What Cat Is This?

A paean to a fat kitty, to the tune, (Of course), of What Child Is This?

What cat is this who lays at rest
On the dog’s bed is sleeping?
Whom from his birth has gained great girth,
And now is fat and furry.

This, this is Orca boy,
Who eats and sleeps and plays with toys;
Haste, haste, to bring him treats,
The Becky, the Walrus Kitty.

Why lies He so all day long,
Rising only for feeding?
Good Christians fear to draw too near
When Becky Boy is feeding.

This, this is Fanger Boy,
The fattest of all kitties.
Hail, hail his furry gut,
The Becky, the Walrus Kitty.

So bring Him kibble, water and treats,
Come feed him in the kitchen;
The bleat, the meow, the switching tail,
Let food and leavin’s surround him.

This, this is Walrus Cat,
Who’s belly is soft and oh so fat.
Scrub, scrub his furry gut,
The Becky, the Walrus Kitty.

Undeniable

Monique rolls her eyes,
shakes her lovely head, says,
“You are such a boy;”
and notes that
her heart is within.
True enough, but still;
is exquisite wrapping not
essential to the gift?

The Old English root,
brēost, implies
the center of emotion;
and most certainly,
this has never been lost
upon artists across the ages…

Granted, there are other meanings;
the working face of a mine or
an open-hearthed furnace;
sailors breast off a pier,
and mountaineers a peak,
yet…

That gentle swell,
this graceful curve
is not only a delight to the eye
but an ember for the heart.

Ventanas del Alma

She painted live,
on a river bank
high meadow
or a farm wall
in an Italian village;
the memories
hang on the walls
of my home.

Blue water checked
by current and sun
flows by nodding grass;
deeper green downstream
speaks of slow water
and basking turtles.

Sun slants and falls
on yellow enamel pitcher
and tubes of Grumbacher;
this is the paint she always used.
Brushes dry in a ceramic cup
we bought in Naples;
I built this studio for her.

On our bedroom wall hangs
the one she painted from
a mind’s eye snapshot;
highway turned to dusty trail
wreathed in sage.
Windblown wheat laps
like water in a pond.
Hazy view northward whispers
of the Okanogan.

Above it all blue sky wheels,
turns to gray and black
as the storm comes on.

Change Notice

May The Old One
grant me
never loosing track…

Of a dropping barometer
the mood of a room
the stillness of sunrise.

Bird song
wind sigh
star light
my lover’s eyes.

Sunlight on water
wind through trees
fragile blooms
clear, sweet air.

water.
life.
love.

Doggo

Cats have target acquisition
and lock;
“I got tone, I’m takin’ the shot.”
and the best living room
sun puddles are toast.

Bandit hangs ten off the couch
staring at his chewy on the floor,
too lazy to retrieve it.

Birds cluster on the feeders,
wearing leather bomber jackets
and smoking buttless Camels,
talking shit
as you pass.

Cold-stoned honey bee
on the window sill
waiting for sunlight.

Dog day don’t need
an afternoon;
the recliner calls now.

Gimcrack

Someone broke into the Smithsonian,
stole the Hope Diamond,
but it turned out to be
costume jewelry.

The marble walls
of Fort Knox
are painted plywood;
inside, ragged stagehands
sprawl on a trash-strewn
concrete floor
smoking discount cigarettes.

Humvees don’t fit
through the tunneled out
giant redwood,
and besides,
we’ve already seen one…

Texas oil wells
pump Dr. Pepper,
but they don’t make it
with real sugar any more.

The land o’ lakes
has gone dry,
the butter
churned into
margarine.

There’s no more penny candy
and the free lunch
is a half eaten cheeseburger
left on a park bench.

Law of Parties

Two men enter
one man inside
two men leave
one man dies.

Democracy wakes on
a crisp fall morning,
heads outside with
a steamin’ cuppa joe
stops at the wood pile,
selects a nice four by four;
it’s time to whack the people
upside the head.

The Parole Board,
recently fitted with shock collars
turns thumbs up,
but Der HairenFuhrer
ain’t havin’ any o’ that;
his finger hovers
above the remote.

He stabs the button and
in a swirl of spasmodic jerking,
their thumbs swing down.

Halleluiah choruses
echo from the capital dome;
the dry look has saved the day
once again.

Thank heck
for mindless automatons;
were it not for the
icy ones and zeroes
sluicing through their veins,
who among us would
make a sound decision?

Nihilarian

To equate
usefulness
with occupation
is often
sketchy
at best.

That said,
working
loss prevention
at Wal-Mart
may be
an exception
to the rule.