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

Sunday, June 8, 2014

Ninty . . .
Walprugis Night Witch
Photo by Snowflake
By Stormcat

I’d fold the silks of weathered incantations to
lay them gently to a gracious vault. But rebel
winds shall billow resisting undulation, while
mists embrace their freedom’s indiscretion
and secret them to dreams of riotous love.

Oh what a witch possesses such sweet garment
her wine-blue hair draped strands splay thereupon
and eyes that fire-of-sapphire cowers hence-from
commands all buried lust to flame arise, even
as she melts my sword of anger with her song

I long to hold her in my arms forever. Strip
bare her goddess silky pure gauze gown
and even as our loins shall toil and lather
my back and chest, her fists upon, shall pound
until sweet wishes languish on my lips

that weathered incantations rise to stir me;
that silky gauze shall every sense caress;
that rising mists shall gentle raindrops form;
that ever I will hold my sweet witch-goddess
and celebrate the day that she was born.

 Copyright 2014 All rights reserved

Linked to Poets United

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 fucked 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

Sunday, May 18, 2014

Eighty Four . . .

X-tracted Structure
by Stormcat

The rain drove the clouds down into the woods
while the snow resisted it's end by hiding in the shade.
though I used to cook remarkably
lately my diet has become retrograde to an earlier existence
macaroni and cheese seven days a week
none can see clearly through fog.

The cat leaps onto my shoulders
reaches a sandpaper tongue to the lid of my closed eye
then the index finger of my closed fist.
sandpaper smoothes wood to bring out its natural beauty
yet rubbed on flesh abrades to ooze.
is polished hardness or innocent blushing more beautiful?

So, ride the electronic highway in hopeful search of companionship
reality never seems to match the vision
is love sequestered from the seeker?
The universe ignores optimistic desire and delivers feared content?
You can't find what you desire until you stop looking for it . . .
What an illogical unfounded load of crap!

The bones of individual sacrifice form the skeleton of humanity.
Yet selfishness tears it down leaving humanity unsupported
caricatured as a bloated bag of structure-less flesh.
Selfless commitment developing into beautiful love filled families
sealed from before stretching into forever immune from the grave
balances universal energies, stabilizes humanity, justifies life

Copyright 2014 all rights reserved

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

Eighty Three . . .

"World Without Me?" or "The Diminution thereof!"
By Stormcat

As long as I have love, I don’t care about money
or wealth or fame or anything. So when the prospect
of never finding love is thrust upon me and the past
has proven reticent to such, I am prone to withdrawal
wherein I hide within depression and desire of precedent
extinction.  I wish to erase my existence and any influence
positive or negative to society there from. None would
want to have been the source of a negativity but why
should have society and the world benefited from
my contribution and genius without returning to
me the person an equal share of the favor. Therefore,
Erase me from ever having existed . . .
See the diminution thereof.

I know my worth and grow weary of the comparisons.
Peaceful engagement taken to it's end is subverted by
purported right action which in reality is melodramatic
bullshit.  The right hand actually knows what the left does!
To claim otherwise is to prevaricate socially,  acts of denial.
the enlightened, in face of overwhelming opinion from
the unenlightened, allows the process to continue. Thus
they exert their demands with the hope that none
will notice the lie. Disgusting weakness disguised in
righteous indignation to avoid defending true right.
Subterfuge rendered invisible by camouflage under
the boisterous rendition of screaming virtue . . .
See the diminution thereof.

Does universal energy comport to individuality? Will
longing for peaceful independence actually motivate
toward demise even as the ember fades, separated
from the corpus of fire? My passion is thus, in throes
of compromise, longing to exit this stifle. Striking
shadowy ether, blindly, hoping to maim substantive
enemy by mere fortune; learning rather to hate
myself for engaging futility as if . . .  So I'll get myself
a big fluffy lovable playful dog, retire to deep forest
reclusion, encourage mysterious rumor for curious
children, read, write, dine on succulents and perverse
indulgences,  drink alone the wine of life and desire . . .
See the diminution thereof.

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved

Friday, May 9, 2014

Eighty Two . . .

Courting a soulmate 4
by Stormcat

Matisse- painted dancers, O'Keefe- flowers
that mimic, Rousseau- a thousand birds, Magritte-
hats (does anyone get that? maybe he was Sacks'
patient.) For Dali- ­­­­Gala; Lennin- Ono;  Satra- Beauvoir,
Stravinsky- Vera de Bosset;  All of Troy- Helen; Pollack-
Krasner; Anthony- that gold digging Egyptian bitch

The men inspired and the women who inspire. So what
of the reverse? Did Helen Keller have a muse? Joan?
Maybe Frita . . . But even there it seems, no. Great men
have muses, great women . . . pain. . . or is that
the same thing?

My mother once told me that all she ever wanted was
to live freely without worry or fear, to be honored
and loved. My father only wanted a woman to share
the burden of life.

Soul-mates? I guess not. Their marriage died a slow death
at the hand of mediocrity and disappointment, not
blown apart by passion or struggle.

