The Cat

Sunday Muse BlogSpot #55  For Carrie’s prompt


The Cat
“I have lived with several Zen masters — all of them cats.” – Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment

She was a thin black and white feral cat,
extremely pregnant,
just looking for a safe place to birth her kittens.
Five little bits of fur,
in an abandoned cooler in my garage.
I am saddened by the thoughts
that this is the place she picked for safety.

“Fruition” Painting by Autumn Skye
Artwork Website

a piece of the ocean

a piece of the ocean
“I am the shore and the ocean, awaiting myself on both sides.” ― Dejan Stojanovic, The Shape

here is a piece of the ocean –
this bit of blue,
this bit of gold,
this bit of green.
I love you with the serene brutality
of the ocean –
but we are two different oceans
apart from each other
on different coasts –
loving eternally but never meeting
on the sands –
kissing and missing by inches.
always apart.
without the gulls the sky is empty.



“We are ghosts in Victorian gowns, lilac apparitions with parasols…” Simone Muench

lilacs droop in the rain.
their scent mingles with the scents of honeysuckle.
I remember the lilacs in the garden of our family’s home,
stretching up to just beneath the
third floor windows.
I used to hang out of those windows
touching the tips of the blooms
bringing my hand up to my nose.
lilacs in the moonlight –
intoxicating to a child –
intoxicating to an adult.
I remember those lilacs
dancing in the soft May breezes.
I remember those lilacs
scenting the rooms of that house
like the ghosts of young girls
drifting past luring you to follow,
to dance with them in the moonlight.
I remember those lilacs.



Beautiful Scars

For my Wednesday Muse prompt – A Beautiful Mess – on the art of kintsugi and healing.  Also for Tuesday Toads Open Platform.


Beautiful Scars
“Writers remember everything…especially the hurts. Strip a writer to the buff, point to the scars, and he’ll tell you the story of each small one…the only real requirement is the ability to remember the story of every scar. Art consists of the persistence of memory.” ― Stephen King, Misery

I am a glass – dropped and shattered
but mended. I am filled with
water and wine.
I have been broken by others –
I have been left behind, forgotten,
thrown in the trash by those who do not care.
My hands are a map of scars –
from cuts and burns from years of being a chef.
My stomach has a long scar from
navel to pubis.
But I am mended –
the cracks mended by the gold of time.
I am beautiful with my scars.
I have made so many mistakes
and been hurt so many times
I am almost solid gold.

Sunday Muse #54

Sunday Muse #54  Thank you Carrie.  Come back Wednesday for Wednesday Muse!

Little Corbin
“As the crow flies a popular and picturesque expression to denote a straight line.” William Henry Maule

It fell from its nest hidden in the old magnolia.
I am surprised it didn’t die from the fall.
But mama crow didn’t want the baby anymore
so I became its mom.
It’s the only child I ever had.
It was hard letting little Corbin go.
I tossed it up to the sky
and it began to fly,
flapping it’s wings and giving a triumphant caw.
I miss Corbin.
I still have some of its feathers
tucked into a book.
Baby Unpictures for memories.

The Lovers

For Kerry’s Art Prompt at Real Toads, using a pen and ink drawing from her journal.  NOTE: I have been reading Yeats steadily for a month.


The Dystopian Tarot, The Lovers
Kerry O’Connor


The Lovers
“You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.” Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

you spoke softly and offered me the world –
the world in a piece of fruit,
the world in a stroke of flesh,
the world in touch of tongue against tongue.
we sensed the wrongness
and yet –
we continued to nibble.
we broke the skin on the fruit
and sucked the juice.
we lay in each other’s arms
staring up at the virgin moon
and the untested stars.
in our ignorance we thought we
would live forever –
but our hearts grew weary and we died.
the news was simulcast to the world.

The Ordinary

Sherry is hosting on Toads today and wishes us to write poetry celebrating the ordinary.

The Ordinary
When I had a deadly brush with cancer
a few years ago,
I learned nothing was too ordinary to celebrate.
Whether it be the tiny blue flowers
hidden in the grass,
the songs of birds,
my husband’s sky blue eyes,
the soft fur of newborn kittens,
the smell of gardenias at night,
the first snowflake,
biting into the first summer tomato,
pulling a pound cake from the oven
redolent with vanilla and lemon,
watching the moon peep from beind clouds –
nothing in our lives is ordinary.
everything is worth celebrating – every day.

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