Sunday, March 12, 2023

I haven't posted in what seems like forever but I'm inspired today

Dancing Katya
By Stormcat

Her hand on mine  elegant and light  we move into position  await the music  ponder the moment  feel the boisterous crowd and the jostling of the other dancers  ignore the electricity of the anticipation even as it tries to overwhelm  my head drunk with the joy of holding her in my arms  the smell of her natural perfume intoxicating me even as the silkiness of her smile disarms  and the music waits for us until at last we are ready

Then comes the prelude  and and and the first measure of the rhythm  simultaneous to the break from statue to flight  and the room swirls and our bodies stretch reaching out to find the lines  and the comfort  and we whisper to one another the words of our souls  and we are flowing as one  and we are in love  and the other dancers, the boisterous crowd, and the world disappears  . . . we are alone together and the music waits for us

The dance evolves to an effortless embrace   a feeling that is one of stillness   that is one of standing in her arms while the floor moves beneath us  flowing like an old river smooth and dark  no obvious current  movement in all directions at once  turning  suspended forever  knowing that the music and the rhythm are constant  but hearing in that lightness of her silky touch that the music waits for us

The sound of the crowd is no more  only the beat and swish of Katya’s skirt  and the click of her heals and the wave of her long dark hair  felt brushing my hand on her back  as if a breeze through the trees had kissed it  and her dark eyes sparkle reflecting like a mirror  all the silent faces watching in awe  and all the other dancers who make way  yet we dance on unaware  and there is no end  it is our life now  and the music waits for us.

 Copyright 2023 all rights reserved

Monday, February 18, 2019

Ten thousand faces of Eve
By Stormcat

I don’t even know which I like the best

The kitten look
The librarian look
The pouty look
The sophisticate
The total elegance
The child so innocent
The mother so strong
Provocative, sweet, fierce, and on and on

They are all so beautiful and I

In my greed want to see them all

And keep them just for me and never share them

And hold them in my arms forever

But will she allow it? Will it show my love and dedication?
Will it serve her interest
Does she even know, in all her authenticity, exactly
How amazingly beautiful and versatile she is?
How valuable she is? How much the world needs her
To inspire and motivate and correct?

So maybe I will just dance with her

And feel grateful that she loves me

 that she wants to share her life with me

and depends on me to let her soar and be

all that she can be and let the world love her

her gift and mine

Other Looks I considered mentioning
Her I love you forever look
Her don't ever talk to me again look
Her I just woke up look
Her I'm so embarrassed look
Her I could just shoot you now look
Her don't you love me anymore look
Her did you forget to bring home the milk look
Her isn't this the cutest thing ever look
Her can we please please please go shopping look
Her how many times do I have to remind you look
Her lets make another baby tonight look
Her I'm so happy and i love you so much look
Her chatting happily over a glass of wine look
Her amazed at the beautiful sunrise look
Her relaxed and calm hanging out look
Her I just love the world look
Her lets make pizza look
Her I love you more look
Her I love you look
Her I love look

Monday, May 30, 2016

my choice
by Stormcat

someone who seems impossible.
seems so far out of my league that
the only thing that comes to mind
is that the unfathomable dream just
came into the room two seconds ago

but that’s the way it has to be. I
could never be happy with anyone
less than someone who dazzles me
humbles me with her elegance and
graces with unfettered acceptance

and then I will shine like no other
star in her heaven. her heart shall
race at the mere thought: of our
lives, of the richness of our daily,
of the fullness of our eternal

copyright 2016 all rights reserved

Thursday, April 7, 2016

Aloha Mystery
by Stormcat

Probably just my imagination
that wry smile and shiny eyes
that says fun and mischief and
mystery and unexpected

I shouldn't let imagination
whisk me that way . . . draw
me to places I shouldn't say
out but look where my
hands wander

Oh the laughter and life to
realize, plans to dream as
a singular hope extrudes
to undeniable reality ala

Oh that it be so!

