So recall the lull of life

Make time for nature, for distractions, for poetry

Breaking from the chaos of the current administration, I tried — and mostly succeeded — to make a little time every day to read and write some poetry to celebrate National Poetry Month, which is a little more appealing than, say, National Financial Literacy Month. Here are the least-embarrassing results, along with some pictures:

Seba’s favorite toy

is the balled-up paper receipt

from a book I bought

about how to keep a cat happy.

The neighborhood cats

held an intervention for me

in the backyard.

We notice you’ve been getting tense,

Grandma, the long-haired matriarch, began.

You’ve not been giving us enough treats,

said pie-bald Casper.

You keep me inside too much of the time,

sleek Seba said.

Out here is a breeze full of good smells.

There’s tall grass to hide behind.

There are bugs to hunt.

I caught a squirrel once,

Rochester, the orange tabby said.

Shut up, said Grandma, nobody cares about

your damn squirrel.

Bottom line is there’s nothing inside

that will heal your soul.

You need the air, the birds, the butterbells and periwinkles.

No one here judges you.

Everyone here listens

to the things you don’t say.

You can belly-up stretch and doze.

Just don’t forget the treats.

I thanked them

and promised to do better.

They want us to suffer,

They want us to capitulate,

They think this will make them great.

Tearing down

What others built,

They think this will make us wilt.

But they will fail,

We’ll build again.

Empathy will always win.

“Casper, the friendly cat,” I sing to him

as he slants toward the kitchen.

Seba, the indoor cat,

leaps,

pesters her big brother.

He sweetly accepts her childish swats.

“Brat,” he says. Then they lay side by side and nap.

Frost on the windshield

in April seems unjust.

I want open windows and

good honest sweat on my forehead.

The outdoor cat doesn’t mind the chill

as I bring him his breakfast bowl.

Sure, you’ve got fur.

See that moon? I ask him.

We call that the pink moon.

You should call it the pinky moon, he says,

because it’s tiny, like your little finger,

too tiny to bother biting.

Well. I appreciate the assessment.

With a defrosted car, I go to get cat food.

In the parking lot,

the nightshift janitor stands outside smoking

while his windshield frost melts.

When is it gonna warm up? I say to be sociable.

I’ve been waiting about sixty-five years now, he says,

and we both chuckle.

We were standing in line for restaurant seating,

youngish mom and dad

with goth-lite teenage daughter,

black eyeliner and thirty rings,

visiting from Virginia, and me,

and struck up a friendly conversation.

“Are there cemeteries around here?” she asked.

“There’s a pretty one just down the street,” I replied,

and sensing no objection from the smiling parents, gave directions.

Dad agreed to take her after lunch, to her delight.

“I don’t know why she likes cemeteries so much,”

he told me soto voice,

slightly embarrassed by his paternal indulgence.

I do, but that’s a conversation for them to have.

She likes them for their rambling lanes and crumbling concrete;

for the deep blue stained glass in mausoleum windows

and neon green southside moss on tombstones;

for cursive, rain-eroded names and dates on aged marble;

for shrouded weeping Marys and proud winged angels;

for toppled Ozymandias spires;

for their untended wildflower beauty.

She likes them because they declare

that today is not the only day;

others have come before and others will follow.

She needs to know this.

As for Dad …

Dads should give their daughters

what delights them,

as long as the day lasts.

A great nation isn’t stingy

It’s generous

A great nation makes friends

not enemies

not subjects

A great nation accepts the need for

historic environmental feminist studies

and offers scholarships

A great nation

believes in all its citizens

and their future

.

Four days remain in this special month. Write a poem today.

……

Overflow:

Anyone can be an activist. If you want to do something but don’t know how, join us from 4:30 to 6 p.m. Mondays on the Green Street pedestrian bridge. You needn’t bring a banner or a slogan; more people make for better presentations.

Our number grows by a few every week. Unless it rains.

We’re almost there: 6:30 p.m. Wednesday, April 30, Trinity Presbyterian Church, 1416 Bolton Street, One Hundred Days Down. I can tell you, having previewed bits and pieces, that this is going to be a very special evening with some rich surprises. I hope you’ll join us.

I’ll have copies of my book in the trunk of the car. They’re also available from Bookmarks, Book Ferret and The Eclectible Shop. “Stardust” is also available from the publisher, Press 53.

This is how we did it back in the day, kids:

Thanks for being here today. If you know anyone else who should join us, please send them this way. See you Wednesday.