The cat cries out as he wanders
through my bedroom. He can’t
understand why he can’t go out
for another time—I can’t explain.
He goes into the kitchen and looks
up to people in conversation standing
at a countertop. We’ve filled his
food and water dished. He cries out,
I don’t understand.
He comes to me
and I scratch his neck while flipping
through You Tube videos. The next
moment he jumps onto a tote and cleans
himself. Someone online asks for a poem
about cats
[I look to him]
Two years ago
someone brought him in a cage
[He looked at me, I looked at him]
Oh no, I said.
I never knew I was a cat person
but he chose me.
As he cries to go out, I say to him
why don’t you keep me company
as if he’s a child, and maybe in some way
he is. I interrupt what I’m doing
to clean his litter
a duty to dread and embrace.
I sit down to read and ease the night
[and he finds my lap]
I feel his warmth.
warm soil for planting
blooming flowers first sunlight
ants on countertop
My husband laughed
When we bought you,
Little basil.
The year was new—
"Let's help Jack, too.
Cook some sweet stew."
My husband smiled.
Still green, surprise,
A brown thumb fluke.
Through furnace skies,
Broken clouds' cries,
Expanding size.
We chase your pests,
Taste our small crop—
Piquant petals
On countertop
Yielding non-stop.
Seasoned leaves plop.
Xylography is the art of engraving on wood
Yes I love this skill wish that I could
Long ago we met such an artist at the beach
Onyx letters on carved wood car so unique
Gave him cash for the personalized gift
Really is the kind of art gives your heart a lift
A beautiful piece of woodwork now an heirloom
Placed it on countertop but it’s for son's room
He lets me keep it as he moves about in life
Yet I know one day he will come for it with wife
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The oven hums,
a steady hymn.
Like December's first snow,
flour drifts across the countertop.
Her hands~
kneading, rolling, pressing~
leave maps in the dough.
I trace them with a cookie cutter,
star-shaped, blunt at the edges.
Powdered sugar hangs in the air,
a sweet ghost.
We laugh,
and it sticks to our cheeks,
to the aprons she sewed from fabric scraps,
to the memories we don’t yet know
we’re making.
The timer rings.
The cookies glow.
And for a moment,
the whole world is warm.
They're everywhere now...
When lights dim in the corners of society
They swarm like cock roaches on a filthy countertop...
Strutting about the stage in their crystal, ego bubbles.
Telling us what to eat- what to wear- how to think.
Even though they're sloppy, unhappy, and quite obese.
They tell us how to pursue peace
(when peace is already here) ...
They even tell us how to walk and breathe.
Guaranteeing great wealth and a healthy mind
if you follow their step by deceptive steps...
If you'd just take a sip from their magic potion of B.S.
The truth is that the only way they've "made it"
was from the blood of our lack of confidence.
From the flesh of our insecurities.
The truth of the matter is most of them think
they've sprouted wings and can hover above the sea.
They think they can upstage and outshine Jesus...
I could care less if I ever hear from them again.
I'm much better off without them.
In our maniacal world madness cosplay nativity.
When sanctuary is cynical take cyanide outside in
a synchronized social suicide.
Life at your disposal realize life is disposable.
Lacking eye warble, below-zero countertop marble.
Stumble over the five o'clock Hobble.
Humble, Crumpled up macro-cookie crumble.
Spade shovel buried down transient mumble.
Blood musk parfume; false whale entrails.
Innards inward into inferior interior design.
Set fire to the nativity scene, in our maniacal world
It'll still continue in laughing, surround sound loud.
It'll still narcissistically orbit around me.
Outstanding flavour; some forever ever-lasting long.
Ever-after ended up ending fantastic. God dammit.
Gob-smacker, toe tapper, boot-smacker.
Folded laundry lay on the nighttime pavement.
It'll still go.
In the Age of Spin.
It just happen.
No way, It just happen?
It just happen.
It go like it just happen.
It go how it just happen.
What happen?
It just happen.
the jelly lid too tight again.
I twist and twist
until my palms sweat,
glass slipping like his promises.
When it finally gives,
the seal breaks with a pop,
a red smear blooms across
the countertop, and I slick
my fingers through this mess,
taste sugar and iron.
It’s the only sweetness he’s left.
When life gives you lemons
You make lemonade
I am a banana
A beaten and bruised banana
Too ugly to sit on the marble countertop in the kitchen
Wouldn’t want the house to look poor and unkept, right?