Copyright 2016 All rights reserved

Monday, April 4, 2016

Father Immemorial
(random thoughts at my father’s death)
By Stormcat

Somewhere in-between
the rabble and the entitled
must exist the bastion of the enlightened
why is it so hard to find
that in-between

the rabble is ignorant
and the entitled, threatened
But truth? Truth is simply singular, with
the thousand versions thereof
only flawed approximation

So raze the conscious
In search for the qualities of
a life who taught more than knowledge
instilled basic foundations
to think and question

more than functionality
learned at his feet, acquired
under his supervision, taken from his
tutelage, experimentally and
empirically expanded

the vestiges of net, now
vanished from it's place, evokes
a feeling of poignant finality, a realization
that life's tightrope features
safety below no more

it’s a serious gift to
linger, a gift inerasable
not even extinguished by the grave
that delays or cements
celestial reward

there stands his sister
there stand his brothers
and parents there also and grand and
great grand and every one
from the beginning

so goes he now this
night to a family reunion
oh what a grand celebration will be
for them, a family waiting,
just beyond the veil

Copyright 2016, All right's reserved

Friday, March 25, 2016

Perhaps a Love Unimaginable
By Stormcat

All the greats must have known it
                                                not a secret
                                                but a principle of living well
                                                                                                rarely realized

My heart has been up for so long
            in the air
            that I am reticent to recognize
                                                            honest emotion

If it falls it will shatter again perhaps
                                                into the thousand
                                                pieces that caused so much angst

How many times can God heal a heart?
                                                sounds like
            a declaration lacking faith in God’s
                                                            promised abundance

But even every feather on the sparrow is known
                                                and I as his child
                                                bears the torture of that education
                                                                                                much to his chagrin

Is it in forced humility that I seek his safe harbor?
                                                or in the stream
                                                of finally realized glorious joy attainable
                                                                                                heading his affect?

There is no justification in the least deviation
                                                known, bestowed,
                                                gifted, from a place sacred and rejected.
                                                                                                Pearls before swine?

So to what of God, my father’s, life shall I aspire?
                                                something ordinary?
                                                I think not! Yet I know not! Yet it must be . . .
                                                                                                remarkably unique!

Copyright 2016, All rights reserved

Monday, March 21, 2016

By Stormcat

empty house

empty office

empty room

empty warehouse

blank page

birth or death

beginning or end

failure or opportunity

damn the concept destiny, nothing’s ever set, everything’s possible . . . 

Sunday, March 20, 2016

First Sight
by Stormcat

Love floats among the stars
like dust kicked up by the herd
drawn into the cyclones of all those
day dreams, ethereal, even tragic, to
disappear into the heaven, escape
the grasp of life’s gravity
coalesce as a word
wish for a kiss

no return thereafter

Copyright 2016, All rights reserved.

Monday, June 8, 2015

by Stormcat

Now I am the one who's sadness is
facing the long night alone I wish
to lay my head on you and drift into oblivion I want
to never complain when I go to my closet and
find no shirts to wear because you stole them.
There is gold in that flash
Alchemists and lovers know
when hearts are fired on ash of bone
to decontaminate of lead the gold
at juncture's purest fires comprise a blick.
Spontaneous sudden generation
is neither the origin of love nor revolution.
Revolution grows from a seed
planted in the soils of despair, fear, and chaos.
A seed that albeit of hope
deepens into horrific action.
But love grows from a seed of Admiration
planted in the soils of hope
that deepens into trust, loyalty, and respect.
Yet the deepening of love also demands a richness
of variety, quality, and complementarity
that fulfills the synergy expected.
When I write about confusing things
I write confusion
I have no answers. Only questions.
You do not fear me because I am people
nor because I am a man.
You don't even fear me
because I ask for a relationship.
Your fears run deeper
than can be explained so simply
You fear me because I ask
But I offer everything as well . . .
Isn't that the essence of deepening love.

Copyright 2015 all rights reserved

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Ninety Nine

by Stormcat

the idea is the essence of it . . .
only that which is first conceived in spirit can become a
thing born in reality. the spirit to a
better essential being comprising an intentional love act rather
than some thoughtless accident. two
having a connection so complete and overflowing with such
a fullness of unity that the only possibility is that a
child bursts into existence.

would that I could have but one such love child
be in the moment of a perfect union
having the pleasant pain and painful pleasure of
a family bonded eternally. . . husband . . . wife . . .
child . . . even children . . .  all connected 
with a common code.  each child?  one flesh; a part me, and a part


Copyright 2015 All Rights Reserved

Saturday, September 27, 2014

Ninty eight . . .

