Summer Evening

The heat cools to comfortably mild.

I look out the front door

and see, on the top step,

my dear man taking the air

in his chair on the landing.

Our pantherish old black cat, Levi,

sprawls near him on the mat.

Tortoiseshell Freya is curled up neatly 

close by on the second step.

And there's me. I am sitting  

on the top step, leaning back

against the rails: positioned to see,

talk to and touch all three....

             *********

It's five years ago and more. 

All of them are dead now.

Even on such a pleasant evening

I never sit, these days, on 

the front steps, enjoying the air.


Sharing at Poets United's Poetry Pantry #388.

Featured by Sherry at Poets United in Poems of the Week: Furry Feline Friends We Have Known and Loved, along with poems by Toni Spencer and Susan Chast.

They Leave Themselves Behind

Walking down the hall, I see

through one door, Andrew 

at his desk by the window

(where the second bed is now)

pantherish Levi snuggled at his feet;

or glimpse Freya through glass

reclining outside in sunshine –

cats and man, all gone,

always remaining.

Written for dVerse quadrille #15: leaves / leave.

Featured by Sherry at Poets United in Poems of the Week: Furry Feline Friends We Have Known and Loved, along with poems by Toni Spencer and Susan Chast.

Again

‘Are you well?’ they ask. ‘You look tired.

Your energy seems a bit down.’

‘It’s August again,’ I don’t say,

and don’t add, ‘My “cruellest month” ’.

All those remembered deaths,

none of them old yet – and the new one.

It creeps up slowly, even though I think

I’m well prepared. I forget hollowness –

until it insinuates itself, again, inside

my bones, my veins, the cavities of my gut.

The empty spaces in me, which are me, are

microcosms of the great spaces in the world

left by your unique absences: holes that can’t

be refillled. Can’t ever. But the weeks pass

again, and I move again past your passing,

your several passings, as I did each first time.

Perhaps it is as well, my dears, you die in August

or the first edge of September, or the last day in July.

The Spring arrives again, the world looks up

and thrives, filling itself with life, that starts anew.

And my life too goes on. So far. Of course

I feel myself immortal, as we all do – as you did

(most of you). But now again it’s August.

I don’t go out much, get dressed late.

I buy myself wine and chocolates

and romantic DVDs; indulge alone.

And nothing fills the hollow, lights the dark….

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just busy.’ Again and again.

Written in response to Voices, Spaces & Songbirds at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Sevenling (My Favourite Music)

Nothing made Freya happier
than to snuggle between Andrew and me,
purring all night in deep rhythm.

Later, when Andrew and Freya were gone,
Levi would curl up next to me and purr.
Now he too has left me; they are all gone.

My new cat is wary, and shares the bed silently.


Yes I know, comparisons are odious, and the new cat is gradually getting more trusting and affectionate. (She did purr the other night while sitting on my lap, as I wrote two poems ago.) I love her – and I still miss the others.

A sevenling for dVerse. We were asked to write about music.

Remnants

My new black cat

follows me into the kitchen.

She tries to persuade me

she is owed food.

I look at her rounded belly

and refuse. With only a brief glare,

she accepts this and strolls back 

to her chair beside the computer. 

She likes to be where I am. 

That is her safety, so far.

In the empty kitchen I see

my old black cat, who was with me

17 years. He is rattling cupboard doors, 

banging them one by one with his nose.

He knows it won't make them open;

it is a message to me, like prisoners

clanging metal mugs on a bench.

Other times, he sprawls on the spare bed

at the far end of the house. He doesn't need
proximity, to feel connected.












He is only here in my mind now.

My new girl cat

looks out through the flywire screen

at the front yard and the street.

Dogs bark. Other cats squall, fighting.

She stays indoors. I indulge her.

She looks out instead to the back garden:

a small space where nothing happens

except the growth of weeds.

Bored, she goes back to her chair.

I won't force the issue.

My last girl cat,

who was with me 16 years, 

wanders across the lawn

lifting her paws high and deliberately

out of the grass, like a dancer.

She is coming to greet me.

If I'm inside, she might well bring me

the fat corpse of a bird. 

Then I'll yell, and she’ll grip it 

and run back down the steps.

But she's only here in my mind, now.

Go to sleep, my children.

Dear visitors, time to leave once more,

until your next look in.

I will be here.

Dear newcomer, take the time you need.

We are neither of us young, but we have

whatever remains to be …
the whole of our lives.

Written for Day 16 of Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads' – about remains, remaining, or remainders.

Old Happiness

I sit on my tiny front veranda with my cat. Too late to do café writing today, I do it here, with coffee and fruit cake. Dark fruit cake, almost black and very moist.

A great brown bird just flew over, reddish-brown, across my driveway to disappear past my roof. A coucal I thought at first, but no, the tail wasn't long enough. Thinking of shape and size – a small hawk. (Merlin! Is that you?) It sailed leisurely, with some smaller bird in tow like a satellite or an attendant.

