Long Nine lives Poems
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When you speak to an audience, who are you talking to? The people in front of your screen or those trapped in your dreams? More than thirty thousand people are watching you simultaneously and the language that you portrayed is interpreted in many different ways. When you are on screen, you are not speaking to one person; your multitude of words can rest heavily on the soul for those who absorb them.
I don’t know who you are talking to when you are on the screen unless you place me in a private chat room and direct the conversation to my dream; the universe is blending with you and they will tell you what to do; over a million voices have heard you and ten million ears understand you.
When you leave this place, you will be a better man and a better woman, don’t ever take me for granted because I have ninety-nine lives and I have died and risen many times so get ready for the next journey because we are going to break the box office record and then we dance the shimmy.
I saw you on the screen yesterday with a burden on your face; it is not the regular excitement that I used to see, it’s one mounted with fear and anxiety. It was as if you were speaking and thinking of the journey you have to go, but all the reporters on the scene add compliments to the show.
You use a lot of energy to present the news, do the commentary and analyze the prosperity; the ship is waiting in the dock and the passengers and crew are watching the clock, the cameras are rolling, the makeup is on and you must be on the set before the break of Dawn. The story is just unfolding.
When you speak to an audience let them know what you mean, your body language and tone reveal your countenance for the entire day and even a subtle eye movement will show you the way.
When you are speaking to an audience, you must show variation in your tone. If the point is directed to me, let me know through the constant movement of your little finger because the audience is the art of the show.
We are getting ready for the summer “shots” and we are going to give it all that we’ve got, the equipment is on board the crews are rolling in, location scene shots are identified, analyzed and scrutinized. Security arrangements are put in place for you to completed this final phase, the heat is on and the sacrifice has begun and the queen of the sea has landed.
I struck out on my own around a year old
life was so full of fun, so many things with
which to play, a leaf scuttling by, a rustle
in the undergrowth. I was enthralled.
I stood on a road watching intently
a little mouse. A car shot past bowling
me over and slicing off half of my tail.
It stung like hell and dripped blood.
Finding a cool stream I placed my tail
within, oh the blessed relief I knew
I had been lucky, one life now done.
My next life also flashed by as
hunter became prey, I ran for
my life from a pack of hungry
wolves barely escaping their
razor sharp fangs and hot breath.
Fishing for salmon I ventured
in too deep and got swept away
tumbling through rapids, banging
into rocks lucky to be washed ashore.
Bedraggled I lie in the sun
I swallowed way more water
than I drink in two days.
Shivering as I dry off.
Maybe four is the charm
as now I am much wiser.
Oh no I followed my nose
to an enticing exciting smell.
It led me straight into a mire
churned up by rooting pigs
I was being sucked down
exhausted I finally lay still.
Well a miracle happened
the muddy slime released
its deathly grip and I was
able to slowly wriggle free.
What a state my fur was in
muddy slime all over me
only one thing to do and
that's take a hated bath.
As I rolled in the shallows
I felt a change in pressure
and ran for my life chased
by angry snapping jaws.
Piranhas I had disturbed
Nearly ripped to shreds
I slipped away to rest up.
Unfortunately as I drifted
off I started getting stung
I was under attack from
angry bees I was lying
right over their hive.
Fast as a streak I headed
yet again for the river
and dunked myself again
and again till they were gone.
Seven lives already used up
and I was still only three years.
A few years past uneventfully
I am getting the hang of things.
One dark stormy night
sheltering in a leafy tree.
It got hit by lightning
knocking me to the ground.
Fur still burning I looked
a real fright, a cartoon cat
with hair on end whilst all
I really wanted was a quiet life.
Well I have used up eight
of my nine. I now mainly
sleep my days away. The
urge of adventure quietly rests.
My day will come soon
now as age takes its toll.
I am stiff and nearly blind
so I lay down a final time.
Nine lives removed from royal dignity
Five days after
getting acquainted with darling cats
pampered like queens courtesy
thee eldest daughter
and her partner acquired as kittens
reminiscence occurred regarding
one particular four footed feline
my late mother doted over.
Lion eyes hide predatory wage
sharp retractable sharp claw
never did the late Sage
exhibit talon nor ferocious jaw
even when getting his nails clipped,
said gentle cat infrequently
sunk daggers into soft human skin,
but upon completion
of aforementioned onerous task,
he voicelessly, soundlessly, passively,
manly, joyfully did withdraw.