Pre Autumn Oaks
by Stormcat

August fifteenth! It's a dark dawn this morning! Seems strange because the sky is clear. Then I realize that the summer is waning, that it’s only a bit more than a month till the autumnal equinox.  The old ones know, and the squirrels, it's never too early to prepare for winter . . . Eleven oaks surrounding the house and this is the bumper year . . .  acorns, like a hailstorm. fall like missiles, point first, semicircular husk trailing. I wonder how many squirrels die from being hit on the head.  I see the striped squirrels hiding under the spruce and hemlock, racing out to grab a nut, then, just as fast, retreating to safety beneath the thick boughs.

August sixteenth! Another frog came in the house tonight. It trapped itself in a small box and I heard it jumping desperately trying to get the angle to clear the lip, but each time ramming into the sides. Surely it could have easily jumped out because when I tipped the box on its side it hopped away taking five and six foot measures with each leap. Now came the task of catching and taking it out . . . it couldn't survive here in the house. So I tracked it into the living room, then under the wood stacked next to the stove then out into the kitchen past the pantry into the laundry room down the stairs to the garage and finally cornered it. It squirmed and pushed as I took it into my hands, but I held firmly and comforted it by telling it that now it was going to be much happier outside in the leaves under the bushes. Then I went a little way out the back door, cover of darkness, and set it in the leaves, bidding my new friend a fond farewell. . .  I love frogs!

August seventeenth! Still dark at 5:30 AM?! No clouds? Made coffee, then felt a craving for the fresh beets and carrots stored in the fridge. The beet greens were far too old to eat so I placed them in the compost bucket with the carrot tops. . .  everything was parboiled, chilled, then shredded and made into a tasty late morning dish with crumbled goat cheese, provincial herbs, olive oil, sherry vinegar, and crushed pecans. A glass of Rhone wine made it perfect and I wished my love was here to share it with me. (She would appreciate the pairing!) I didn't clean up right away . . . I never do when I'm alone. I just sat down at my desk and worked for a while. Later, when I cleaned up and took the greens out to the compost pile, is when I found it . . . my frog friend . . . a few feet from where I'd released it . . . splayed out dead on the leaves . . . an acorn beside it.

Copyright 2012, All rights reserved

Saturday, September 13, 2014

Ninety Seven . . .

Circular Reasoning
by Stormcat

companionship is fine as long as it doesn't interfere with solitude
solitude is wonderful until it turns into loneliness
loneliness can only be cured by appropriate companionship
no wonder the wise ones talk so much about balance . . .

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved

Saturday, September 6, 2014

Ninety Six . . . .

Totem Song
by Stormcat

melancholy tonight are the hawks that sit on the wire
watching the charge that lives under their totem struggle
will he not finally listen to the wind whispering answers
to his yearning heart warning of hidden futility of
pushing the curtain of desire of seeking the trappings
of temptations’ reward not sins as some would admonish
just wasteful exercises with an outcome of disappointment

hawks know the wind well, they ride its boisterous lifting
song and soar the stratosphere thereon feeling the joy and
pain of its well traveled truth as having touched every nook
it brings the news across the far reaches of the heavens
news of love and pain, news of loss and gain, news that
inspires, news that teaches, news to frighten all creatures
even mirth of shocking birth death and life and futile strife

hawks bear his heart upon their wings and search his lost
desire bring news of meadows green blue skies over
waters serene and wherever goes that wandering muse
who seems to hold the source they'll bring back news
to guide him to all excellence and genius that only she
inspires when she lets rest his head on her firm breasts
that his ever searching soul at last will calmness know.

the world awaits that rapterous flight to catalyze
great love and usher in a rare and necessary truth beyond
the reach of solitary inspiration a synergistic truth
couched in the locked souls of the struggling individuals
unlocked only by their union their acquiescence to follow
the laws of universal rightness their mutual willingness

to join those hawks soaring on the true song of the wind

Copyright 2014 All Rights Reserved

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Ninety Five . . .

The Question
by Stormcat

Father . . . Where do the animals go when the storms come?
Don't worry about the animals, Son . . . 
                                                    God takes care of them!

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved

Midweek Motif (Stormy Weather)

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Ninety four . . .

My Lady the Moon
by Stormcat

My lady is shy even
as she follows my journey
through that labyrinth of passageways connecting
the eternities, hiding behind
clouds or the earth itself.
To glimpse a silver crescent edge of her eye peeking
around a forest tree or through
breaks in the overcast,
having known the fullness of her countenance,
fills the soul with the heat of hope’s passion.

It seems
unlike the celestials
that mortals are afraid of failure yet
my lady, unlike the others, cowers
from success, of all things, intermittently
close then far, large then small, brighter
then dimmer, white then blue, hidden
completely then in full open view.

Whenever she hides,
as she always regularly does,
darkness gathers me and a terrible sadness
condenses my freedom into
painful loneliness, longing, looking
for any sign of her return.
You see, I’m in love with the moon . . . . everything
her solitary strength and her radiant softness

But I wonder can the moon love me and even if
has she the freedom to act thereupon,
the wherewithal to take a lover
or would such be paramount to treason
in the eyes of all those burgeoning lovers
who depend on my lady’s
solitary spirit
to seal their own
romantic inspiration . . . 

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved

Saturday, August 2, 2014

Ninety Three . . .

Death of a Poet
By Stormcat

I read a poet who had lost his love and thought
of you. Of us. The why it feels. The standing,
on a ledge, no way down, no way up, save your
agency to accept or reject and that inability to
thus choose. There are words (derogatory and
venomous) words forbidden, rejected by choice,
by that same agency.

To loose one's love is horrible. But for a poet . . .
such is an existential crisis of the unquenchable
oeuvre. What is to become of all those exquisite
declarations of never-endingness. Such poetry
never to be discarded has become a lie. How can
a poet publish a lie? Thus it can never be read
again. Poetry diluted is moot.

And if his poetry is moot then that poet has no
purpose and life itself . . . ? Moot! Beauty ceases.
Nature withdraws. Stars no longer sparkle and
songbirds annoy. Flowers look like weeds and
food becomes tasteless. Music seems intrusive
but silence, intolerable. Left only is cowardly
nonexistence,  inebriation, death.

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Ninety Two . . . .

Raising Gods
By Stormcat

Hope is where they live, the bastion of power that runs contra-reason
somewhere between acquiescence to despair and quiet apathy facing
each of the 24 hours a day, each of the 7 days a week, each of the 52
dealing with overwhelming responsibility, unforgiving parenthood.

Where are all the ideal children, perfectly respectful, gifted physically,
emotionally, intellectually, full of grace, courageous, cunning, gentle,
confident yet humble, given to wisdom beyond experience, forgiving
of parental shortcomings . . . everything that they have never hoped.

 Oh bother! ! ! Can't life be as easy as we expect it and hope it to be?
Children of children of children ad infinatum iteration inexhaustible
children of gods become gods who begat children of gods that become
gods ? ? ? or is that Gods? ? ? And what of the Gods of Gods? What next?

Who's on the top of this grand pyramid? Am I just another cycle in
eternal acquiescence?  Is there individuality or will I just be blended into
some infinite ethereal whole in process of its own spiritual evolution?
Perfection of the whole by perfection of parts and the parts of the parts.

Perhaps my rebellion, my questioning, indicates disqualification - or -
is that very awareness that which separates the masses? Will I continue?
The perfection of the soul seems inordinately distant in the context of
the daily tedium of raising children. But what if raising children is actually

training for raising Gods. . . .?

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Ninety One . . . .

My Think
By Stormcat

Where is my light when I need it?    My love?
Illuminate the posture of my strength. Evoke
the course of terrible retribution to enemies
whose subterfuge on feigned hollow power rely
and bring the humble servants to their place, so
truth triumphant knowledge shall at last control

I long my think to flow, discover all manner of
nuanced new, reach beyond unfamiliar, escape
imagination's limits, pierce the veil of humanity.
Where is my light when I need it?    My love?
Pathway to the holy that opens capability to
find truth even as it loudly whispers comfort.

Cloudy haze of tenuous descends on my think,
a barrier to decisive, an erosion to confidence.
Where is my light when I need it?    My love?
Ink of midnight seeds haunting memory nurtured
to full blown monster capable of annihilation that
tender light of love dispels as if a dawning sun.

Even as I acquiesce to existentialism, and view
of doctrines taught, nay, force fed in my youth
I feel a softness clarifying old internal conflict
as gifts of wisdom come from who knows where,
to ease long felt unquenchable relief to know,
There is my light when I need it!    My love!

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved

Poets United, poetry-pantry # 205

Thursday, May 29, 2014

Eighty Nine . . .

