... or should I call these my "classics?"
We met in a concrete-and-molded-plastic world. You longed for the wind in your face and a sunrise before you. I dreamed of a place I could call mine. We shared an unspoken understanding of nature and Nature. You rationalized and philosophized and pondered and thought. I wished on an evening star and tried to understand. You could appreciate the simplicity of a complex land and sky. You savored the song of the woodlands over the language of men. You could imagine the metal-and-smog man-ness gone away... And you knew it could be true. I could smile at the snow falling over the city at night. I sent my dreams dancing among the clouds and early stars. I could scent the change in seasons and wonder at the change... But was never certain of my place in it all. You are a child of the smoky autumn aspens, Of the dappled green leaves when the spring sun is warm, Of the world Man and men left behind. I am of the children they forgot, Of the city-forest and woodland metropolis, Of pavement and meadows and sky over all. We are of the world we live in... Of the differences in Nature and Man, separate and together, Of the sun and the moon and the stars unchanged by either. We share a path, walking side by side... For now, at least.
This was actually optioned for publication by CATS magazine, though it never made it to press. And no, happily, I've never been involved in a situation like this!
It's easy enough to see why she loves you: You are soft and warm, A comfort on a cold winter's night. Your hands are gentle, never harsh, And it pleases her to feel them caress her body. Everything she could possibly want is hers-- You give it freely, unselfishly. You would never dream of looking at another... And she would never give you cause. You are her love, her life... And yet You are totally enslaved by her. You cater to her every wish-- Her vaguest glance in your direction Freezes you in your tracks. A shadow of a frown Sends you into a flurry of activity, Trying desperately to please her. A smile from her is heaven for you. You enjoy nothing more than to hold her, Tightly but tenderly in your arms, Feeling her softness as you slumber together under the moon, Then waking together in the morning light. I can't help but feel envious As I see her, snuggled comfortable and close to you, Or flinch back a spark of jealousy As she looks at me and smirks, Smugly content in her prize. Ah, I wish I was that cat!
Teenage angst at its most potent. Odd, I think... I went from being a cynical and bitter teen to the sort of person who believes in angels... go figure!
Lullaby, lullaloo, Dry your eyes, little sister you're too big for Mama to rock you to sleep. Lullaby, lullaloo, Be at rest, little sister Close your eyes and leave others the night-watch to keep. Who are you crying for, sister? What has shaken your heart to breaking? Just days ago Or is it more? You were laughing and singing With the voice of a child. You still believed in fairy tales, Still believed in rainbows, Still believed in me. I never understood your world, little sister. I knew that fairy tales are lies, And that rainbows are fleeting, And that I am no longer a child. But I tried to hide it all from you... You, who still believed. Lullaby, lullaloo, Dry your eyes, little sister you're too big for Mama to rock you to sleep. Lullaby, lullaloo, Be at rest, little sister Close your eyes and leave others the night-watch to keep. Do not cry for me, sister. You did not shatter my world, No more than I wish to crush yours. Mine was broken long ago-- I saw it fall to pieces, And I know the pain and fear it brings. There are no White Knights here to rescue us, And rainbows flee from your grasp, And we children all too soon grow into adults And pass into an adults' world. But still... It is not a bad world, sister, Though it is dark and flawed and cold, And if you grasp your dreams tightly, They can keep you warm. Lullaby, lullaloo, Dry your eyes, little sister you're too big for Mama to rock you to sleep. Lullaby, lullaloo, Carry on, little sister And hold tight to your dreams 'till the heartache is through.
In memory of Lollypop, the first of my cats, who always liked to sit on my typewriter and... "edit." Cats.
You can't just grab a poem by the scruff of its neck like a cat and write it down. The poem, not the cat. A cat would just walk away in a huff, twitching its tail. If a poem had a tail to twitch It would probably do the same. So there you sit with a pen in your hand waiting for the words to come. A poem arrives at its own pace, unhurried, deliberate, until it sits on your notebook as if it had been there all along. Very much like the cat again. Right now my poem is purring and flexing her paws as sit sits at the foot of my bed.