It's National Haiku Day!

I still hate my job
Gets on my nerves really bad
But it pays the rent.

Poetry Monday Redux

"may i feel said he" by e. e. cummings


may i feel said he
(i’ll squeal said she
just once said he)
it’s fun said she

(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she

(let’s go said he
not too far said she
what’s too far said he
where you are said she)

may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
it is love said she)
if you’re willing said he
(but you’re killing said she

but it’s life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she

(tiptop said he
don’t stop said she
oh nn said he)
go slow said she

(cccome?said he
ummm said she
you’re divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)


I am trying to download a copy of this being read by Tom Hiddleston....ooh, that voice...

It's National Haiku Day!

Nightshade and Malkin

Furry, purry little pests

I love them so much.

The books that I own

Are all over my small house...

Reader's paradise!

I'm VERY hungry.

Mongolian Bacon? YUM!

Will you bring me some?

Crap! Time to go work.

Officers and Criminals...

Where are my happy pills?

Disposable Girl - or - My Anti-Valentine

Welcome to Worldwide "Make Lonely People Feel Like Crap" Day, or as it's more commonly known, Valentine's Day. The day that scars children for life when teachers have to institute the "bring everyone in the class a valentine or don't particiapte rule" and they still wind up with a small handful of the ugly valentines left in the package. (true story. 35 kids in my class one year and I got 7 valentines despite the teacher's rule. 6 of them were the same missprinted, off-kilter one. Not only did we all buy the same assortment, but they apparently came from the same batch. The lone halfway nice one was from my teacher) The day that makes grown women take to their beds with a migraine when they listen to their paired-up friends gush over their romantic plans. The day that none of the lousy bastards I ever dated wanted to celebrate if we were dating at the time it rolled around. I would have settled for a lousy card and a hug and didn't get either.

Not that I'm bitter.

Ok, I'm bitter.


Anyway, my last long-term relationship ended a couple of years ago. Beast & I were sort of together off and on for a dozen or so years. During which he married 2 other women. We'd stop speaking altogether while he was married, he'd get divorced, and we'd pick back up where we left off. Both times I found out about the marriages from his company's website and/or mutual friends who were surprised I knew nothing about it. Yes, I was that stupid, naive, and thought I was in love. I finally walked away after the last marriage, depsite reports from friends that the marriage was in trouble almost as soon as they said "I do." Because even if he decided he didn't, he'd never commit to me. And I finally realized I deserved better than that.

So here's a poem/song I wrote last year after he called me. Just to say hi, you know. For the record, I hung up as soon as I realized it was him.

Disposable Girl

I'm just the poor girl who begged you to stay
I gave you my heart and you threw it away
You laughed at my tears, as they shimmered like pearls
There's no room in your heart for disposable girls...

I'm a no-one from nowhere, who didn't understand
That the cool ones like you would never take my hand
If I stayed in the shadows I could bask in your light
But you'd never say you loved me because "It wouldn't look right."

I'm just the poor girl who begged you to stay

I gave you my heart and you threw it away
You laughed at my tears, as they shimmered like pearls
There's no room in your heart for disposable girls...

Too tall, too dark, too fat, and too loud
I didn't belong with your privileged crowd
I was your dirty secret, tucked safely away
A bird on a wire, waiting for 'someday'

I'm just the poor girl who begged you to stay

I gave you my heart and you threw it away
You laughed at my tears, as they shimmered like pearls
There's no room in your heart for disposable girls...

Oh the lies that you told me and the promises never kept
Did you ever consider the tears that I wept?
The love you held back from me, for which I so yearned
Was a flame for this moth, and oh did it burn...

You chased after others and still I remained
Waiting in the darkness with the heart you disdained
But nothing is forever, and I took a chance-
When given the choice you left with no backwards glance.

I'm just the poor fool who begged you to stay
You crumpled my heart & threw it away
You ignored my tears as they shimmered like pearl
Now there's no room for you in the life of this disposable girl.

I Could Pee on This and other poems by cats- Francesco Marciuliano

Bwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha....THUD.

That was me laughing so hard I fell out of my chair. The poems in this small collection aren't epic works, or highbrow enlightenment. What they are is almost exactly what I would expect a cat to say if it could write poetry. The following two exceprts are from the book and not by any means my own work. I suspect, however, that my cats had a hand in writing them.