I actually learned everything from my best friend
(or was it in spite of him?)
by Stormcat

arms on shoulders we walked, drunk only with song
and changed the words to reflect boyish imagination
that we both loved our gorgeous geography teacher
my friends words, but for the sake of joy I went along
and the mystery eluded me as if a liars orchestration
so I slinked away dismayed, does such a thing occur?

he was always the first therefore I could only envy
but he had an older brother and I was alone thus, so
pleasuring a woman was a completely alien concept
I listened and imagined, pretend, my only ploy to be
he told me of his conquests and this or that hot ho
and judged me as a coward or a boy who was inept

I wanted to be like him but something held me back
not for altruistic honor, just a genuine fear of mistake
perhaps I really was a coward but tired of the din
so we fought, bloody and bruised, no way to retract
my body felt pain but 'twas my heart that felt the ache
then his family moved away and I never saw him again

years later internally pummeled by raging hormones
I finally understood the power that then controlled
that which interceded and filled two friends with strife
wars fought of illusion yield graveyards full of bones
championed by the holy ones all righteousness extolled
virginity be damned for most, I saved mine for my wife

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved.

In response to Poets United midweek motif

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Eighty Eight . . .

Image by Snowflake

Hot Air Balloon
By Stormcat

I’d like to get myself a hot air balloon . . .
A big pretty one of at least twenty colors
-pieced together like a patchwork quilt-
with a giant wicker basket to ride in

Then I’d go up and never come back

I’d go to the world of stars and snowflakes
looking for a certain one that lives there
and when I've found her I’d never leave
because it would be good and peaceful

I’d stay and love her forever . . . Just her!

And when the world below us dies
from greed, pollution, and malcontent
we’ll look into each other’s eyes, for a time,
and morn from the senselessness of it all.

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved

Linked to Poets United Poetry Pantry

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Eighty Six . . .

by Stormcat

this country this place this road this shelter
six billion plus say it when asked
 some change it as often as changing clothes
some fear it, some revel in it, some are indifferent
except for the homeless, there are always at least two
(the current one and the nostalgic one)
a component of identity, some cling to it like a lifeline
others wish to distance themselves from the pain of it.

it is furnished with fixtures, characters, situations, pets
illusions, traditions, and some composition of dirt that goes
 unnoticed by residents but disgusts all non-residents.
when one departs a defensive armor substitutes for it
but a pervasive longing controls until the return. some
are full of light and life with warm laughter, music,
children, friends, dancing, chores, books, conflicts, noise,
joyful noise . . . . Love!

some are dark and cold, empty, missing some key
ingredient,  large and hollow, unfinished lacking the
trappings of normalcy, struggling to provide even the
very basics of shelter. turn on all the lights, play the
music, acquire luxuries, throw parties with giant bonfires
prepare gourmet meals, take jacuzzis, sleep on pillow
soft beds with tantalizing linens, it remains empty. it is
only as complete as the completeness of its residents.

search a thousand locales to find it and it eludes you
visit a million ideas to understand it and it eludes you
fuck a hundred lovers to feel it and it eludes you
fight a revolution to possess it and it eludes you
work a million hours to buy it and it eludes you
build five hundred houses to approximate it and
still . . .  it eludes you. for each it is only found in one
true other. so come, my love, and make Your home in me.

Copyright 2013 All rights reserved

Monday, May 19, 2014

Eighty Five . . .

by Stormcat

Why do I wait? Why is it so painful to wait?
I feel like I’m waiting for Godot. Ignorant of
absurdity, compelled by expectation, hope,
where life on the road to nothingness . . .
is, well . . . at least living.

So what to do? Spend my time sleeping
cleaning, grooming myself, working,
preparing for the day when . . . dreaming
of the moment when . . . planning
and, well . . . foolishly waiting.

If she weren’t so special, I wouldn’t give a damn
I’d just say “next” and move on
Is there a threshold standard for that?
a point where one unavoidably concludes
that, well . . .I must be insane.

It’s the textures of life that add interest
the situations dealt and problems solved
relationships experienced, lost or kept
and now I’ve experienced absurd waiting
but, well . . . not for much longer.

The difficulty is judging when to stop.
It’s often that thin line of one more step
a little extra effort, or a little more patience
that determines success verses failure
so, well . . . am I staring at success?

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved