cat

December 24, 2021

/ HJ / Leave a comment

It’s a very skunk-y Christmas
When the day before the Eve-ening,
A precariously-leaned gate outside our door
Gave a neighborhood skunk quite a fright-ening

It’s a very skunk-y Christmas
When throughout our teeny home
The not-quite-fully sealed window panes
Let the stink-smell roam

It’s a very skunk-y Christmas
We’ve tried candles, incense, and fans
Though perhaps if we’d had a real-live-fir
Yeah, that would’ve been a good plan…

It’s a very skunk-y Christmas
But at least it’s not the only threat
What with Omicron out a-spreading
Friends and family won’t be visiting just yet

It’s a very skunk-y Christmas
But our animals don’t seem to mind
The cat runs around as spastic as us-ual
And the dog’s head tilts in kind

It’s a very skunk-y Christmas
When the day before the Eve-ening,
A precariously-leaned gate outside our door
Gave a neighborhood skunk quite a fright-ening

December 2, 2021

/ HJ / Leave a comment

beats
plus
birds
wake me up
put me in the mood
to be a person today.

~~~

just because i seem to have
lost my love for morning writing
does not mean
that i have lost all my love
for just writing

(maybe i just need a nap
like yesterday)

~~~

what to do
in a morning
where one feels so off
but so close
to being
On?

~~~

the birds in my music
meld
with the birds outside
and i am reminded
of
Costa Rica

~~~

maybe someday
i’ll listen to music again
maybe someday
i’ll put together playlists upon playlists upon playlists
maybe someday
i’ll know exactly what i want to listen to
maybe someday
maybe someday…

~~~

the cat stares
at nothing
(or is it a ghost?)
alert
eyes huge
but alas
she turns away before
i can write a whole poem
about her
stance

October 22, 2021

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woke up to harmonized meowls
identical cats standing off directly in front of our front door
the calling card of pre-fight yowls only losing their congruence
at the tail end
the cats’ tails puffs of agitation
and my “ps ps ps” no match for a turf war
(no matter if now i technically own this very turf
by silly white human law)

and our cat took no notice whatsoever.

October 15, 2021

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wasn’t i complaining
yesterday
or the day before
(or the day before that)
that i wanted to get back to my
regularly scheduled schedule
and continue on in my routine of routines?

so why, now, comfortably sitting in
‘we’ve taken the dog out,
we’ve started the lofi beats spotify station,
we’re both at the table, doing our morning writings’
do i miss
so terribly
the hustle
the bustle
the never knowing what’s going to happen
from one moment to the next?

oh!

did i just need a cat in my lap?
this portion of my routine,
my every day,
my comfort and creativity,
that had been missing
pretty much
since we moved?

(even tho i do stop every few lines
to pet and love her
so she stays,
she still really does
help me
feel
the morning page
poetry
routine
i’d been missing
[and then immediately
got bored of].)

(she is the chaos
that i need
to appreciate
routine)

September 21, 2021

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i feel as though
the month is almost over
(though there is still plenty of plenty of time)
i feel as though
i’m running out of time
(even though
i’m still young
vibrant
virile[?]
alive)
i feel as though
i’m only half living
(even though
i’m more in tune
with being
a living person
than i have
in years)
i feel as though
i’ll never connect
with other human beings
(even though
the humans i want to connect with
align more with cryptid
than anything else)
and i feel like
i’m not allowed to identify as cryptid,
as anything other than man/woman
boy/girl
alive/dead
artist/not
driven/giving up
even though
the world
is filled
with
shades of
neither/and

~~~

maybe
some creepy/Disparition/music
will calm my spooky soul
and make me feel more like myself

~~~

my brain isn’t fully functional
fully awake
and i already feel i have
enough poems for two today
so will i write a third?
[everything in threes]
when the ultimate goal is not, necessarily, posting
the goal is to exercise my writing
each morning
every morning
every day
write at least one full poem
that i’m proud of
(or, at least, that i can look at and call a ‘full poem’)
so when i’m feeling so out of sorts
when i am uncertain where myself/body/mind/spirit
actually is
i can write and write and write and write
until
i find myself once again.
but what happens
when the more i write
the farther away i feel?
(am i just relying on the house
to fix everything?)
(that’s a lot of pressure
on one building…)
(at least i still have this cat
draped over my arms,
tail flapping without breeze,
purrs echoing in my soul,
claws digging into my skin
as a constant reminder
that she probably loves me,
or at least sees me as comfort
which is
honestly
pretty neat.)

September 16, 2021

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normally, i don’t mind
the kind of worship-full relationship
we have with our animals,
our pets,
(nos animaux de compagnie),
but when it comes time
to pack and organize and box and move…
i do feel a tiny bit resentful
that half of the beings in this home,
that two of the four of us,
don’t contribute at all
(and, in fact, often make things a million times harder)

August 26, 2021

/ HJ / Leave a comment

a little in my own head
a little outward reaching
a little writing for an audience
a little writing for just myself.

i spent years trying to quiet
the cacophony of my mind
and now i find
i’d love to hear just a tad of it
again;
the thoughts racing each other
to the finish line of my mind
my fingers scrambling to keep up
every moment a passing thought
could pass me by
so i sat by
and wrote,
caught
as i could
a word here
a concept there
and it made me feel
important
it made me feel
artistic
it made me feel
invincible
it made me feel
somehow
more.

and when the thoughts disappeared
when my head was no longer too much
but, instead, not enough
a blankness surrounded in mysterious anxious feeling
the emptiness louder than any giant conglomeration of too-much-thought
ever was…

i’m in-between now
the thoughts are fairly loud
but they’re not all-encompassing
nor would i call them a cacophony;
i still have moments of blankness
that scare me
surrounded by anxiety,
flitting worries,
depression,
but overall it’s much better than it was
(but i do miss
the racing
the hugeness
the cacophony
the need to get everything out in writing
that desperation;
it was like a friend.)

~~~

craft the words
pull them towards
needing to express
needing to relax
deep breaths
four counts
(why does that make me feel like i’m drowning)

~~~

my sleek black panther of a cat
with nary a speck of other color on her
(save for the bright amber-yellow of her eyes)
has developed
four
white whiskers
but only on her right side

and i suppose it’s a sign of aging
and i suppose i should take it as a natural indication of time
passing
and i suppose i should admit she’s getting old

but she still chases nothings
like a kitten
and yells at us
all day
and climbs on top of us
like she’s less than the ten-pound bowling ball she’s become
and meows and purrs on my lap
starved for attention
most mornings
and acts
in most fashions
like she’ll never grow up

and i love her so.