Ellen Bass, Keynote Speaker at Berkeley Poets' Dinner
April, 2015
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis
WHITE CAT IN THE ALLEY
—Carol Louise Moon, SacramentoI was relieved to find a white cat
whose eyes have shown yellow, and lit
the way I should walk home at night
to my cold, cold cottage in town.
Whose eyes have shown yellow and lit
as much as the white cat in the alley?
To my cold, cold cottage in town
I depend on every sign and token of luck
as much as the white cat in the alley:
the coin in my boot, my cloak and swagger.
I depend on every sign and token of luck.
All these, plus a green moon, fool-proof as
the coin in my boot, my cloak and swagger.
One never knows what lurks in the shadows—
all these—plus a green moon, fool-proof as
a fool with DT’s, now a limp not a swagger.
One never knows what lurks in the shadows,
the way I should walk home at night.
A fool with DT’s now, a limp not a swagger,
I was relieved to find a white cat.
Connie Post reading at the MIND Institute Benefit
held by Sac. Poetry Center
April, 2015
—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento
NEWS FLASH: ALL ALLEY CATS WHITE IN GLEAMS OF MIDNIGHT
—Tom Goff, CarmichaelAt night all cats are grey.
So proclaims a chapter heading
in Dumas’ Three Musketeers.
I distinctly remember reading
the words, thoughts glancing awry, astray.
Deep in the night, deep into fears,
do not all cats register black?
Black and soft and secret gears
mesh inside the arching back
as the slinking catly footpads
conjure visibly shaped silence
foaming a noiseless surf 'round islands
velveteen in pitch-black plaids.
This silence curvets into valleys,
caresses omens into alleys.
Or so I thought.
As many years past musketeer
as go to making iron masks,
I see the supple cats at night,
one of them marked black and white
who sweeping with plangent mews and swiftest whisks
brushes these alleys:
sweet but uncaught.
I see her most in plenilune moonlight
painful as mating
cat to cat, all silver plating.
May we say, lead light?
In such dread light, aren’t all cats painfully,
utterly white and utterly lonely,
coats steeped in ghost-milk, in glistening midnight,
souls bathed in loss rubbed to a high gloss?
Max Rivera at the MIND Institute Benefit Reading
—Photo by Michelle Kunert
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove
Hannah would never
Deign to hang
In the alley, that
Was for her dirt-colored
Brothers, noisy, fractious
Band of barbarians
That they were.
She could never
Believe they
Were from the same
Litter. Surely
There was some
Mistake. No, she
Was regal. They
Were peasants.
She watched them
Quarrel from her
Perch on the book
Case, licked an
Imaginary spot
Of dust from
An immaculate
Paw, noticed her
Pillow needed
Fluffing. Someone
Would be by soon
To take care
Of that, she knew.
Dr. Andy Jones at the MIND Institute Benefit Reading
—Photo by Michelle Kunert
Today's LittleNip:
Having slept, the cat gets up,
yawns, goes out
to make love.
—Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827)
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to today's fine contributors, and a note to check out the diverse Tweetspeak Poetry at www.tweetspeakpoetry.com (cat poems at www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/category/cat-poems).
Davis Poet Laureate Emerita Allegra Silberstein (right)
hugs outgoing Song of the San Joaquin Editor Cleo Griffith
at the Berkeley Poets' Dinner recently. Cleo has served SSJ
long and well, and she deserves her up-coming rest!
—Photo by Katy Brown
