Best Catlike Poems
What's the scariest book you ever read?.. Some Stephen King book like "Salem's Lot" or "The Shinning"?
For me its Kate Millett's "Sexual Politics".. Oh, man.. Now THAT will scare you to death if you're female.
I discovered a man, (overheard) at my church, who actually believes his sex a sign of power, and of superiority..
WHY am I so startled? Some childish trust not yet scrubbed off? - Or worse yet some belief, not yet strangled, in a better world?
See, stupid me, I thought this bill had been paid, by sufferance, by real people like Elizabeth Stanton, Carrie Catt and Martin King.. by entire generations who ran through those tangled woods emerging cut and bruised.. if at all.
What is it like for HIM? I see him eying us, his little inferiors who bleed with the moon, with secret, catlike distaste.. regarding female opinions as slightly impure then, with calm, God like grace, granting the form of servant to assume.
Can I, can we, be forced to accept this inheritance? I don't know..
All I know is that this prejudice, so strangely without substance, strikes me like the duelers lucky thrust robing me of attendant rights and wit.. springs that tender trap of doubt in the future and abandons me to stammering.
Let go of both the handlebars,
free the fireflies from mason jars;
Poignant lyrics sprung from memoirs
barz built for starz, barz built for starz;
So much fervor flooding the mic
moving across the stage catlike;
He’s controlling a missile strike
riding a bike, riding a bike.
"shhhhh.....shissssssh"
"be quiet"...whispered
"Can you hear that?"
.
.
"What is that sound?"
Is it far...a faraway
train whistle lonesome
from song of mainline?
Is it the soft ting
of the tea kettle
cooling on the stove,
bending it's metal?
"What is that sound?"
It is the slow creak
of old wooden chairs
as mortise and tenon
slowly adjust, torqued
to a shifting weight.
Could be a mantle
clock tiptoe ticking
away Sunday afternoon.
Why don't they make
digital clocks tick?
Is it that catlike scratch
of the Autumn branch
gently scraping the window?
"What is that sound?"
It is the hushed hum
of computer fan lulling
a digital brain.
The Venetian blinds
rhythmically tap half-open
double-hung windows.
The vibrating whir
of some electric motor
compressing or orbiting
the periodic table.
Mountains of Quaking Aspen
leaves relaxing the winds.
When is alone welcome
and when is it forlorn?
The weight of near silence,
light as the dust that
floats the sunlit room,
or heavy as a cardiac
anvil under ancient
spreading Chestnut tree.
Did the bell toll at
the village church,
ringing all comers
to awake momentarily, or
was that just tinnitus?
Unable to open eyes,
sounds belie surroundings
and alone might be
fallacy or welcome.
Deceptive senses afoot
in the stirrup, and hammer
tapping anvil might only
be a mindful dream.
© Goode Guy 2011-06-13
cat
floats over wall
leaves crunch
We had a secret place, Marie and I,
a slabwood shack with a narrow door
and a hole in the roof where the rain came in,
the eaves unfinished where swallows built their nests.
There was just one seat inside,
a long and narrow seat
boarded over, nailed there,
both chair and table for little girl picnics.
Behind the shack, a splashing brook
carried our boats in water finger-deep;
beyond the brook and ancient trees,
a corn field marched to infinity.
"Where do you go?" my brother asked,
but we would never tell--until one day
he followed us, sneaking catlike through the corn,
trailing the trickle of our voices.
He told on us at supper time
and everybody laughed
and said we had played in a privy.
Marie touched my hand behind the chairs;
we felt the tears we dare not shed,
and knew that beyond the corn and through the woods
we'd find another secret place.
Let's play a game of cat and mouse chase.
Like in the cartoon, life is Jerry the mouse.
Life hides from Tom the cat, which is the cruel world.
Tom always tries to chase Jerry but Jerry is too quick
for him. That is how life is. The world chases afte life.
At times, Jerry tries to wake up Tom and let him chase him.
He does all sort of crazy things to wake him up and chase him;
playing tricks on him. After Tom wakes up, Jerry hurries into
safety; his tiny mouse hole.
This is how my world is. It is an evil catlike word that hisses at
me all the time. I run, like Jerry, into safety, which is life.
It might not be the best mouse hole, but it is life.
I wish I were like Jerr; always running away from my cruel world
of suffering and pain, and find safety in some hole in my Soul.