The good news is that there are layers to the banana
The bad news is that when you peel the unappealing-looking exterior, a mushy interior meets your eye
Too soft to enjoy without leaving a bad taste in your mouth
When life gives you a banana like this
You make banana bread
I am a banana
I can’t make banana bread because I am a mere ingredient in the delicious pastry
I am the unwanted ingredient that can magically turn useful by the powers of others
I need flour to hold me together and keep me from going all over the place
I need sugar to make my softness appear sweet to others
I need baking soda to help me rise and grow out of my imperfections
And I need someone willing to put in the effort to make me into tasty banana bread
Damn, I want some banana bread right now
Who’s cookin’?
The sponge was smiling back, to me, with all those arithmatics, done dishes
(a predestined setting)
Cordial, versatile with a blatant truth, to shy from a trochaic, rythmic sounds
The killers are a synnonym for strumming fingers, almost an ensuing song
Although, an earnest rush felt reckless for a neckless tie, almost all day long!
The Yellowstone and prayer bids, sung high, from windowpane, a golden, rich
The twilight icebreaker, a melting sun, o'er all those or these, yet to preach
Sudden depth of random droplet clouds, an earnest, already trying too, along
(journey back to home, alone)
with a rusty indifference, assuming shining countertop, sporadic, all day long!
A long gone cozy knit, with a brief, tightly fit
A tea set, already to reign
to wrap all these, altogether, to a duo, misfit
there, then, start again!
3-10-2024
Her new fridge
set as a giant gleaming jewel between
clean countertop & faithful kitchen cupboards
Icemaker
amiable crispers bins & shelves
cavernous freezer with sensible sliding drawer
She’d paid cash
using her hard earned own money
smartly side-stepping debt & obligation
The old fridge
battered exterior puny packed interior
bleeding cold & ice cube trays always plundered
It was his
revered bachelorhood relic
when it failed she feared she’d lost everything
She kissed
her kitchen’s cherished crown jewel
its powerful compressor cooling her mind
(published in “London Grip”, 2022)
I wake up a little groggy
the nights, especially, are difficult for me
I didnt get a whole lot of sleep
I wander my way wearily into the kitchen
and reach my beloved coffee pot
The countertop around me has small circular brown stains.. each one containing a memory
Reminding me how it used to be
I blink the heartache from my eyes and go about my morning ritual
The sunshine pours through the window
and the warmth sinks into my bones
I get lost in my thoughts Til’ the lush and irresistible aroma pulls me back to reality
I pour myself a steaming hot cup of temporary happiness
I quietly sip away at all of my broken memories
It takes a while
for milky corn flakes to turn mushy,
I brews more coffee
watch the sun
prying apart the plastic blinds
just with the power
of its is muscular light.
My black lab sticks a wet nose into my crotch.
Now it’s trying to sniff my backside
through the wicker seat of the chair
tail wagging happily.
By now the corn flakes
are just right.
Sunlight has come to rest
upon a countertop.
Content that his master
is as smelly as ever
the big dog relaxes
on the cool kitchen floor.
I wake up a little groggy
the nights, especially, are difficult for me
I didnt get a whole lot of sleep
I wander my way wearily into the kitchen
and reach my beloved coffee pot
The countertop around me has small circular brown stains.. each one containing a memory
Reminding me how it used to be
I blink the heartache from my eyes and go about my morning ritual
The sunshine pours through the window
and the warmth sinks into my bones
I get lost in my thoughts Til’ the lush and irresistible aroma pulls me back to reality
I pour myself a steaming hot cup of temporary happiness
Once upon a distant dream, you were fit and lean.
Could eat almost anything.
Slam drinks until the vampire's sunrise
But still make the whistle on time.
Now your bloated mirror is the alpha enemy.
You need more naps than a preemie baby.
Even the flats seem like a steep climb uphill.
Your countertop is flanked like a mountain of pills.
Some for the mind phantom.
Some for the real ailments.
Piggybacking doctors who don't interact.
It's no longer a balancing act.
It's a swarm of bloodshot-eyed jackals.
Waiting for your collapse.
This didn't happen overnight.
It was a slow decline down a barbed-wire slide.
A concoction of snake oil charmers
Big pharma politicians.
Slippery salesmanship...lack of discipline.
Let us not forget about that sinister, sadistic, -
unforgiving time.
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