What if
When we landed
Behind enemy lines
No-one seemed to notice
And when they finally saw us
They waved a mild hello
Fingers fluttering in greeting
What if
When we waged war
No-one engaged with us
But just shrugged and
Walked away, carrying
Bundles of wheat and stacks of corn to market
And when they passed us
Waved in salutation
Nodding as they went by
What if
We practiced the fighting
Alone on a field of battle
And when they saw us
Grunting and struggling with cannon and gun
They stood and watched
Gathering around us
Like a crowd of cheerleaders
Applauding our efforts as if for show
Waving a small flag
Not theirs but oursIn acknowledgementReprinted from https://wp.me/p5XJvt-4t
Cat eyes
Nothing will kill this cat
What with her nine lives
And electric fur and the
Deep green-brown of her
Eyes. She is as invincible
As the breezes of the night
The ones that fan desires.
She is sultry and sinuous
As if her bones could melt
Into the corners of a room
Or enter the chambers of
Your mind. She knows a
Little more than her eyes
Reflect off the fire-light of
The moon. She is by nature
Sensuous, her soft purrs call
For mischief and pleasure.
There is no one here to judge.
The curious qualitues of the cat
Softly landing on its pads, the cat is
Sensuous, slinky, its furry rotundity
Clinging as it presses to us, on its way
Elsewhere. The cat's indifference is
Sexy. It calls for seduction and art.
There is no easy in maintaining her
Attention or keeping her favors close.
She knows what she wants but may
Not want what she knows. Softly,
She will land by your side and move
Quickly away, suddenly disinterested.
https://wp.me/p8jzUa-4O from 2013 included this A footnote: Over 50 years ago, I wrote a poem in which
desire crept quietly on little cat feet, and the steamy heat
is all that remains of the original in my mind. This attempt
to reconstruct completely misses but it’s fun trying!
Grandiosity
https://wp.me/p8jzUa-1U. A reprint from 2015
I have begun to emulate Blake in my scribblings
With no clear idea of what that means,
No sense of original sin or even unoriginal sin,
Except the ways in which men and women behave
Hurting each other, allowing their terrors to frighten the children
Not facing life responsibly
With joy and gladness for every day
But letting the things that haunt their dreams
Destroy their waking
Who do I think
Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Blake
Is poetry order or chaos? Is my
Own a way to invite mayhem
From all around into a new and
Precise pattern I can control
And calibrate. Who do I think
I am? Do I dare put myself in
Exalted company? Hubris is
Not a sin. It is a condition of
Mind that rather overreaches
Than stay earthbound. Stars
Are perfect but chaotic things.
I crave order but love chaos.
Tamara, really 