Aye attest tubby reincarnated
(as well mine eldest daughter's beau)
from one male Russian Blue
species Felis silvestris catus
named Morris if that gives
a handy dandy clue,
and during my fuzzy past
hence, asthma “Cats Cradle”
segued and Atlas
shrugged off kitten hood
fur hum lee established
type cats as (tin pan) alley cat,
a rather litter boxed gritty debut
t'wood become (later in life) tabby
quick as greased lightning
snatching in the air,
when tender vittles flew,
technically got fired (acquiring
appropriate nicknames)
as fame (like a bushy cat tail) grew
viz perfect back up crooner
for “Cat Stevens”,
or lead singer for
the "Stray Cats" oddly
coupled, featured, and
incorporated with the guru
Horton Hears A Hoo,
yes him Elephant resembling
a humongous mandrake
from the, "Animals"
whose body heat could
easily melt an igloo,
whereby Inuits accepted charity from
Korean philanthropists named Joo
(founders of Palaces for Pachyderms)
these lumbering creatures possessed
an exemplary photographic memory
(rivaling that of the amazing
deceased idiot savant
Kim Peek), he knew
practically every detail
incorporating page number, punctuation
plus citing word for word
never truncating, omitting,
nor jumbling... any lines,
and could track missing link,
when felines shared common ancestor
but,...such petty files
would most likely boar
and go way off course, and hence
will shy away being extempore
favoring a deliberate fore
ray padding around basically ignore
ring any rhyme or reason
suddenly ending this persiflage,
and thence to thee bon jour,
cuz yours truly off
in a huff to bang a lore.
(while trapped in Pottstown
Memorial Hospital parking lot).
My humble apology to those,
who posted uber up lyft ting messages
to this Macbook Pro Facebook keeper,
without said scrivener swiftly
tailoring timely acknowledgement
from one harried styled leaper,
thus feel free to take
leguminous litigious licorice flavor
flav can deed extra-legal
imprisonment against my liberty,
(though catty, I am pusillanimous,
sans feline nine lives cheaper
by the dozen), plus verbally ejaculating
out gee golly jeeper,
or more pointedly
calling me a mother f****** bleeper,
for seeming to appear unresponsive
as a stale petrified marshmallow peeper,
and yes quite understandable
bitcoin torrents of rage runs deeper
than a blockchain though close call,
yet just lemme explain,
how during my most recent sleeper
state, a clear as bell curve
living dream nearly
saddened Matthew Scott Harris as,
cuz he got subject to grim news, viz
inducing him (yours truly) to become
deceased within a split second,
upon dropping to sleep
while all around, an
inconsolable weeper
wept sorrowful seas,
more so those family,
and facebook friends
many fine companions
linkedin thru Internet
invaluable cherished persons as keeper,
but believe this secular humanist,
he, who (honest to dog)
unexpectedly subsequently got engrossed
with the grim reaper,
discussing local, current (national), global,
and cosmic events, superficial,
and/or somewhat deeper
(topics oh...and as a non sequitur
d'ya know the name of original
Glen Elm occupants are named Leiper),
anyway Xmas universally
renowned throughout space
yes, jolly saint nick with his farout trappings
topped off with electronic digital beeper,
yepper siree he gets touted,
lauded, and celebrated be
leave ving with whatever
dogmatic faith hen knee
dear rabbit reddit reader doth embrace,
or perhaps being atheist like me,
(albeit I most likely appear
as somewhat highlee
beatle browed from across the universe),
nonetheless, whether er rather,
when still alive this chap aimed to - dee
light, enlighten, and playfully
frighten alien nations
(even those pizza peace loving
inhabitants resembling free
ranging gregarious teenage
ninja mutant turtles)
coming out their shells with glee.
I will be reborn again
but hide me from the government
those at my wake will come to know the new loop
and those who walk by the suffering will know nothing
until I am reborn
and i Will be martyred to die again
to fake my death
in another strategic way
like way back when in the kingdom of values and hippocracy
we will live it
we will play it out and love the lesson
so fake my death
and I will be reborn again
shaking hands
and passing smiles
nodding gently with my new haircut and different style to blend into the
camaflouge
fake my death
and look innocent to see
I never woke up
how many times have you burried me?
how many times have i crawled from the secret passage of the tomb?
how many times have my neighbors heard me scream in pain?
how many oracle shave i left behind
of games and hauntings
to slide into the new matrix of existence
where we do it again
and i am reborn
and together we live in secrecy until i fake my death!
let me rise to this occasion
so you can have your surprise holiday
allow me to tear the wool off the wolf
to the wars you have lost
i am full of fear and it costs nine lives and spells
chants
second chances romances and historical renegades of desire
so let's fake my death
remember the fire and know
no one will ever do that again
maybe he actually did die
maybe he was an excuse to be exercised from demons
maybe he was a hero a martyr inspired by the bible
so fake e my death
im going under
back into the tombs
to crawl out of yesterday
to die for the living
and be reborn into another tragedy
of the innocent on death row
who needs to be set free
because if i didn't die
the truth is in some ones hands
nine lives and one major plan of death rows vengeance of martyred hit men
so fake my death
come to my wake
close casket
see whats at stake
burn the bridge
and sell me into tomorrow
today this life i was a poet
tomorrow unknown
I am a new beginning
a legendary mess of preachings of satanic prevention
who will fake his death in search of saints and reason
fake my death and remember
i might be alive
i might be dead
but somewhere im asking
what would Jesus do
or is it what have i done to Jesus?