But I need to stop chasing my cruel world and let it sleep;
be aware and have a plan when it wakes up.
The tree stretches its branches
Like a cat waking up from sleep
Its leaves give a little shake
Almost like a gentle sneeze
Looks down at the passing river
Snaking its way past its roots
Watering nature as it meanders by
Grass and plants with wormlike shoots
Where is this river running to
What mysteries does it leave behind
Any evil teardrops to poison you
Or just happiness of the watery kind
Whatever hope this picture brings
Look for the sun as it bursts with song
Remember that tree with its catlike stretch
And the lazy river meandering along.
We stood upon the ripe
Dunes
Looking down upon the shorn
Tops
Of holly trees wading in the
Sunken
Hiatus, splayed between
Ocean
And Great South
Bay.
The lawntrees were
Rippling
In the fervid air. Then
Catlike
We plunged into the cool
Emerald
Arbored depths: Everything is
Green
Like her sunglasses there.
This little poem is another rare piece of juvenilia preserved from my college years at UF (1977-80).
The taste of you is still sharp on my tongue.
Beside me your form, vulnerable in sleep,
Unaware of the stroke of my hand along your spine.
All day I gaze at the gentle swell of my stomach,
Patterned with traces of silver and brown,
Your greying hair.
I’m sick of this routine.
Afterwards, you doze and I think.
I cannot stand to look at you,
Poisoned as you are, I am far more content
To comb over the many images and scenes of us I have in my mind,
A library perhaps you could call it.
Each time we are “together,”
I can’t help looking at your contorted face,
It amazes me to see so many thick, oozing emotions,
Growing at an almost grotesque rate.
They remind me of garden weeds.
In a struggle, they easily lose their thorned plumes,
But always leave a resilient root, embedded deep,
Soon to flourish again and willingly present itself
For another wounding.
I am nothing like you.
I’m pure, like an angel.
Typically vindictive, your catlike body,
Curls against mine, and tries to argue otherwise.
Its useless, you should know that
Chastity is not purity,
Merely similar in its perversity.
Your phone flashes your husbands name,
But you’re too busy dozing to move,
Snorting and grunting in you sleep,
Roast beef or pasta, which meal tonight?
I now also feel drowsy, satisfied.
I have left my scent on you, and now you are my territory.
I will store the memory in the library for later.
Same time tomorrow?
I can predict it.
You will arrive indignant, complaining that
I’m so silent, impassive and unresponsive.
You mean nothing to me.
Self indulgent, wallowing in your sin.
God bless my purity.
An infection in a tender wound,
Stripping me away piece by piece,
Leaving me bare, exposed and empty.
Purity is just defeat, and I am long lost,
Be it a blessing or a curse,
It’s in the blood.
A faint smile escapes me as I think of us,
Weaving our immaculate dance,
And I think of my purity,
Like a dancer’s failed pirouette.
As we lie here,
The eight wonder of the world.
Parisian nights magical made for hand in hand walking
Along the light sparkling Seine,
Across bridges running to old left bank enclaves
Magic nights soft city lights
Footsteps echo into alleys
Taxis purr catlike in misty morning dew
Who walks in these early hours just before dawn?
Bakers rolling croissants, freshly baking
Deliveries of flowers, papers, breads
All in sleepy just light …
You and I, hand in hand, find our way home
Under flowering purple trees
You yank me from my curtain climb
But I shall nap and bide my time.
You'll pass by soon enough.
