by Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan,
Stockton, CA
BLACK CATS
I’m puzzled.
You can see it in my face, can’t you?
Traditionally, black cats were lucky,
especially if they could be persuaded to
cross your path.
Now they’re unlucky.
No one wants them,
not even to cross their path.
So, you can see why I’m curious
as I wonder what happened
to bring about this change.
Did they, ever catlike,
decide not to co-operate
with the path crossing business
and turn tail to scarper
in the opposite direction?
Or maybe stand their ground
and snarl
and spit
and bare their teeth
like fearsome demons.
Perhaps that was it
or perhaps it must always
remain a puzzle,
a curiosity.
I’m puzzled.
You can see it in my face, can’t you?
Traditionally, black cats were lucky,
especially if they could be persuaded to
cross your path.
Now they’re unlucky.
No one wants them,
not even to cross their path.
So, you can see why I’m curious
as I wonder what happened
to bring about this change.
Did they, ever catlike,
decide not to co-operate
with the path crossing business
and turn tail to scarper
in the opposite direction?
Or maybe stand their ground
and snarl
and spit
and bare their teeth
like fearsome demons.
Perhaps that was it
or perhaps it must always
remain a puzzle,
a curiosity.
(prev. pub. in Event Horizon, November 2018)
BLACK CAT AUDITION
Look at them all
standing in fe-line
catatonic clones
leaded like dogs
to walk to heel
so easily led.
Oh the irony
the catastrophe!
Not a tail of terror
amongst them
copycat clones
waiting their turn
stars in their cats-eyes
shining darkly
black
copycats
awaiting their prize
vainly.
When it’s my turn
my hackles will rise
my combed fur will bristle
my tail will rise and wave
my teeth will bare
with snarls
and spits
as befits
a film star with a tail of terror.
Look at them all
standing in fe-line
catatonic clones
leaded like dogs
to walk to heel
so easily led.
Oh the irony
the catastrophe!
Not a tail of terror
amongst them
copycat clones
waiting their turn
stars in their cats-eyes
shining darkly
black
copycats
awaiting their prize
vainly.
When it’s my turn
my hackles will rise
my combed fur will bristle
my tail will rise and wave
my teeth will bare
with snarls
and spits
as befits
a film star with a tail of terror.
(The auditions were for the Vincent Price movie,
Tales Of Terror, 1962)
(prev. pub. in Cajun Mutt Press, 3/11/20)
BEAT
He was a hermit living in a cave with his cats.
He had a long strong thread made of cat gut.
The vultures had eaten the meat.
He didn’t eat cat.
He sat all day each day
playing cat’s cradle and all that jazz
until one day they’d had enough.
So they ate him up and played rock and roll
clapping their wings in time
as good as any drummers could be.
(prev. pub. in Coalition, September 2022)
DRESSED TO KILL
The first time we met
I found you so beautiful
a purring perfection
as unsullied
and unspoiled
as nature intended
serious and soulful.
The next time
you were dressed to kill
stiff and starched
in formal frills and fripperies
with dyed hair
and your beauty hidden
by heavy make-up.
And now this time
you’re ready to party
dressed to kill another bird
one attracted to elaborate jewels
and rich attire.
Not me though
not me.
(prev. pub. in Visual Verse, June 2023)
MOUSE
Super Cutie wood-mouse
lived by the garden pond.
A small hole gap in the wall
led into compact accommodation
affording everything he wanted
though very different
from his childhood home
in the high wall
at the very top
of the garden.
There he had learned the skills
he would need as an adult,
especially
that a couple of squeaks
brought forth food,
real food,
bread and cereal,
even cake on a birthday.
So he was not tempted to try
the potentially gut wrenching
daffodil bulbs
favoured by
his wild and unruly cousins.
He never found love though,
the wild ones got the girls!
So, smart and steady
he lived solo
and then
one day
was
gone.
Super Cutie wood-mouse
lived by the garden pond.
A small hole gap in the wall
led into compact accommodation
affording everything he wanted
though very different
from his childhood home
in the high wall
at the very top
of the garden.
There he had learned the skills
he would need as an adult,
especially
that a couple of squeaks
brought forth food,
real food,
bread and cereal,
even cake on a birthday.
So he was not tempted to try
the potentially gut wrenching
daffodil bulbs
favoured by
his wild and unruly cousins.
He never found love though,
the wild ones got the girls!
So, smart and steady
he lived solo
and then
one day
was
gone.
—Illustration by Sir John Tenniel
A DORMOUSE DREAMS
“Let me out, let me out!”
cried the dormouse.
“I don’t want to live in a teapot,
not even in a dream!
Let me out, let me out
before the water boils for tea!”
“Boiled dormouse!
Now that could be a tasty morsel”
Hatter said thoughtfully.
“But would it be worth the risks
of mousicide?
We must consider”
All nodded in agreement.
“Let me out, let me out!”
cried the dormouse.
“Escape is difficult.”
said the March Hare,
“To escape you must go back,
through the glass like she did,”
nodding towards Alice,
“but backwards
and as we know,
time only moves forwards.”
All nodded in agreement.
“It’s getting late,”
said the White Rabbit.
“But where is the glass,
there is no glass!”
cried the Dormouse.
All nodded in agreement.
“It’s time for tea!”
cried the White Rabbit.
And time waits for no one,
not even a mouse.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
“I meant," said Ipslore bitterly, "what is there in this world that truly makes living worthwhile?"
Death thought about it.
“CATS, he said eventually. CATS ARE NICE.”
―Terry Pratchett, Sourcery
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for today’s fine poetry! Black cats— just in time for Friday the 13th, too!
Find Lynn at https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/.
For future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
