I’m not old, I’m…
A tall Oak tree, the call, the scrawl, sky line, branches are bridges stretching celestial cycles, leaves falling to the earth, the sap inside slows [in winter] as the Oak sleeps, dreaming…

I’m not old, I’m…
preening, bathing, dusting, feathers ruffled, an adult bird molting,
shedding dead skin cells [feathers] to make way for new — thinking of flying, feeling the caress of the air, urge for going…

I’m not old, I’m…
A large orange tiger cat, curled up in the shadowy corner, eyes half-closed, purring, “seeing” herself running through the grass waiting for the bad weather to break, barely breathing…


OPUS 7 in Gee-Whiz Minor

When a prolonged frost creeps across the land
blossoming may be somewhat behindhand.
Playing with dust, a cat stirs up fun – “craic“.
Is such simple joy sadly archaic?
When a bird lands near, its voice an echo,
I seek the song, corner of the eye, dekko.
In my cluttered kingdom, my cat’s my chum,
but sometimes we collide, how bunglesome!
Sundays are good – a tranquil paseo;
contemplating the stroll of a black crow.

(I REALLY like that word dekko. It’s British slang, and it means “A GLANCE”. I want to use it my everyday who ha he, talk. For example, “Give it a dekko, will you? Anyway, THAT is how I watch the birds outside my window, corner of my eye, a GLANCE. They get nervous if I look at them full ON! HA! )

Spring (3)

robust brown Tabby
leaps backwards in the grass
looks at me and smiles…!
later two cats discussing
[politics] under my house

— I SWEAR that that cat leaped backwards (It was a zigzag.) and I’d SWEAR that that cat smiled at me – it was like an impish grin, but the cat didn’t do it with its mouth – it was the cat’s whole face – a feline feel good look.
I think I’m not the only one who feels the promise of better weather coming.

FENG PO (Chinese Earl of the Wind)

Like a slap
Gulp of cold water
Deep breath.
I can barely stand
On my own two feet.

Clash of the gladiators

Leaves dancing across the brown grass
Bare tree branches bending…

A giant left a footprint on my roof
(I could hear the metal buckle.)

The Wind wants an invite.

Feng Po was a cat of mine. He had cataracts in his eyes. He wasn’t fierce and he was afraid of the great outdoors. I suspect that was because he was half blind. He was an elegant cat. I could see him partaking of Chinese Tea, in a ritual in some posh garden.
Since I was writing about the wind – I wanted to name this poem after him. Call it a tribute to a great individual.



A vine makes it up as it goes along
(Bean pod vines wind through a trellis nicely.)
Green ivy strums the tree trunk – guitar TWANG.
Yanking at the brittle branch, not so strong!
(Did Tarzan swing from a vine?)
When the bough brakes will the vine creep beyond
into corners where it doesn’t belong…
(Are purple grape vine leaves luxurious?)
Taking control of everything is wrong,
but to be that tenacious, not withdrawn

would be nice.

(Can an old family tree be a vine?)