When the world turns upside down, I’ll have to stand on air. My heels will be over my knees, my knees over my hair. Will the water stay in place or just come tumbling down to fill up where the sky is now—where formerly was town? Will gravity act just the same or will it pull us up? How will it work when Grandpa tries to fill his coffee cup? Will balls bounce up or down and will skiers ski uphill? How will grandma’s old gray cat stay on the windowsill? May I suggest the world stay just as it is instead? It’s just too complicated standing on your head!
My furry raider sloshed through rain out to the barn and back again, but next trip was a passenger his human cuddled close to her so both could view the transient new mother so intently bent over her bounty, newly born this blustery, rainy, wind-swept morn.
One more thing born that rainy day around three homeless ones that lay snuggled down within the hay protected from the weather’s fray— a sense of family between an old male cat, once feral, mean— who had been taken in himself and these three waifs, curled on a shelf within that barn where I’d found him. Now both of us discovered them and that day welcomed them, all three to our extended family.
Wisdom newly learned or tribal, from Koran or Scroll or Bible demarcates a line between what shouldn’t or what should be seen or said or listened to or done. No matter how seemingly fun, some things cannot be integrated. No masterpiece is tolerated if banned by the censor’s tool.
Thus do bigots thrive and rule
spouting truths long since belied—
asserting them as bonafide.
These half-truths to reason’s sorrow may dictate how we live tomorrow—
our whole world screwed up by some fools
who bend the laws to their own rules,
spouting words skewed to their favor,
creating slogans dullards savor.
There is one rule for what the zealots shout.
After you have heard them out,
use your good sense to judge the acts
of those determining the facts.
Use your powers of reason to test
those who rule at our behest.
Covering the Christmas tree, decking every door,
Excessive seasonality suffuses my decor. Embellishments without cannot reflect what’s in. Too often Xmas cheer’s bound up in what has been. If a helping hand could decorate my heart, then the celebration perhaps could have a start.
They gather round the pool for a glass of wine— their voices soft as butter with a continental whine. Their conversation heady. She’s finally arrived, running from that castoff life that she barely survived.
She changes personalities according to her whim. She became a baroness the moment she met him. Tonight in the wine bar, perhaps she’ll be a waif. In such low localities, a title isn’t safe.
The fantasies of childhood have certainly paid off. One day she is a Renoir, the next she’s a Van Gogh. One face follows another with a costume change. Her various identities show an extensive range.
Being so many people is her brand of fun. You’d call her a chameleon if you knew more than one. But she is very careful. One identity per friend. She saves her next identity for those met round the bend.
Prompt words today are butter, heady, glass, pool.*This poem was not written about the girl in the photo. I love this photo I took of my niece and although I felt the image worked to illustrate the poem, it is not illustrative of her personality.
Where is it that a cat belongs? She’ll be the judge of that. Wherever I am going, I am sure to need a cat. She’ll help me with my packing and be my memory so I don’t forget to take her when I set out to sea.
She can’t see how her company could go against my wishes. A cat goes well with boats and anywhere where there are fishes. Each morning she repacks herself and each night in the dark she asks herself once more just when we’ll finally embark.
After a week of packing, my case is finally full. I shut the lid, secure the lock, pick up the strap and pull. I’m off to catch the red eye that will fly me off to Rome to catch the boat that for one week will make do as my home.
I have packed so carefully, checking off my list that I’m sure there’s nothing that I could have missed. But I know that Annie, sleeping curled up on her mat, when she wakes up and finds me gone, will not agree with that.
In spite of her best efforts, alas, she’s left behind. It seems that human planning isn’t always kind to cats who have spun fantasies of travel and romance. Did human plans concur with hers? Poor Annie. Not a chance.
It’s a wonderful coincidence that the dVerse Poets prompttoday is “Felines,” since just this morning I found this photo taken three weeks ago as I packed for my Mediterranean cruise with my sister. I meant to publish it back then but forgot and was wondering when it would be appropriate to use it as an illustration. I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
Although the moon is obstinate, They’re waking up the sun. It’s time to fold your dreams away, to shake out the day’s fun. When adventure’s inconspicuous, still you can try to find it. Time is always ticking but you can’t forget to wind it. Knit your future to your dreams and life will be your plum. When life can be so wonderful, why spend it being glum?