Kubla Kat

“On the edge of a laughing teacup

Did Kubla Kat decree

The the corn fritter festooned with medals

Shall make the brownies free

And so the walls turned to water

To let our sorrows drown

As the chairs burned themselves for warmth

So they need not face the clown

Then the spoons burst into song

And all the forks they understood

As I stared at my talking claws

Becasue this catnip is just that good”       and   Busy, Busy   “It's 8a.m. and time to rest

It's 10a.m. and time to relax

It's noon and time for repose

It's 3p.m. and time for shut-eye

It's 6p.m. and time for siesta

It's 9p.m. and time to slumber

It's midnight and time to snooze

It's 4a.m. and time to hang upside down from your bedroom ceiling, screaming.”

BookSpeak- Laura Purdie Salas

This is a great little book of poetry that explores the world of books and reading. There are poems about book covers, the characters that populate the books we read, what might happen in a bookstore after hours, and more. The illustraions are a melange of  hand-drawn work, digital images, and clipped art. Very charming, and just as much fun for adults as for kids.

Poetry Monday

New-Year’s Eve And New-Year’s Day


GOOD bye, Old Year!

And with thee take

Thanks for the gifts to every land

Thou broughtest in thy bounteous hand,

And all that thou hast taught to hearts thy lingering steps forsake.



Good bye, Old Year!

The Past awaiteth thee,

Who ruleth in her power alone

The kingdom of Oblivion.

Silent she sits in ebon chair;

Falling mists of dusky hair

Veil her dark eyes' glorious shine,

Full of wise help, and truth divine.

Silent, unless a fitful sound,

As from some cavern underground,

Steal from her lips; the company

Of ancient Years that round her be,

Then chanting, one by one, give tongue

To old experience in their song.



Good bye, Old Year!

Thou goest forth alone,

As we shall do: thy pages gay,

Seasons and months who round thee play,

Attend thee to Earth's farthest verge, then back! to greet thy son.



Hail, New-born Year!

Cradled in morning clouds

Golden and white. I cannot see

Thy face--'tis wrapp'd in mystery;

But Spring for thee is painting flowers,

And Summer decks her woven bowers;

Rich Autumn's sheaves will soon be reap'd,

With store of fruits in sunbeams steep'd,

And one by one with gentle hand folds back thy sunlit shrouds.



Hail, New-born Year!

Shining and beautiful.

Thou wilt step forth in plenitude

Of youth and its rejoicing mood.

Last child of the half-century,

And time of coming victory

Over the spirits of night and sin,

Whose howlings of defeat begin:

Thou bringest hope, and labour bless'd

In visions of successful rest,

Bringest great thoughts, and actions wrought

In fire upon that forge of thought,

And with the soul of earnestness I think thy youths are full.



Hail, New-born Year!

My utterance is too weak

To tell of all I think thou bringest,

To echo back the song thou singest;

But the very winds of Heaven, for those who listen to them, speak.

Bessie Rayner Parkes

Poetry Monday

Stonehenge



Why stand you there proud megaliths?


So stony faced and grim.


All back to back and looking out


Hiding the truth within.






Your folded arms and old grey eyes,


And deeply rooted feet,


So long defied your enemies


You have no friendly greet.






We all walk round out of your reach,


Except those trained few


Who you allow to come inside,


‘Cause they’re as grey as you






I wonder if you have forgot?


You are so very old.


If time has supped your memories,


And your story stays untold.






Paddy J. P. Harris

Poetry Monday

A Rose Has Thorns As Well As Honey



A rose has thorns as well as honey,


I'll not have her for love or money;


An iris grows so straight and fine,


That she shall be no friend of mine;


Snowdrops like the snow would chill me;


Nightshade would caress and kill me;


Crocus like a spear would fright me;


Dragon's-mouth might bark or bite me;


Convolvulus but blooms to die;


A wind-flower suggests a sigh;


Love-lies-bleeding makes me sad;


And poppy-juice would drive me mad: -


But give me holly, bold and jolly,


Honest, prickly, shining holly;


Pluck me holly leaf and berry


For the day when I make merry.






Christina Georgina Rossetti

Poetry Monday

Homage to My Hips



these hips are big hips.


they need space to


move around in.


they don't fit into little


petty places. these hips


are free hips.


they don't like to be held back.


these hips have never been enslaved,


they go where they want to go


they do what they want to do.


these hips are mighty hips.


these hips are magic hips.


i have known them


to put a spell on a man and


spin him like a top






Lucille Clifton

Poetry Monday

My Love Is Like To Ice



My love is like to ice, and I to fire:


How comes it then that this her cold so great


Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,


But harder grows the more I her entreat?