Cats from Earth eat fish on sunny beaches
(Umbrellas optional, not included)
Unlike sharks they use tiny teeth to chew
And get motion sickness when traveling too
Seas hold goodies for feline nutritional needs
(Canned dolphins and goldfish don't come to mind)
Health considerations are forefront for all kitties
Mars has no menu of any kind
The trip from kitchen to couch is tiring
Fat cats dislike all travel including space
Mars is far, too far away to go for cat food
Felines are all about lazy
Stores on Earth are closer, (but closed)
Little critters don't eat red rock formations
Metal machines are better suited for taste tests
Programed for soil sampled treats
Expectations are high when there is gravity
Cats can't fly…. They stray (on 4 feet we think)
Don't be surprised… Cats can't fly
(When they do, they use rockets)
Even so... Why Mars? (They can't afford it.)
No money…. No pockets
The red planet has no milk or fish
Cats starve without their favorite dishes
Death is not a pretty sight
Emails are hard to recover on distant planets
When dead, lifeless paws make it even harder
(Cats don't type to begin with without a cause)
Cats like to breath oxygen once in a while
Some like to live outside the liter box
Live out nine lives lazy on a more inner planet
The 3rd. one out to be precise
The Red Planet is not so kind in that regard
Not equipped to handle little kitties needs
Meteorites crush their tiny heads to smithereens
Messing up their fluffy fur and happy day
Radiation burns them to a crisp
Life on Mars is harder than you think
Craters cause more than aches and pains
Frost bite gets in the way of play and pleasure
Like we said
Cats on Mars don't live so well without oxygen
They could die from lack of food and water
Or even overexposure to themselves
It's better they stay home on Earth
The place where they come from
That way they can be fed
Instead of something worse
In the end this is something else
Cats On Mars is just a title
There are no cats on Mars
Only turtles
Damn anticipatory anxiety affliction...
trumps volition (mine) to don employee hat!
Until the grim reaper
whisks yours truly away
common joe just biden his time
chronologically old fogey
(albeit boyish looking goodfella)
at moon shadows he doth bay
meanwhile stricken with
dripping wet sweaty palms,
perhaps attired with
trademark Harris tweed
this August twelfth
two thousand twenty dog day,
viz just the mere thought
to seek part time employment -
cuz I wanna supplement
(social security disability) income
perhaps out of desperation
selling myself short on eBay
unless an anonymous reader
espies adept ace at foreplay
i.e. whereby his linkedin word choice
oft times evokes double entendre
essentially this poetaster
at large concocts gourmet
reasonably rhyming literary cuisine -
thus hip hip hooray
invariably an anonymous
respondent will inveigh
against playful badinage,
and/or perchance some grumpy
humorless cat (woman)
originally whose nine lives spent
housed within San Jose
will take objection with base (sic)
lame ribaldry (mine) laughable
courtesy none other than kkk,
(kooky, klutzy, and kitschy tendency)
who though reformed Caucasian Jew
coon sitter me laughingstock, nevertheless
(modesty notwithstanding)
he brews the best latte
this side of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
where whiplashing, madding, and
clamoring crowd fuels melee
along Perkiomen trail
over hills and across Atlantic Ocean
eventually leads to Norway,
which namesake river from “Pakihmomink,”
or “where the cranberries grow.”
Rather than get further
bogged down with inane zeal
I best steer clear of poetic poppycock
courtesy imaginary wheel
thus the following pablum I unveil
nsync with titled malady all to real,
which plight involves hyperhidrosis
quite a debilitating ordeal,
especially when thinking
to pursue gainful employment
emphatically steadfast
and honest think (me) leal
course this humble communicates
(hyperbolically) embodiment ideal
if seeking to gain insight how I feel
about myself, a tense body
inept to cartwheel.
In the middle of the night
With sleep still in my eyes
I stepped into my kitchen
And received quite a surprise
As I reached out my hand
And flicked the light on
There were balloons, confetti, party hats
With a banner that read -WELCOME HOME-
I'd caught thousands of roaches
In the middle of song
They all turned and looked at me strange
As if I'd done something wrong
I heard a scream from the crowd
A foreign language to me
The next thing I know
I'm knocked down to my knees
As I'm being dragged
Across the linoleum floor
I see a little red button
That opens up a trap door
I started getting real nervous
The deeper we went
If I was a cat with nine lives
I think eight I just spent
They took me before the king
King Ralph Roach was his name
I only knew that
Cause that's what his name tag displayed
I was assigned a public defender
But that did me no good
He spoke Roach, I spoke Human
Each other we never quite understood
"GUILTY!" Came the verdict
I hollered what was my crime!
