Their fur is like silk
Their paws soft as moss,
Their pupils dilate and
Chase things that are tossed.

Once worshipped as gods
Now they're merely our pets,
Though they wear a facade
That says "Cats don't forget."

They still think that they're sacred
And mankind is their slave,
So they walk like they're royalty and
Take the act to their grave.

Some people despise them
Say they're cold and ungrateful
They look like rats, they cause mayhem
And they're just not playful!

I see something different
When I look in a cat's eyes,
I feel an ancient wisdom
Behind their jaded guise

I am transported back
To scorching Egyptian nights
And see within their pupils, black
The starless desert skies.

An intelligent being stares back at me
In unblinking contemplation,
My soul laid bare before two orbs
The color of amused satisfaction.

So next time you see one lazily
Sunbathing on its side,
Close your eyes and feel
the ancient spirits that
It carries deep inside.

One day's Spring cover of incipient blooms
Dogwoods pinks and whites
Scamper mountainside in Persephone's rites
Winter's forgotten timbers now hollows, wombs
Cuniculi sprout bantling bunnies from these rooms

Under thicket comes innocence's smallest one
Separated from covey, teeny trifling
Quail chick ta-taying in other atmosphere stifling
Mood was changed as baby bird imprinted this son
Thought I his mother; Persephone laughed in her fun

trill highest those
of lowest shrill
call mighty from
the lowest crawl
cry loudest
those who are shy
for tenderness
those among the horde
those souls
who bear a world of blows
going on however
they find a way knowing
someday
it's all going to go their way
or just gave up
hoping for
one day
to come along

or reached out so far I fell over my words
or promised more than I could deliver
or said I love you without meaning it

or planted visions in your head insincere
all I said was meant and from my heart
from the vault where feelings actually exist

and to be your one and to make myself whole
from the deeper things I thought life
was about, to the point where I might

believe life again had meaning, oh, meanings are so
specious, I found, So when I think I see
a shooting star again,

I will question my sight, my sanity
and hold my tongue
mute. Swollen

You can't finish Spring cleaning
because every old thing becomes
Inspiration for a poem.

2. Instead of planting that garden you
Promised yourself, you write about
Your metaphorical one.

3. Because you're a romantic poet,
You ruined your flowers by plucking
Each petal in a She loves me, she loves me
Not tirade.

4. Every stupid bird is a new poem.

5. April rains bring about the
Melancholic poem inside you,
And you love it!

6. Instead of playing with your
Kids outside, you write about
It instead.

7. Even though you are allergic
To everything, you take that stroll
In the park you write about
So often.

8. Spring's promise is really just like
The New Year's poem you wrote,
New beginnings and all.

9. While digging through your Spring
Cleaning, you find your old poems
And decide to post them on
Hello poetry.

10. The garage is a mess, nothing
Is getting done, but in the poem you just wrote
Is about the hard work it was.

11. You learn the name of
new birds and flowers to make
Your poem fancier.

12. And finally,
You really don't like Spring,
But its a season, and we're poets,
So yeah.

Percepting and interpreting my life goals,
My vandalized and shattered hopes,
Destructed and broken in a millionth piece,
Collecting sorrow from here and there,
The dark and horrendous nightmares that I embrace,
I'm oh so scared,
Acknowledging pain yet dissolving abhor,
All part of fear,
Skeptical images cloud my mind,
But I blow them away,
Believing my life is more than just hate and judgment,
It is believing in myself,
I am my foremost goal,
No one can pressurize me,
Reveling my whereabouts and where I stand,
I am my hero,
My own enemy,
And my own judge,
No one can be me !

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

Old selves die easily.
They whine their superseded demands
And the winds of change
Blow buildings down on them.

Or slide into a warm bath of contentment
And gasp out their last as the water drains,
Marooning them like bathtoys of despair.

One has expired in my arms.
His face turns to smoke
Like a ghost beginning to form.

Tenderly, I drag him to the backyard
To hide him with the others.
I mark where they’re buried
So oblivion knows where to find them.

health in a jar
or words
maybe wine
lots of wounds
lots of remedys
nothing works
for everything
but laughter and time
usually help
to some extent.