FERAL CATS

They arrive after dusk; they're waiting in the morning.
Their pleading eyes anxiously peering through
The deck door window that's smudged with nose prints
Petition me for the blessing of sustenance.
Their faith has become the responsibility,
That my conscience refuses to let me shirk.
They've become my congregation, my pride,
My flock, and I their faithful shepherd.

They come to me in supplication tempered
With fear.  Self-delusion would call it devotion.
I can reach out and sometimes touch them.  At times
One will respond with feline praise; a nudge,
A back arched with pleasure, or a faint purr.
If I reach out to try to pull them closer to me,
Into the warmth, the safety and a haven of a home,
They tense, their claws come out and they shy away.
Their's is a creed steeped in trembling terror.
The God whom they petition is a hulking giant,
Perhaps even a cruel diety.  Certainly one to be feared.

Perhaps this is the frustration that the God of man feels.
They don't understand that I want what's best for them.
They don't understand that mine is the way and the light.
They're too skeptical to make that leap of faith
That will lead them from a nasty, brutish and short life
Of feral fear to the warmth and love of domesticity.

If I were like the God of man I'd resent their free will;
I'd take their rejection as a personal affront,
Loathing them for the sin of feral freedom
That leaves no room for me in their lives.
I'd drive them from the safety of my deck,
I'd cut off their food supply, I'd sentence them
To death by starvation if they wouldn't accept me.

I'm far from being a God though.  Only too human.

Understanding their fear, pitying their need,
Forgiving them their limited comprehension
Rather than resenting their refusal to accept me;
I still only want what's best for them
And will do what I can to make their lives easier.

May some God someday be as benevolent to me.  

Rich Hanson

Farewell to Catalonia, 1937*

Bleak sunrise greeted me on the Costa del Sol
as I recovered from my wounds, waiting for Eileen,
my wife, bringing hope and love, to lift my spirits
and return sunny days which will flood my cares away.

Almost four months I served on the front, battling with 
an independent socialist group near Aragon
until granted leave to see Eileen for a bit, returning
to the Madrid front to engage enemies again,

only discovering ‘friendly’ enemies imprisoned many.
I was shot through the neck, cheating death twice,
while my wife suffered in silence before we escaped
making the dangerous train journey to Paris together.

We came with optimism, Eileen and I, determined
to stir working people in Great Britain and France,
engaging them in the great struggle against fascism
before war can break out in wider areas across Europe.

Our cause now appears lost, attacked on our left and right,
both forces with superior backing, neither willing
to see us survive the battle to fight another day,
terrified of the support we might have among the people.

So I recuperate here in Kent, aware but unaffected now
by the Reign of Terror controlling Barcelona,
grateful for survival, yet concerned for comrades there
and for my own sunshine, Eileen, here with me.

*George Orwell’s book, Homage to Catalonia, was published in 1938
Rod Reeves  15 June  2013     rev 22 June 2013

Bill Fisher's Home Was Egged Again

From my earliest memory, this gentle man,
Stooped and grey now, has lived next door with his cats.
As young teens, we'd hide and yell out "Swishy Fishy!"
Tossing eggs at his house, or bombarding it
With the rotten excess of a rich fall harvest
Became a rite of passage for us neighbor boys,
Our chance to flex our budding manliness
By taunting a man whom we viewed as less of one;
Trying to banish our own sexual insecurity
With each splatter of old produce upon his siding.

This fisher of men though, was a better man
Than we were. Always forgiving, always there
With a wave or a kind word, even if he suspected
Our complicity in his home's vandalism.

Bill Fisher's home was egged again last night,
Hanging baskets ripped down, their dirt mingling
With the pink petal tears shed upon his sidewalk.
I'm heading over there with a pail of soapy water,
Some rags, and a couple bags of potting soil.
I've a friend to assist now, and old sins to expiate.

By Rich Hanson 

 

 

Morning Sunlight

                                                                     on the oak trees
                                                                     their dark trunks and leaves
                                                                 years ago risen over
                                                                     their own earthy horizon
                                                                 take the new day’s light
                                                                     and use it
                                                                 to make shadows

 

                                                               by Kathleen Hart  10/2013

Wild One

Oh, I know how tame I am
yet just for this little while
these few days in this patch of woods
I pretend there is something wild.

I pretend I can understand
the black crows when they caw

I am drawn like a moth to the flame
though the logs were cut with a saw

I like the roof and running water.
I’m not such a Nature’s Child.
But just for a while I humor myself.
Let me be just a little bit wild.

 

by Kathleen Hart 10/2013

October Surprise

I wait for the leaves to change colors and drop

though for no particular reason this October.

Two friends who shared my love of autumn

and its spectacular show no longer are here.

 

Sunny days will flood my cares away again,

though fall’s weather usually precludes these.

Fond memories of drives in the country mellow,

while company of others relieves aches, pains,

 

even those I don’t acknowledge, for a while.

Time heals all wounds, it is said, but how much

no one has ever quantified the dosage

or how medication is taken for various ills.

 

Then sight of a red leaf makes me smile, unexpectedly.

Brightness of color was reported unlikely.

Our dry summer had been said to preclude this.

Apparently Mother Nature didn’t read that story.

 

Rod Reeves  05 Oct  2013

 

Autumn Melody

   

 Indian Summer sings

in tones of red and gold

geese drum overhead

with a steady beat of wings

curled leaves tap cadence

as they roll along the path

humming bees seek

a last elusive sip

 

cawing crows discover

fallen bits of corn

finches chirp and sway

atop ripened heads of grain 

river waters gurgle

caressing exposed snags

rustling leaves whisper

of longer days before 

Indian Summer sings

of time and change and rest

until the song is silenced

by sleep and drifting snow

               

 by gesene oak October 2013

 

Prosperity 

A long-legged woman stands at the bow of her boat,

face warmed by rising sun. Silver streaks glint in her

light brown hair; sunbeams dance in the morning glow.

 Nimble as a dancer she slips over the side,

rising and falling in undulating waves,

she sinks into her kayak.

With a mermaid’s grace she paddles toward the

white sand beach, frosted thick with pink and purple

seashells that stretches to the brink of the world. 

She listens to the shells, so deep they tinkle like

a thousand wind chimes with each retreating wave.

 

She hunts.

She gathers.

She explores

the beach all day

fills a hand woven bag

with gifts from the sea,

until afternoon’s slant light soon warns

the setting sun will stoke the horizon a brilliant

backdrop of fiery color; and night will fall…deep... dark. 

The woman catches the first wave,

the smallest in a cycle of seven,

and smoothly paddles her kayak

toward the anchored sailboat home. 

She spreads pink and purple shells across

the bow and admires each shape and hue,

then picks just one, that calls her name,

and slips the others gently over the side

returning them to the sea.  

The woman has everything she needs.

And she knows, what she needs is, enough.

 

By Nancy Leigh Harless- Written 2006 for her life-long mermaid friend, Janet who taught me so much about living.   ~ N L Harless