"Interrupting a roach in the middle of having a good time"
Came the judges reply
Squishing to be my death
The day after tomorrows last night
I said that doesn't make any sense?!
Hey, we're roaches....we're not known for our timely insight
So here I sit in my cell
Wishing I could take it all back
If I had just not gotten up
For that late midnight snack
Wait....is that a tap, tap, tap
(You didn't think this was the end did you?)
As my hours getting late
A roach we'll call Chester
For anonymity sake
Told me to stop all that blubbering
I've come to break you out of here
I stood and we hugged
Which would be strange if it wasn't so weird
We slipped past room after room
With all kinds of parties inside
One thing you can say about roaches
They know how to have a good time
When we reached the surface
All I saw was blessed heavenly light
I went straight in and packed my bags
And gave the house to my Ex-Wife
(Okay, now it's the end!)
I pride myself on my deep poetic insight..
Always I’ve been drawn to . . . cats.
I’ll see cute yapping puppies in a pet store.
They just don’t appeal to me as much as
the cute quiet kitty in the corner -
that cat which I can stare at for many minutes,
wondering what she’s thinking as she looks back at me.
Some cats which I “lived with” (you don’t really OWN a cat)
would stare back at me for a long time.
I wondered if I was having some kind of silent communion with them.
Was it their way of showing me respect? Adoration? Casual interest? Nothing?
I wish I knew. The cat is mysterious,
with those big dark orbs staring out from the night’s shadows.
I surely do love a good mystery!
Quiet is the cat, and like me, often a loner that loves her independence!
I recall my favorite cat that lived eighteen years in my house.
Affection she would show, but it was a quiet more meaningful affection
with soft nuzzling in the morning as she woke me to be fed.
Smart was my cat. . . and persistent. She would get what she wanted!
My spirit animal I think must be a cat,
for also like the cat, I am unafraid to know darkness.
The dark is folding in on the world now.
I dig and dig sometimes like a desperate caged feline,
wildly clawing to uncover in earth’s dirt - its black secrets.
I cannot sit like a Persian
perched in lovely fluffy silence on a pillow.
A more aggressive kind of cat I need to be. -
not letting life’s mysteries stay hidden in
the slits of my green eyes.
Like the panther of my youth – fast and agile -
I now cannot so easily be.
More like the dangerous courageous lioness -
which in my life I’ve so rarely been -
I will need to learn to fight.
Though a sweet harmless house cat I long to remain,
may my spirit animal protect me
in the battle that is coming.
Like the cat, I am curious . . . far too curious.
I pray I still have left inside me
at least a few more of my nine lives!
June 3, 2020 for Dear Heart's Spirit Animal Contest
"Sir" want me to call something --
A name?
Well call then what you can.
Am I worth naming "sir" !! call any name.
My mother said, I was blesses by rain water
through our thetchet roof first day I was born,
Caught up with something called 'Pneumonia'.
However, I survived a life --
One that a catfish has (a cat has nine lives);
Or, a dungbeetle.
My father could never feed us well,
Using up the drops of sweat after the pawnbroker.
My mother's tear never dried from her cheeks,
As she kept on fighting with odds bits every single day.
My father poured all his life's rage on the poor little lady everyday --
Bashed, fisted, kicked, lashed, slapped, pulled, drugged
And she died.
Police came and handcuffed him;
I known nothing of him since then.
I just know, when my small little house was subided in Padma (a river)
Five small children (including me) of my impoverished mother came to the town.
Fance around of Polithin,
A small mosquito net, where other people heaved and paid my aunt;
We were kept out, under the open sky then,
Till the summertime.
One day I got lost deliberately;
I know nothing of them everafter --
Nor should I try.
I am a 'rickshawpuller' brother
I neither have a name, nor can remember what my parants gave.
No connection, no memory, no place to live
I came here for easy money;
Pulling the passengers on a steep road, heaving chest heavily
While they are kissing each other on the seat.
I grin and keep quiet.
I don't know how old I am, where will I go,
Or, even, why am I created for!
I gamble, smell opium at night and sometimes take girls on road.
Well "Sir", one day my passenger kicked me
For, I charged too much;
Called my mane with many more street-rhymes;
Lastly called me 'dungbeetle'
He came to the point after long time
With his nimble choppy rhyme
Gave me a name I was looking for
That goes with ruthless poverty, and the poor.