Thirteen Days

Thirteen Days

We will wait,
Until - she no longer mentions when arising in the morning
  “Oh, I was going to ask you where he is…”
Until - I can go down to the basement or out the kitchen door without thinking
  “Oh, check the door, or he might get out or come down,”
Until - I can lay on the floor before the Tv, my right hand not anticipating
  A warm presence, and the soft fur of a tummy to scratch,
Until - I can walk past the grocery store petfood isle without thinking
  “Which brand did he eat, or not eat, last week?” passing by…
Until - it is no longer odd not to feel a cold space beside my feet under covers,
  Were no one warm to fills the center lower half of our bed,
Until - I no longer need to clean our Roomba of its daily bushel of cat fur,
  Collected on its once a morning pounce about the living room carpet,
Until - I stop pausing to switch on a light and look before I walk down the hall to the
  bathroom, ‘cause there’s nothing like cold poops in barefeet first thing getting up,
Until - I walk by the creamer and half and half,
  Without thinking of calling the latter ‘our cat’s milk,’
Until - I stop pondering why ancient Egytians shaved their eyebrows
  When the family cat died, and its plausible relation to fleas,
Until - , at least,
  Say thirteen days? or
Until - , … sigh, nevermind,
  Let’s go adopt a cat!   

Toys at Ease

Toys at Ease

Aligned at the edge of our coffee table
Called to muster to make way for my vacuuming
The soft toys stand at attention
          You see

To clean the carpet isn’t my attempt
Too exterpate him from our house, our lives,
Or to wake the sadness of his lost ninth life
          No, please

The cat toys stand alert for a new command
Stuffed with cotton, batting, herbs of scented nip,
Eyes of glass unable to shed with the tears
          We release

Knowing soon they’ll parade with a new needy cat, who
Need not take scent of our former Tom in fear,
Around the corner, in the carpet, or a drawer,
           Toys; at ease

Ladybird

Ladybird

Two o’clock a Robin is scolding,
Ten o’clock another chatters in defense,
Like a bomber pilot I mark
  The scattershot birds by their hours,
Reference points level on the dial

Keeping the watch, standing the guard,
Making the work of marauders too hard,
They are the sentries, the males, as behind each one
  Quiet as the breeze is still
Sits a hen, low in her thatched-mud cup

As does she, our Ladybird, in the arborvitae,
Black pool eyes all sides of day,
Eastertide come gone away,
  As you roost your treasures cerulean blue,
May I tell you what we will do?

We’ll remain still, dear Ladybird,
It’s just the snaking wind you heard

The Mow Be Gone

The Mow Be Gone

Upon the lawn of Robin Hood green
Appear the dusky Mow-Be-Gone,

They whose planting by unknown hands
Is rarely contemplated, if even conceived

The push mower runs loud on the ears
Its blade unsharpened many years

As each swath of the mowers path
Scythes as cruelly as the last

Claiming the mauve-gay Mow-Be-Gone,
 ‘til none remain save in this song

Narcissus with Wings

Narcissus with Wings

When you meet a swan
  There are always two,
One upon the water, formal,
  The other below, reflected as normal,
Both with their wings arched high, or below,
  Each as Heaven or Neptune’s feather clouds,
Each bird thinking themselves the more noble,
  Dismissive at the sight of their double

These two, though together,
  Disregard each other,
Dipping through the waterline neck to neck,
  Seem to swallow the other’s head
Deep down into their crop,
  There to waive at us while diving
Both tails, up and down,
  One big bird of two head-butts

Conjoined about the plimsoll
  They swim with unseen feet,
Proclaim themselves the masters over geese
  And process as the most adamant of crumb thieves,
Appointing themselves both cheater, referee, and warden,
  Yet to whom we toady bread tossers fear to harden,
For, while unsound (they never speak),
  No mute swan met was ever meek

Scarlet Heights

Scarlet Heights

A distinctive cadence he sings out
  The Common House Finch his vernal song

“How do you like this nest box my dear,
  It’s got a good opening our size”

His call is melodious and an earful,
  A wonder above Nature’s background of baseness,
The rapping of a hard headed woodpecker,
  The gobbling rut of Tom Turkey on the ridge

“The knot hole you found is not as big
  But is safer high up off the ground”

His Hen betrothed merely looks on and twitches,
  She having no mind to announce
To the whole forest
  All their plans and intentions

“A high nest up is surely safer,
  But is there space there for more than three?”

Which nesting place they’ll choose will not be known today,
  For it’s the silent Hen who has the final say

Good Friday

Good Friday

Serenely starts a grave ceremony,
As a woman in white, she’s called a LEM,
  Singly processes with the solemn Cross,
The product of rude New England woodcraft

Cut saplings, one six foot, the other four,
Short over long, and a third the way down
  Are bound together arms to the body 
With hemp twine wound tight, kinda’ Girl Scout-y

The LEM bows as to one who is adored,
Then she lays the cross on the Chancel floor,
  While one by one we all pace up to kneel,
A solemn reverence to our Holy Lord

Invited to touch it, hold it, raise it,
Some just gave at it and are ponderous,
  Mindful of it’s Holy consecration
Transmogrified embodiment, and wood

My turn, I kneel, and with my callused hands
How like a Simon of Cyrene I lift,
  Glad to take its weight off, for a moment
Mindful of whose weight it was, who bore it

As I whispered there a silent prayer,
“Might I share too the sacrifice you bare,
   Might I share too the heavy load you bore,
And bare with thee the burdens of our Lord” 

Looking up brought the great revelation
This simple cross was no benign token,
  But the brand of Roman tyranny, fear,
The grievous tool of mighty oppression

It was the burning stake of the martyrs,
It was the noose and tree for the Negro,
  The the electric chair to the false accused,
The smoking camps of the Holocaust’ wrath

Unable to bear its burgeoning weight
I was forced down by its boot on my neck,
  Pressed upon my back, squeezing my own soul
Usurping my will, denying me breathe

I saw Mother, Friends, helplessly watching,
None could move and neither I, all was lost,
  As the wires of twine tied me to its spars,
And rose me to a height beyond all hope

The sky was sparkling for the lack of air,
A gold mist, deaths’ million shimmering lights, 
  As a voice from the skylights above spoke;
“My Son, will you be martyred by faggots?”

Which revived me with a wondrous inhale,
My arms I pulled against the wooden cross bar
  My back pressed against the unyielding post
As a snapping thunder rent through the Earth

The cross of oppression there was routed
Its arms broke off its back had splintered
  The poles remaining I broke on my knee
And with this God set all His people free

I broke the Ritual that placed the Ritual above the Faith
I broke The Word that said no new Word could be The Word
I broke the Faith that this Faith is mine and that Faith yours
I broke the Law that made the Law above our Love
I broke the Truth that made abuse of Truth our Politic
I broke the Chain that Chains us to Death in servitude
I broke the Contract that Contracts us all to usury
I broke the Lease that Leases us back this Earth, our own
I broke the Conscience that could not Conscience this being done
I broke the False Cross that absolved our obligation,
  to our neighbors, our brothers, our sisters, our parents and our children,
I broke it all because He broke it all
And I broke it all, because,
  I Love You