I love this time of evening, when the hills opposite become navy-blue and featureless, sharp-edged against the whitening sky. The feathery tree across the road dances in the light breeze.

old diary

words of past happiness

make me weep

(Written 22/5/2015 - 26/1/2016)

If you think you recognise this, perhaps you do. It's part of a journal entry which I have already used extracts from in other ways. Coming across this extract today, which I can't find evidence of having published anywhere yet, I added the verse to make it a haibun. It is of course about my old – now late – cat, Levi, not my new cat, who has not yet generated any poems. (Give it time; she's only been with me a week.)

Shared at The Tuesday Platform, 26 Jan.16, at 'imaginary garden with real toads'

The photo is mine and should not be reproduced without permission. © Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2015.

Passages

Sometimes, working late, I hear

a thump on the door, and think,

'There's my old cat wanting to come in' 

though I know it isn't, and can't be, 
and won't. Never again. My cat is dead.

***

Deep night.

That mournful sound:

faintly, a plane going over

high and alone up there,

droning its way away

dwindling into distance.

***

That tree, a weed not pulled,

grew fast, filling my skyline.

I try to remember now, and can’t –

had it even begun as a tiny shoot
when he was still here to see?

(Written as separate gogyoshi, then I discerned a theme.)

Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #280

Winter sunshine: Haiku for August and September 2015

winter sunshine

the top step is empty

my old cat gone

8/8/15

on the top step

the ghost of my black cat

waits for me

18/9/15

The Night Before

My boy, you have become so small,

curled here, asleep against my leg.

My ancient boy, over 90 in human years,

your time has come. Tomorrow,

to save you pain and long decline,

I will take you to the vet, and she

will inject you with your final sleep,

your death. She has worked so hard,

this vet, to get you to like her. Last time

we went in, she could stroke you;

you even purred (you who were once

all claw and fang and fierce hissing

for any vet). Nice timing – now 

you need not fight your death, but meet it

peacefully. My hands, too, will be on you

so that you feel my love to the end –

my hands, that even now caress

your sleek black fur. You wake 

and give a happy little murmur

at my touch, then shift position. Hard 

to find comfort, these last weeks.

But now you sleep, almost as deeply

as you will tomorrow night and afterwards

forever, all your nine lives used.

I'm glad you won't be dragging your bones

off to some secret resting place I'd never find, 

like other cats I've loved. I'm glad

of all the years you've spent with me.

One day is left to us, and then –

go sweetly, dear old friend! 

6 August 2015

Shared at dVerse Open Link Night #153

Faithful Friends

Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find. 

— William Shakespeare

I am the person of the cat.

He comes in and out, his tail raised,

and greets me with plaintive yells.

I remember that he was a quiet cat

not long ago. His sister, then,

did the talking. He, lordly, refrained.

Now she is dead, and he has become 

his own mouthpiece. Necessity!

He also jumps up and scratches my chair.

We both know I am his. Sometimes

I am obedient. When, so often, I’m not, 

he yells louder, telling me off.

I snarl back. I still have the power

of food. But he has the power of himself.

When I am good, he will give me snuggles.

Written in response to 'Play It Again' #18 at imaginary garden with real toads,
for both the Writing from the Inside Out and  (Very) Old School challenges.

At 2 a.m.

I have been in bed an hour.

I closed my book and turned the light out

thirty minutes ago.

The man next door can't sleep again.

He is playing his AC-DC collection

again, loud.

My cat comes crashing through

his swinging flap in the laundry door,

and yowls.

'Shut up,' I tell him (the cat

not the man next door). 'It's much

too early for breakfast.'

I toss and twitch, get up again

to pee, wonder if I'll ever settle ...

and wake at eight.

On my bed, a lump of dark

stirs, pricks its ears,
purrs.

Written in response to dVerse Instapoetics prompt, and shared with Tuesday Platform for 19 May 2015 at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

My Black Cat

My black cat,

my handsome black cat,

the perfect cat for a witch,

is named Levi. His other name is

'familiar'.

When I cast

my magic circle

on the night of the full moon

my black cat is with me, and also

the fairies.

He grows old,

this dear cat. Me too.

Sometimes, when the weather's cold

only the fairies dance, by the light
of the moon.

At dVerse Meeting the Bar this time, Tony Maude invites us to try an extended (or expanded) cinquain with one extra syllable per line than the form invented by Adelaide Crapsey. What this version might be called is still being debated, but the term Maudern cinquain, suggested by one user, is proving popular. Although Tony himself feels it would be arrogant for him to use it. I have no such constraint and am adopting it forthwith. This poem is a sequence of three of them. 

Storm Watching

I sit outside in the cool,

in the rain and lazy thunder,

under the wide overhang

of the back verandah.

My companion stretches and shifts

on his blanket, attempting calm.

But his sister was the brave cat.

Without her, he's uneasy.

So we come inside from thunder

and spraying, pelting rain.

I like all that — but he, I guess, has no need

to prove himself to me. He knows

I am very tender of him, I won't

challenge or scorn or compete.

Instead I usher him in, get him settled.

Then I find me a spot on the front verandah.

I see him through the flywire

draping himself inside the door,

looking out — near me
in safety. We are both content.

