Swimming In The River Lethe

If you recall vividly or recall ALL, you suffer from hypermnesia.

When a squirrel buries nuts, does it bury too many in order to make sure…

Forgetting is not an option nor is something more extreme, amnesia.

“I will find those nuts,” the squirrel swore…”didn’t have to plant too many.  I DO remember where my cache is hid.”

Perhaps we can refer to this squirrel as a diva.

Birds sometimes return to the nest they made the year before.  Do they come back to begin again or to sit Shiva for what is past?  Why do the birds return?

If you recall vividly or recall ALL you suffer from hypermnesia.

An elephant never forgets, sad gentle giants – to remember the pain as well as the pleasure – sometimes forgetting is preferable, a spiritual anesthesia, insensitivity to pain, turn the page, close the book, the moment is NOW.

Live there.

NOTELETHE is one of the five rivers in the underworld in Greek Mythology.  Drinking from this river makes one FORGET.  There is also a Greek Spirit of Forgetfulness and Oblivion – Lethe.


The Authentic …

Moggy’s a dinkum, fine upstanding cat;
Purloins my steak fast [the drop of a hat].
Cats howling at night, a feline chin-wag —
My cat [my moggy] pursue the ball, “TAG!”
To be a dinkum goes against the grain;
Being an “original” can be a strain.
Dinkum Moggy studies the night’s shadow.
Purloining the nuance made her mellow.
This cat, a rare dinkum, slept in my lap,
While running through the woods, Moggy’s dream map.

Cycle Of Burn

Burn is a small stream in Northern England.
On its eroded banks did Warriors once stand?
Can we say a bird’s burning its bridges?
Deserting one’s nest for newer “britches”?
Chasing prey through the woods, around the bends —
This cat’s burning the candle at both ends.
The Great Horned Owl who flies both day and night;
Burns the midnight oil, what great eyesight!
I’d like to sit near that ancient stream, BURN,
To dream of my kinfolk, hoping to learn…

A Unique Beat

The gray nimbus cloud BURST and the rain came.
Can a wrenching human sob be the same?
Two angry cats circling each other;
Potential cloudburst of rage, oh rather…
A thin man ran, his breathing a cloud burst.
Is a dog panting a symptom of thirst?
Cloudburst aptly describes our bad living.
Problems percolate until we’re seething.
Small wrens singing, cloudburst in the bushes;
Riotous Joy [!] in my psyche, wishes…

(And so, IT continues.)


Squirrels run through the woods, understory;
a Hawk perched, precipitating worry.
What is in the soul’s the understory.
Shadows in the mind are sometimes scary.
Flutter heart — understory — chirping bird;
poised — nest edge — takeoff, flying, ideas stirred…
The cat’s understory is the head butt;
lean against each other, communicate much.
The understory of tumultuous rain
aftermath’s rainbow, a releasing of pain.


A large red-tailed hawk swept across the lawn.
The squirrel vamooses, going, going, gone.
Rabbits vamoose by leaping oh so fast;
But then stay still, a silence which will last.
“Leaving” is simple, when you’re relaxing.
Pretend you’re a stream forever flowing.
Birds peck a seeds then FLY into the air.
VAMOOSE if a nearby human doth stir.
When one nervous cat growls and bats his tail,
The other shy cat will vamoose, never fail.


Dig, dig, dig into the concealing earth;
This rabbit is creating her new berth.
Tunnels, networking, holes in the dirt —
Sanctuary is a rabbit’s Fine Art.
Within the shadows’s the silent rabbit…
Isolation’s an instinctive habit.
Hop, skip, jump, the rabbit’s in the Hedgerow.
It has a talent; it knows to stay low.
Endsville‘s a place we would all like to see.
A rabbit’s quiet’s what I want for me.


Fluctuating moods, tourbillions;
Playful winds are expert vaudevillians.
The birds in the tress are chit-chattering;
Explosive take-off, the flock’s shattering.
Tourbillion, I know male dogs fight,
When a comely female strolls into sight.
What tourbillion scattered my toys?
Cleanliness is an illusory poise.

The Little Gray Cells…

Encephalon, a stand-in for brain,
elusive thoughts fluttering down the drain.
A bird’s encephalon’s naturally small,
yet its instincts “hone sharply”, knowing all.
Focused frenetic flying is an art.
How much does the encephalon take part?
Perhaps my motor, my encephalon,
will guide me to King Arthur’s Avalon.

A Peculiar Defining…

Tickety-Boo,” the Mockingbirds chortle,
dancing in the air to seek their portal.
When a baby bird is twittering “boo-hoo
the parents respond, it’s tickety-boo.
Rabbits hop through the grass, searching for food —
sunny day, tickety-boo, upbeat mood.
A squirrel’s storing nuts in the larder —
instinctive tickety-boo, cold fodder.
Our cats pursue each other through the house,
a tickety-boo, tickety-boo rouse.