Narrow and shallow shining laser focus
into chasm while teetering on brink
akin to scurrying thru microcosmic burrow
of microscopic Manhattan skyscrapers
wink'n nod and blink,
this ace of spades heart (diamond
in the rough) poet digs club billy shallow
sometimes forced to spelunk
thru crawl space chink
hunting down gamesome dodging
catlike whim elusively outpaced,
yet webbed, whorled wide net
nonetheless doth cap cha alive
agile adept idealized rat fink,
which unseen quite quiet mouse notion
gives hardy fellow run for his money,
within scrunched brow mental chase
possibly connected to a preceding pondering
or appearing randomly
viz, non-sequitur conscious kink
said quarry i.e. whimsical thoughts
frequently vanish without a trace
quick as mental cogs and wheels
generate snapchatting, riveting, twittering link
process allowing, enabling, and providing
albeit easily distracting ability
to grasp awesome zinging, lightening,
fleeting brainstorm within windswept
mind space *****sapiens to think
shimmering insight cognizant ability
likening ode on Grecian urn vase
frieze depicting elusive capture
thought process lifespan shorter than a wink
via third eye blind of
comfortably numb beatle browed face
to locate source giving rise
king inducing minor frustration at inability
to nab (albeit painlessly) shimmering zinc
like inception, deception, taking wing
within fifty plus shades swing
and conception of consciousness stir ring
nanobyte size quisling
gray matter housing chromosomal ping
pong pin balling genes summons King
kong of Leon intrigue, jing
gull ling, where disparate
ideas linkedin fling
pollinated neurological network ebbing
and flowing, sans during
writerly blitzkrieg thread ding
provocative point of pinterest bing
proclimation emancipation pensive predilection
to contrive a means and ways
to corral mischievous mental minions
who seem to vanish without a trace
holographic after effect or image evoked
from virtual reality, the latest modality
to pair dime a dozen stray cats re:
untamed cerebral creatures tempting
contemplation to occupy hours.
The evening air blows twice as fair
when it is kissing her sweet strands of hair
to glimpse her rosy cheeks, perchance her eyes
any passerby would swoon.
Down the street the lamplights flicker on
a feeble gesture, half in vain
for any light forfeited by the sunset
is given to the moon.
And where it’s wanted shadow still creeps in
Observe! Behind a mule cart sits
bundled up in robes and motionless
the sweet girl prior mentioned.
Horses’ footfalls echo from the sides of shops
and disappear as masters drive
into some warmer corner
of the cold Parisian night
As well pedestrians shuffle by
at somewhat slower pace
and but the smallest turn their gaze upon
the pauper woman’s face
But none can see, but none can see
into this sweet girl’s reverie
the chillness in her breath
is the only sign she gives
Her eyes are closed, and now she flies
through darkest depths of mind to happier times
one summer evening on a porch
beside her lover true
When gaze is not transfixed upon the other
drinking from the depths of melancholy passion
it gorges itself upon the greenest grass
like heifers lowing on the hill
or bunnies bounding through the field
or crickets chirping in the reeded orchestra
all similes reveal themselves at twilight
to those in love, in elevated sight
and minds are read, so no surprise
can narrow further catlike eyes
when her lover true decides
to reveal to her the truth
“Upon this eve I have received
a letter from the Guard, with intent
to draft me into the army
as the gears of war are turned
you know how much I long to stay
within your arms until my dying day
but I’ve heard tales of those who tried to flee
many try, and none succeed
so in a week I’ll board the train
the line from Marseilles to Lorraine
and write you letters every night
until the morn that we shall hold each other tight”
And no words formed upon her lips
the falling leaves told all
but when they kissed tears did form inside their eyes,
rolled off, and mingled in their mouths.
The whisper of a whisker
At my window
Scratches at my eardrums
Like inch-long nails on a chalkboard
In the hot sweaty classroom
Where I grew old
So like a student greets the bell
I greet the reaper
Who stares at me through the glass
Through the night
Through thin slits
In catlike eyes
Assumption begot,
that cumulative generations
bred tiredness weariness zap
ping ability to remain awake,
nope even enough energy
to feign opening maw mouth
evincing a yap,
and if equipped
with smartphone app viz whatsapp
would shear lee ask ewe
if Androids dream of electric sheep,
but limited options,
asper talking via two lipped gap
reduce modes to communicate
keeping shut tight denture
"FAKE" toothed trap
affixed to gums by (James) bonding agent
necessitating manual finagling -
careful NOT to snap
dentures, thus
leaving garbled speaking
where gum shunned rattletrap
disallowing articulation,
enunciation and pronunciation,
making worthy words
sound like discombobulated pap
hoping to convey tiredness affliction,
sans this poe whim, whereby i map
imagining yielding curling (catlike)
upon ample sized maternal lap
whether gentile,
or Jewish princess i.e. Jap
pan knees, which above
quasi Semitic iteration hap
puns tubby what occurred to me
for no particular rhyme or reason
hoping ya ponied mental effort
to breeze thru my sad dulled verse
with neigh saying horsesense to giddyap
whereupon woebegone
sleepiness could perk me up -
if ye could purchase far me a large frap
pa chin oh otherwise
fate twill point this chap
to Google search how to buck up vitality
vis a visa deer lee sought app.