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.

Stormscare

Or, The Play Of Scars

Now is wild summer.

Storms carve the sky

with sharp light; 

thunderous drumrolls

reverberate.

Small cat is careful, 

places herself underneath 

my big wooden table, 

folds herself smaller still.

Memories carry

two other cats

who crouched, gazing,

in the open doorway,
revelling in storms.

Another piece for dVerse's Quadrille #22. This time the obligatory word 'scar' is hidden – four times.

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.

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.

Cat-Lover's Turn-Around

I shall not have again, I said,

a slinky feline all my own.

It’s time for me to live alone

now that all those I loved are dead.

I need no purrs to share my bed

nor paws to wake me every morn.

I shall not have again, I said,

a slinky feline all my own.

Famous last words! There came a need.

Oh, beautiful – and lacks a home.

So much for solitude. Instead,

by grace and happenstance, I’ve won
a slinky feline all my own.

A Rondel for Meeting the Bar, at dVerse. (I see too late that I've made mistakes in the rhyme scheme, but can't find a good way to fix it now.)

Photo © Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2016. This photo is mine and should not be copied or used in any way without permission. 

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

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'.