Or how comes it that my exceeding heat


Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold,


But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,


And feel my flames augmented manifold?


What more miraculous thing may be told,


That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice,


And ice, which is congeal's with senseless cold,


Should kindle fire by wonderful device?


Such is the power of love in gentle mind,


That it can alter all the course of kind.






Edmund Spenser

Poetry Monday

I Sit and Think



I sit beside the fire and think


of all that I have seen,


of meadow-flowers and butterflies


in summers that have been;






Of yellow leaves and gossamer


in autumns that there were,


with morning mist and silver sun


and wind upon my hair.






I sit beside the fire and think


of how the world will be


when winter comes without a spring


that I shall never see.






For still there are so many things


that I have never seen:


in every wood in every spring


there is a different green.






I sit beside the fire and think


of people long ago,


and people who will see a world


that I shall never know.






But all the while I sit and think


of times there were before,


I listen for returning feet


and voices at the door.






John Ronald Reuel Tolkien

Poetry Monday

Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf



As soon as Wolf began to feel


That he would like a decent meal,


He went and knocked on Grandma's door.


When Grandma opened it, she saw


The sharp white teeth, the horrid grin,


And Wolfie said, 'May I come in?'


Poor Grandmamma was terrified,


'He's going to eat me up!' she cried.


And she was absolutely right.


He ate her up in one big bite.


But Grandmamma was small and tough,


And Wolfie wailed, 'That's not enough!


I haven't yet begun to feel


That I have had a decent meal!'


He ran around the kitchen yelping,


'I've got to have a second helping!'






Then added with a frightful leer,


'I'm therefore going to wait right here


Till Little Miss Red Riding Hood


Comes home from walking in the wood.'






He quickly put on Grandma's clothes,


(Of course he hadn't eaten those).


He dressed himself in coat and hat.


He put on shoes, and after that,


He even brushed and curled his hair,


Then sat himself in Grandma's chair.






In came the little girl in red.


She stopped. She stared. And then she said,


'What great big ears you have, Grandma.'


'All the better to hear you with,'


the Wolf replied.


'What great big eyes you have, Grandma.'


said Little Red Riding Hood.


'All the better to see you with,'


the Wolf replied.


He sat there watching her and smiled.


He thought, I'm going to eat this child.


Compared with her old Grandmamma,


She's going to taste like caviar.






Then Little Red Riding Hood said, '


But Grandma, what a lovely great big


furry coat you have on.'






'That's wrong!' cried Wolf.


'Have you forgot


To tell me what BIG TEETH I've got?


Ah well, no matter what you say,


I'm going to eat you anyway.'






The small girl smiles. One eyelid flickers.


She whips a pistol from her knickers.


She aims it at the creature's head,


And bang bang bang, she shoots him dead.






A few weeks later, in the wood,


I came across Miss Riding Hood.


But what a change! No cloak of red,


No silly hood upon her head.


She said, 'Hello, and do please note


My lovely furry wolfskin coat.'






Roald Dahl

Poetry Monday

Sick



'I cannot go to school today, '


Said little Peggy Ann McKay.


'I have the measles and the mumps,


A gash, a rash and purple bumps.


My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,


I'm going blind in my right eye.


My tonsils are as big as rocks,


I've counted sixteen chicken pox


And there's one more-that's seventeen,


And don't you think my face looks green?


My leg is cut-my eyes are blue-


It might be instamatic flu.


I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,


I'm sure that my left leg is broke-


My hip hurts when I move my chin,


My belly button's caving in,


My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,


My 'pendix pains each time it rains.


My nose is cold, my toes are numb.


I have a sliver in my thumb.


My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,


I hardly whisper when I speak.


My tongue is filling up my mouth,


I think my hair is falling out.


My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,


My temperature is one-o-eight.


My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,


There is a hole inside my ear.


I have a hangnail, and my heart is-what?


What's that? What's that you say?


You say today is...Saturday?


G'bye, I'm going out to play! '






Shel Silverstein

Poetry Monday

The Pig



In England once there lived a big


And wonderfully clever pig.


To everybody it was plain


That Piggy had a massive brain.


