My long haired cat
skinny but looks fat
does not like rats
she plays on her mat
swats at gnats
and loves to be pat
A fly on the wall told me
the powerful don’t fear truth—only witnesses.
He’s logged more secrets
than a courthouse basement,
watched officials repaint rust
and call it progress,
heard promises reinforced
with duct tape and declarations—
and every time the powerless speak,
someone swats at the sound.
If I were a fly on the wall at a DNA office,
I’d see one mama budgeting child support for two maybes,
hoping the high-earner wins the paternity sweepstakes.
A grown man doing a victory dance he practiced in the car,
while another looks stunned like the swab repossessed his last hope.
A grandma wiping tears of joy because her real grandbaby finally found her.
A whole couple discovering they’re cousins and breaking up mid-hug.
Three siblings realizing the middle one belongs to nobody in the room.
Just a fly dodging swats while families get swabbed,
watching bloodlines flip faster than reality TV plot twists.
Not for nothing am I something.
My alter-ego absent-mindedly swats a fly
from the tip of its nose.
The hard stool I am sat upon squirms,
if it had one more leg it might have left the room.
Take you for instance, your unfounded faith
in reality,
it's always changing,
your life is a changing room,
your clothes never fit, and your choice of hats
attracts the attention of interdimensional aliens,
who, as we all know,
are always looking to nest somewhere.
I think the chair needs to take a dump, it's straining
under my weight, and my alternative persona
is now sneezing uncontrollably.
I bolt for the door, chasing after my soul,
which suddenly has decided to take a vacation
far away from my
hard to explain, presence.
"Reality shall not be infringed". I yell.
A saggy skin is turning gray -
fingers, long and thin,
hang below my ankles in disarray.
I should like to try more time-travel
but shockingly,
I think this is the end of the line.
Sitting here with the wind,
as it swats at my hair.
The sun dancing with clouds,
with them our part will share.
The interplay of light,
that decries nature's sway.
Holds too the lost secrets,
of a more godly day.
From afar came the gods,
to plant the seeds of time.
Where desire can be king,
and a common man shine.
History will point out,
the man with iron will.
Who comes with a mission,
for a god to fulfill.
The ancient dark drama,
where a man has to choose.
from having everything,
when his life he must lose!
aft’ the storm’s the cure
the salt licks his face
though trenches’s formed
as foam settles down
will his Tessie rest
in his windward eyes
will she lay on his treasure chest
hearing the ebb and flow
as his vocal cords desist
from commanding mates
to feel the siren’s call,
to salve the absinthium,
absolve him with ecstasy
will she be there at all
or has the sail been torn
by the storm that rages within
will the Captain choose
to down the bitter sea water
drown in his rusty pipes
as Betsy sits on his shoulder
his eye rolled down the plank
he patched up the hole
Tessie’s tears are the seas
the salt assaults her
the Captain once hit Tessie
with a bottle…the ship
he’d never hurt the girl
who always waits on the shore
wait! wait!
he does come
he finds she’s a wild one
able to handle sea monsters
Tessie’s hand swats Betsy away
puts her in a cage
traps the man of her dreams
they both dream the same dream
It's the look of anticipation in a preschoolers eyes
as he holds your hand near the playground gazing in skies.
It's the prolonged kiss when the preacher says to the couple side by side
“I pronounce you man and wife, you may kiss the bride.”
It's the gaze of a kitten as she swats at the laser light
as she hopes for a game that is fun and bright.
It's the yard in the morning after a night of cold snow
when the sun is just high enough and the wind has stopped its blow.
But love from the Creator God is by far the most of all
the most perfect source of unassailable purity without any downfall.
Forget being an anarchist
Forget being a feminist
Forget being anti racist
Her body is swaying to the sound of music
A man holds her waist and they dance
His fingers go lower
She swats them away
She walks outside
He finds a new target
A drunk woman kisses her
She pushes her away
She puts her hands in her afro and says
“you are the most beautiful Black girl I have seen”
The customs men shake their heads
and watch the women enter Mexico.
Three with skirts, white socks,
one with jeans
and proper blouse.
Seventeen, eighteen
just out of Concord Academy
in a black Packard Super Clipper,
not quite as big as a hearse.
They buy silver jewelry from the women
and beers and tamales from a man.
Night comes,
they watch the moon large
over the Pacific.
They lay under the Packard on blankets,
staring at it
while a whitehaired man swats away
with a broom handle
two stumbling young men
who get too close to them.