Both dVerse and Poets United, not surprisingly, are asking for gratitude/thankfulness poems right now. Perhaps I can sneak this in, with the idea that contentment qualifies!

He Lies on the Floor

He lies on the floor at my feet

in front of his new scratching post —

which he ignores.  Lifting a paw,

he washes behind one ear.

The old post is out on the kerb

for the hard rubbish collection.

After two years of two cats

it was shredded. But change upsets him.

So at first the old and the new

sat side by side in the house.

I took each of his front paws in my hand

and raked them down the coiled rope.

I swung the dangling balls of synthetic fur

and pulled the toy mouse on its quick elastic.

He batted the balls a bit, then pounced so fast

on the mouse that he almost got me.

But playing of his own accord

hasn’t happened yet.  He doesn’t

have his sister any more

to compete and encourage him.

He murmurs and stirs, and looks up at me.

Again I see him as panther: that all-black coat.

He is docile though, and becoming happy

to hang with me in our pack of two.

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writer's Resource Center). Prompt: Write a draft in paragraphs of prose, then turn it into poetry. (Interesting! The poetry required a lot of tightening. I went from 393 words to 173.)

The Greeting

There is nothing casual

in the way he greets me,

though he looks relaxed,

unfolding himself

from where he sprawls

and adopting a leisurely,

almost-swaggering pace.

He is so fluid, moving

with feline grace,

approaching my car

with slow, deliberate steps,

keeping his eyes continually

fixed on mine, holding me

with his intent gaze.

There is nothing formal

in the way I respond —

smiling without premeditation,

alighting quickly,

calling out his name, showing

my pleasure to see him

with an immediate hug.

As we walk up the steps

to the door, I tell him

how good he looks,

his black hair smooth and sleek,

and he tells me

how much he’s missed me,
nuzzling me and purring.

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writer's Resource Center). Prompt: Use the words 'formal' and  'casual' in a poem.

Adjustments

Come now, beautiful boyfriend, here is morning.

Get up! Off you go, handsome. Breakfast’s waiting.

But no. Clings to me, this one, lately, bless him —

just since Freya, his sister, died and left us.

He grooms me assiduously, with finger licks

and sharp little nips, as if I’m one of his pack.

She used to speak for them both, but now

he’s found his own voice, and he’s exerting it.

He tries to tell me everything, in that low-toned

scratchy little chirrup of a miaow. I try to understand.

He seldom comes to bed with me; he never did.

But I find him beside my pillow every day when I wake.

Nights, he is off about his own business — mostly

lying on the cool top step, guardian of our home.

During the day he follows me about like a faithful dog,

and lies at my feet; or else on the spare bed, and calls me.

I go to him when he calls, and talk to him, and we smooch.
He is not imperious, as she was, but he may be learning.

31 Poems in 31 Days (from Poewar /Writer's Resource Center). Prompt: A poem of three or more verses, the first two metered, the rest unmetered. My first two verses are in hendecasyllabic metre, because I wanted something which wouldn't make too great a demarcation from the rest. (There are various explanations of hendecasyllabic; Ive linked you to the variant I used.)

Valentine to My Levi

My gorgeous lad, my best bloke,

your eyes are bright, your hair is dark.

You are the one I love to cuddle;

come over here, let's have a snuggle.

Your body hair is thick and furry,

your loving voice is low and purry.

You are mine and I am yours;

I'm wrapped around your flexing paws.

They say you're a killer; I'll ignore that.

You are my darling, the cat of my heart.

At dVerse, the prompt is to wind down from Valentine's Day by writing a short love poem to something other than a person, almost but not quite in gooey, greeting-card language. (Oh, I think I misunderstood and we were supposed to get away from that kind of language. Instead, I've attempted to turn it humorous.)

Siesta Time

He lies at the bedroom door
on guard like a dog —
my black cat.

My husband,
napping, rests secure
this overcast afternoon.

It’s an indoor kind of day:
light rain this morning,
dark sky now.

(Last night’s moon
was full but unseen.
Only the cats went outside.)

Happiness is a warm house,
with my man in it
and the cats,

peacefully
stretched out and snoozing,
while I make a new poem.


8 Days of Happiness: 3 / Six Sentences

Exhaustion

He sleeps in his chair all day.
We walk around him quietly,
smiling to see how deeply
he relaxes after his long night.

We understand that in his mind
he is not elderly, nothing has changed —
certainly not his adventurous spirit.

He doesn’t see why his body
can’t do what it’s always done.
He loves to run, to climb,
to push his limits, unthinking.

The torn ligament, healed now,
is almost forgotten. Just a hint
in the remaining, very slight limp.

Even now he’s careless of safety.
Came in the other night
without his collar: lost.
Better, of course, than strangling.

He’s still a handsome old bloke —
the same shining black hair
that I’ve loved since his youth.

And his passion for me is still fresh.
If I were to touch him now as he sleeps,
he would not snap at me; he would gaze up
purring loudly, his adoration never exhausted.


April PAD Challenge 23

Prompt: an exhausted poem