:

...the missing map!

You were always
the lost map.

You were often
the wrong map.

The map that there was...

...no map of: