I think I found my new emblem…
Pause
What happens when you show your writing coach (Irene Sherlock) a poem
Folded in my arms
my orange cat endures
my squeezes, my
high-pitched love calls
thirty seconds longer
He hasn’t seen me in days,
and his wet food
beside the refrigerator
now ant-infested.
Three days away from home
and the yellow-headed cockatiel
allows me extra smooches
on his silk gray belly
blurts his whistle-squawk,
when he’s had enough.
The wee parrot
with few green feathers
plays ventriloquist
from across the room,
from his tiny beak
travels
an elongated kiss
in the dark,
from the camouflage
pup tent
dangling from
cage
the cyan blue devil,
she still lives here,
parrots her green brother
vying for my index finger
which she will bite
to punish me for
sharing my affection
with lesser creatures.
Coming Home (blue,green,grey, and orange) – a poem
Folded in my arms
the orange cat endures
uncomfortable squeezes
ridiculously high-pitched
love calls
thirty seconds longer
when he hasn’t seen me
walk through the door
since the day before
his wet food
in the bowl
beside the refrigerator
became
ant-infested
Three days away from home
and the yellow-headed cockatiel
allows me extra smooches
on his silky gray belly
blurts a combination
whistle-squawk
and flies to the bookshelf
when he’s had enough
The wee parrot
with next to no green feathers
plays ventriloquist
from across the room
our secret sound
from his tiny beak
travels in the form of
an elongated kiss
in the dark
where he pokes his tiny head
out of the camouflage
pup tent
dangling from
cage ceiling
The cyan blue devil bird
whose beauty is the only reason
she still lives here
parrots her green brother
vying for my index finger
which she will bite
to punish me for
sharing my affection
with lesser creatures.
Wilted plants
scream in their silent plant way
that it’s time
I got back
Water please
The now green poinsietta
still asking
how it ended up
in ninety-five degree weather
on someone’s
windy terrace
in the tropics
Sugar ants
are having a free for all
in the kitchen
ignoring me
I move slowly this
Monday morning
readying myself
for routine
surrounded by
blue
green
gray
and orange
packages
of sweetness
making my re-entry
soft
manageable
possible
less sad.
Mochi
Cyan
Rashi the Magnificent
Tito
It’s the WRITE thing to do…
Sadly, I must return to the grid, to the grind, to the grit of my real life. Thank you to Perky, Irene and the rest of the writing people who made my weekend at Wiawaka in Lake George spectacular.
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