Best Introspectioncat Poems


I Believe

i believe in the smoldering embers of a dying fire after midnight...
i believe in the cat in the corner with jewel like eyes,sitting cool and calm...
i believe in lending a helping hand,to those in need...
i believe that the sun rises and sets and what you do in-between that,is up to you...
i believe in happiness,sadness and the compassion of feeling guilt,when you've wronged 
someone...
i believe in hope for all humanity even with all of its mis-givings...
i believe everyone has sincerity of heart...deeply down inside...
but most of all,i believe in the cat in the corner with cat green eyes,just a setten cool and 
calm...

"I believe"

Premium Member The Room

THE ROOM  

I’ve a wish
To spend my musings on little things    simple things
Little thoughts    each in its place
Little items about my room perfectly fixed
          (woods may be full of paper    bits of discard
          the footprints of children    abundant
          and their leavings)

          (a trash bin    tastelessly placed    blocks view of a great old tree)

          (the room’s a mess only as one fears an intruder
          phone need not be lifted    doorbell unanswered    sweet music)
                                                 BUT
There are cats in the room
Breathing pulse on a terrible    complex geometry
          warping table tops and bottoms    legs and arms
          interrupting lines and joints
          (how a cat will    perpetually lick itself clean    self    companion
                                                                  with filthy tongue) 
A fat black Persian’s asleep    (without eyes)    by the patio door
Then    a snow white cat    in folds a rumpled pink blanket    undulating on the floor
     And
A seal point
With restless    perfect beauty
With razor sharp flanks    as though clipped each day by elfin barber
After petting    she’s twitching around    growling
Astrut in leaps and bounds
The intrusion is precious    but    devastating

Day after day there is a poet watching himself compose
          mind standing off    looking at some stale image of mind
          neither hot nor cold    but    blowing

And I return and return
Sit down my hour to write each day
Watching the white cat on her pink blanket
How the light does play
          
...............................................................................................
This in answer to Carolyn Devonshire's challenge. I also just read a very fine poem about 
being obsessed with a room, by Andrea Dietrich. Thanks Carolyn for your faith in me. BIG 
LOVE, daver

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