What happened, Mom?
We asked her about then-
The summer of 1949.
Did you meet a boy there?
No, nothing happened,
she said.
Nothing happened.
We went there
and came back.
It was the lull in between,
everything happening.
And then-
Everything happening.
I see it now,
my mother,
the girls,
the moon reflected in their eyes,
the smooth Pacific,
a guitar, a song in the air.
Their moments run through me,
each one,
as though
I had never been born.
Taking your sisters skates
taring them apart
nailing them to wood
skating to the park
Selling homing pigeons
For fifty cents
waiting for their return
Then, selling them once again
My first kiss not on the lips
going steady for an hour
breaking up under a tower,
then looking for another kiss.
Getting swats over a bench,
my parents getting pissed,
while my butt was in pain,
that was not my wish,
Listening in on a party line,
laughing was such fun,
Mildred could not tell,
We knew Joe was under her spell
Running though the halls
chasing girls with tether balls,
Valentine cards with,
candy kisses we knew it all,
Best Wishes!
Grizzly grazing upon a peace-scented meadow.
Pretending not to notice a dancer in daisy yellow.
Winds shifting-it stands so horribly stiff and tall.
Sniffing the air, pivoting so very nonchalantly.
Appetite enhanced as it approaches the Zen dancer.
The moment ignited by the most ancient of guides.
It stomps meadow blossoms, with blood in the eyes.
It swats at the awakened dancer again and again.
She pirouettes smartly toward the edge of a cliff.
Ursula stumbles over into her cold gray slag death.
Blunt Brute forces succumbing to sharpened finesse.
No Flies on Me
What is it that makes these creatures so hated
With an image in life that’s always berated
Could it be their allure to the dung and decay
Where their babies are born, what more can one say
And after to settle on sugar and butter
Then vomit and liquefy food for their supper
Their ability to taste is inbuilt in their feet
They can walk upside down as well as excrete
So mind your heads that’s a warning to you
You could find yourselves all covered in poo
With probing proboscis that persistently delves
Shows ample dare and considerable nerve
Their acute reactions and speedy avoidance
Cause so many, significant annoyance
With compound eyes they’re bound to win
Their battles with swats, firmly hands down
Without the fly we would lose such a lot
So many beauties with colors to spot
As pollinators they’re ace, akin to the bee
They’re food for the frog and the spider you see
The gardeners love them for aphids they eat
This indulgence in pests is real tough to beat
But sadly the diptera steadily decline
Their extinction would mean the end of the line
There’s no flies on me and I hope that I’m wrong
And we would no more sing life’s glorious song
I brush for fifteen minutes my kitty,
as she growls, wiggles and struggles and swats;
all I want to do is make her pretty,
I just need to get rid of a few knots.
Oh, all that shedding, moulting and hairballs,
she is very angry with me for hours;
I kiss her but no way- away she crawls,
I give her treats so she will not be sour.
But in time she forgives and she forgets,
we snuggle on the sofa together;
sweet joy, I got a knot out- no regrets,
except she bit me hard, oh whatever.
Kitty is silky and soft - an angel,
I love her although it can be painful.
_____________________________
August 27, 2016 (edit)
Poetry/Sonnet/Silky Kitty
Copyright Protected, ID 16- 1084-4010-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
I said the fly, "Have the need to pry,
my best point of view is your ceiling.
There I can spot any swats your concealing.
Us flies still can not understand why,
you humans find swatting so appealing?
Have you not wonder why wasps try
to build nests in your ceiling,
why female mosquitoes bite, why?
Okay, some facts I am revealing:
As a fly we need you to die,
as food for our babes before pupating.
So we contaminate your food, well try.
We die quite soon after procreating!
Wasps, as you might know, are not a fly,
but their sting is also to food relating.
Used also as a defence, a sting to defy.
“Shush, my human out loud ruminating,
So while I can I'll buzz you goodbye"!
Swish, gee that fly is so frustrating!
Next time with a bigger net I'll be waiting!
No, I'm not a fly swatter, but you'll still
hear me shout out when I net it, a very
loud, 'GOTCHYA'!
My first personification, buzzin!
I have a loving, smart, Bengal wild cat
Many different behaviors he shows
He is strong and very dominant at that
He hates to be told what to do, he knows
So much, that sometimes when I turn around…
He reaches up and swats me in the ass!
Very vocal too, he is never without a sound
But, I have loved him, 15 years that have passed
Heidi Sands
8/27/17
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