So, not the mortal product of a soul mate union . . . does
that preclude me of having one myself?

Or does it just make it harder for me to find her?

Copyright 2013 All rights reserved

Eighty One . . .

Courting a soulmate 3
by Stormcat

Oh the joy! Just when you had given up. . .
You have thought many attractive before but
this . . .
this is silk floating across your soul like
a fine scarf floats over skin, caressing with
such a gentle love as to command your
every sense;
this is color embellishing your mundane life like
a million wildflowers on a summer meadow
or a double rainbow after a storm as the sun
streaks through broken black clouds;
this is the refreshing relief to the tedious
like the exhilaration felt on a sultry summer
day plunging naked into a dark shady pool at
a hidden bend in the river;
this is comfortable pleasure like a Sunday
afternoon nap following a satiating meal with
 friends or family;
this is rewarding like the arms of a small child
flung around accompanied by the innocent
unabashed I love you declaration;
this is the undeniable joy felt when it is
realized that the one you truly actually love
 truly actually loves you too!

Copyright 2013 All rights reserved
Eighty . . .

Perfecting Love
by Stormcat

Does it have anything to do with love?  I have loved much without commitment!
Certainly love can be a factor in that motivation
but commitment goes in a much different direction from love.
I can negotiate an "arms length" contract with someone whom I have never met and that is commitment! ! ! I promise to deliver this if you promise to deliver that!
Ten million dollars for XYZ goods . . . Now that's commitment!

But then there is that other nuance.
            I promise to love you if you promise to love me.  -or-  I promise to love you forever and do everything possible to make your life full of joy if you promise to love me forever and do everything possible to make my life full of joy and vice versa and vice versa etc. forever!

No! love is love but commitment . . . There is also the thing about loyalty
            commitment implies an expression of loyalty. "You are my best friend and brother and I will always be there for you!" That means you don't fuck my girlfriend even if she is pretty and willing! That means you bail me out of jail if I get a DWI even though beforehand you warned me about my drinking! That means you get me out of the bar before the big guy figures out that I was hitting on his wife! That means you got my back when I'm in the woods and kill the Grizzly who is about to maul me! That means you tell me that it's inappropriate to make a plan for simultaneously shooting all the people at DMV and all insurance agents! That means that you listen seriously while I explain that I am actually the prophet who will fight off the world at the last battle of Armageddon. . .

So If I say to you "I love you, do you love me?" I just want to know how you feel.
I want to know if there is any possibility that you could have feelings sufficient to motivate you in the future to become my partner. A basis for something real and not a pipe dream. A foundation that can be built upon, not a sandy sunshine beach that will wash away with the first sign of adversity.

If there is no Love there is no possibility of a future.
But Love is just the prerequisite. The rest has to come from there and has to be sought and worked for . . . A good life lived is not the realm of a lazy man and a committed love that lasts for eternity similarly requires valiance!

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Seventy Nine . . .

Recapitulating Legacy
by Stormcat

It's how my expectation evolved irrelevant the why.
That one searches humanity and geography to find
companionship and purpose mutually congruent with
that thus offered. The souls of matter dark and light
combined in exquisite complimentary mutuality.

I figured that event should've taken place sometime
between the age of 15 and 35 to allow room for the
proper education of future generations appropriate
to legacy congruent with all the legacies of previous
generations hopes and dreams; combined to unity.

 That one, designated sweetheart, to enjoy deference
unique to us; respect; loyalty and trust; unconditional
unquenchable love; gentle confidence devoid of
manipulation, devoid of even the slightest duress;
confidence absolute, whether expressed or implied.

When the window of opportunity has so long expired
that, even if discovery arises, the remainder is moot
and wisdom dictates rethinking the utility of keeping
such an array, goals notwithstanding disappointment.
Situational failure equals existentialistic revenge?

No one intentionally lives a life of "quiet desperation"
rather such overtakes even as denied failures to achieve
perceived expectations  accumulate and coalesce into
ever increasing pressure to acknowledge the futility
of continuing seeking the ideal blessed admired end.

Wisdom deconstructs youthful exuberance, therefore
the passion and impatience of youth rejects it as an
unnecessary barrier to progress. So, leave progress to
the young, and let the wise accept the consequence of
its youthful exuberance, notwithstanding repetition.

Even if one finds that perfect companion, one of them
will die first therefore the other faces death alone with
an uncertain intervening interval at a time of waning
physical acumen and increasing realized vulnerability.
Where does then, advantage of companionship reside?

Thrust into midlife's waning years one is forced
to contemplate and face ageing alone. The challenge
becomes satisfying actualization and avoiding panic.
To what end is a life that leaves no legacy in progeny?
If fame seems impossible, what is the best remainder?

So I hesitate on the brink of declaring independence.
Having realized the overwhelming and terrifying power
that I possess, why should I waste any subsequent time
seeking bygone quests that bear no fruit? Regardless, my
future, I leave legacy to those, who, for such, give a damn.

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved