You Cat

 

You are my furry wonderland, you Cat.

No continent’s as rich or rare as you, Cat.

You are a landscape of soft undulations

all moving and shifting as you do, Cat.

Sometimes I run my open hand all along 

your belly or back, tracking through Cat.

Our else I will touch my forehead to yours

and you bump yours against mine too, Cat.

When you gaze at me, giving one slow blink,

I know that is your love for me on view, Cat.

In distress you may look ferocious. At times, 

predator, a ferocity in your aspect is true, Cat.

In this picture, you sit straight up, attentive,

fluffy yet menacing – towards, I ask, who, Cat? 

You have lived with me now in many forms

over the years: black, tabby, sable or blue, Cat.

You continue to live with me, in presence, in

remembrance, and in my reverence for you, Cat.

NaPoWriMo Day Eight.

We were invited to look at pictures from The Museum of Bad Art, and also to write a love poem in the form of a ghazal. I love to play with that form! The final verse is supposed to include one's own name or a reference to oneself. As lovers of Shakespeare know, Rosemary is for remembrance.

The particular cat image from the Museum, which I used for inspiration. (Scroll down one row.)

On Not Being an Inuit Print

 

I am not an enchanted owl,

but I want to be. I want to, like you 

might want strong meat to chew on, 

or else at the opposite extreme 

rich thick creamy chocolate cake

that you might want or I …

but anyway, what I don’t want 

is to be a piece of canvas, or paper

or board, or anything flat, two-

dimensional as a blade of grass.

It’s not that I object to being

Inuit (an Inuit anything) 

because that would make me

racist, wouldn’t it? (Although I 

don’t live in Canada or Alaska

so would it even count?) It’s the 

print bit I don’t like to entertain, 

not when pertaining to me, in my 

good round flesh. But there’s this 

one print I saw just now, when taking

a virtual stroll through a part of 

the Canadian Museum of History.

The Enchanted Owl arrested me, with 

its unblinking gaze, its half-curved

claws caught mid-retraction, and

its wild, expansive, stripes of feathers –

its confronting feathers – paused

for take-off, while this creature (me)

is briefly examined. I want to be the real

alive owl. I want to expand my wings,

cry out in a voice that I – who didn’t paint 

this, or live  there – don’t know, and will 

never. I want to fill out that compact body 

with food and breath, rise up to brush the air 

with sweeps of those enchanting feathers.

NaPoWriMo Day Seven

Print by Kenojuak Ashevik (image)

(Fell madly in love with this image, then learned it's actually a famous 'Canadian icon'.)

Lemongrass

 

Not my favourite. I like vibrant, 

tangy – sweet or sour or salt or 

bitter, but with some bite, some

charge, some depth, some actual 

flavour. Lemongrass is dry, weak,

barely even there. It pitter-patters 

along the edges of mouth and tongue, 

scarcely noticed at all. I crave a taste 

that yells or sings, jumps up, waves

eager arms: ‘Here I am; savour me, 

roll me all over your palate, close 

your eyes in bliss, let me excite you!’

NaPoWriMo 2025, Day Six.