He worked out sums inside his head,


There was no book he hadn't read.


He knew what made an airplane fly,


He knew how engines worked and why.


He knew all this, but in the end


One question drove him round the bend:


He simply couldn't puzzle out


What LIFE was really all about.


What was the reason for his birth?


Why was he placed upon this earth?


His giant brain went round and round.


Alas, no answer could be found.


Till suddenly one wondrous night.


All in a flash he saw the light.


He jumped up like a ballet dancer


And yelled, "By gum, I've got the answer!"


"They want my bacon slice by slice


"To sell at a tremendous price!


"They want my tender juicy chops


"To put in all the butcher's shops!


"They want my pork to make a roast


"And that's the part'll cost the most!


"They want my sausages in strings!


"They even want my chitterlings!


"The butcher's shop! The carving knife!


"That is the reason for my life!"


Such thoughts as these are not designed


To give a pig great piece of mind.


Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,


A pail of pigswill in his hand,


And piggy with a mighty roar,


Bashes the farmer to the floor…


Now comes the rather grizzly bit


So let's not make too much of it,


Except that you must understand


That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,


He ate him up from head to toe,


Chewing the pieces nice and slow.


It took an hour to reach the feet,


Because there was so much to eat,


And when he finished, Pig, of course,


Felt absolutely no remorse.


Slowly he scratched his brainy head


And with a little smile he said,


"I had a fairly powerful hunch


"That he might have me for his lunch.


"And so, because I feared the worst,


"I thought I'd better eat him first."






Roald Dahl

Poetry Monday

Happy Halloween!

The Vampire



by Madison Julius Cawein










A lily in a twilight place?


A moonflow'r in the lonely night?—


Strange beauty of a woman's face


Of wildflow'r-white!






The rain that hangs a star's green ray


Slim on a leaf-point's restlessness,


Is not so glimmering green and gray


As was her dress.






I drew her dark hair from her eyes,


And in their deeps beheld a while


Such shadowy moonlight as the skies


Of Hell may smile.






She held her mouth up redly wan,


And burning cold,—I bent and kissed


Such rosy snow as some wild dawn


Makes of a mist.






God shall not take from me that hour,


When round my neck her white arms clung!


When 'neath my lips, like some fierce flower,


Her white throat swung!






Or words she murmured while she leaned!


Witch-words, she holds me softly by,—


The spell that binds me to a fiend


Until I die.

Poetry Monday

A good lead in to Halloween, I think....

The Highwayman



The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,


The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,


The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,


And the highwayman came riding--


Riding--riding--


The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.






He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;


He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.


They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!


And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--


His rapier hilt a-twinkle--


His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.






Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,


He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,


He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there


But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--


Bess, the landlord's daughter--


Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.






Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked


Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--


His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,


But he loved the landlord's daughter--


The landlord's black-eyed daughter;


Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:






"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,


But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.


Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,


Then look for me by moonlight,


Watch for me by moonlight,


I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."






He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,


But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand


As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,


Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight


(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),


And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.






He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.


And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,


When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,


The redcoat troops came marching--


Marching--marching--


King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.






They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,


But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.


Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;


There was Death at every window,


And Hell at one dark window,


For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.






They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!


They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!


"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,


"Look for me by moonlight,


Watch for me by moonlight,


I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."






She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!


She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!


They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,


Till, on the stroke of midnight,


Cold on the stroke of midnight,


The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!






The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;


Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.


She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,


For the road lay bare in the moonlight,


Blank and bare in the moonlight,


And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.






Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;


Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?


Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,


The highwayman came riding--


Riding--riding--


The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.






Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!


Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!


Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,


Then her finger moved in the moonlight--


Her musket shattered the moonlight--


Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.






He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood


Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!


Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear


How Bess, the landlord's daughter,


The landlord's black-eyed daughter,


Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.






Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,


With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!


Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat


When they shot him down in the highway,


Down like a dog in the highway,


And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.






And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,


When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,


When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,


The highwayman comes riding--


Riding--riding--


The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.






Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,


He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,


He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there


But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--


Bess, the landlord's daughter--


Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.






Alfred Noyes

Poetry Monday

Is The Moon Tired? She Looks So Pale



Is the moon tired? she looks so pale


Within her misty veil:


She scales the sky from east to west,


And takes no rest.


Before the coming of the night


The moon shows papery white;


Before the dawning of the day


She fades away.






Christina Georgina Rossetti