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October 8, 2016

At three a.m. the bed becomes
A trampoline and calisthenics ensue.
Cats prowl in the night.

It is their way.

We rescue, feed, pet, and love.
They attack our hands
In vicious, savage play.
(Tiny tigers practicing for the hunt.)

Triangle-velvet ears are perked,
And round eyes lock with yours.
Sleep can come at another time.


This is Poem #176 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state. 

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Describe the Wallpaper on Computer – Include an Illusion to the Summer June 20, 2016

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The best part of my summer

Vacation was the idea of her

entering our lives – not

 

At all what I’d thought

I’d wanted. “Get pets,” they

Always say. “They’ll help

You practice for the bigger

 

Deaths in your life.”

 

When Chris died,

On the bathroom floor,

Scrawny and writing

Like a broken accordion,

 

I’d promised no replacement.

Then, she presented herself-

 

Afraid of the outdoors,

Chaser of elastic bands,

Voice of greeting in the morning.

 

Diva on the couch – 

who wakes with the birds,

who nest on the front porch in the warmth

and startle in surprise

when her nose twitches

at their eggs.

 

You can train yourself

For bigger deaths, I 

Suppose. You can 

Find a new way out

Of tragedy when

 

The kitten reaches

Eight weeks and moves 

in with her food and cat toys. 

 

This is Poem #100 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state. 

I suppose it’s appropriate the milestone #100 is about cats and death.


May 24, 2016

She peeked from behind bars.

Her big, grey eyes,

Round tabby face,

Pink, kissable nose.

We took her

To our little, yellow cape

And she has stayed,

18 years our kitty.

Perpetually pregnant.

Round, roly-poly belly.

I will sit with her,

Grade papers. Fold laundry.

All day. 

This is Poem #81 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

As I type this, according to WHOM, pet owners are happier, more likely to exercise, earn $5,000+ more per year, and donate to charity more often. 

I wrote this poem when we lost our rally-polly kitty.

RIP Emmakins. xo 

May 17, 2016

Eventually her plumpness

Wains and all that made her

Fat Emma has left. 

 

Her spunk and fierce

Protectiveness. Her

Big, round, rolly-polly

 

Belly.  Now, she snores.

 

Weezes. 

 

But the purring

Is still

And she smiles

And eats.

 

Decision. 

 

This is Poem #79 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

April 23, 2016

catamount_pale_ale

Malt and Mothman,

Brewing for Bigfoot’s

Fame, Catamount

 

I’d drink it, just because

It had a cat on the label.

 

If you can remove

The label

From your beer

Without tearing it,

 

You’ll get laid that

Night. Mythology

And alcohol do

Mix.

 

This is Poem #63 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

This particular poem is part of a series inspired by my visit to The International Cryptozoology Museum in Portland, Maine. Some days I’d just point to a location on the museum map, and write from there.

easterncougar_960x400

 

She slank across

93 North – all hunches

And shadows in the dark.

 

No bear or dog

Boasts such shape

And movement on four paws.

 

Fish and Game won’t

Come clean

And admit she is here,

 

Guarding her kittens

In the White Mountains,

Feasting on deer

 

By the spring. She is too

Sly for security cameras.

Our own Big Foot in the midst

 

Of traffic jams and music

Festivals, beer tents,

and county fairs.

 

Someday, she will saunter

In, rollover to let us

Stroke her belly. Decide

If she wants us

For play

or for prey.

 

This is Poem #37 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

Crypto Map

The front page of The International Cryptozoology Museum’s floor map.

This particular poem is part of a series inspired by my visit to The International Cryptozoology Museum in Portland, Maine. Some days I’d just point to a location on the museum map above, and write from there.

 

I’m sure I’m not the only one who has seen a Mountain Lion roaming in New Hampshire. Have you seen her?

Woody butts his forehead

against ours. Number five

on the list of ways

our cats show they love us.

 

He sits on a tall stool

while we sip wine, eat

olives, and cook

our dinner -purring

 

and content in a life

where he’s lost his tail

and his balance. His

soft fur and calming

 

purrs make each

day bearable. Our pets,

little fur people,  some

say.  Curled between

our bodies in the night;

 

Dreaming kitten dreams

between nightmares.

I wake at 3 a.m. and

he’s there, still, soft,

 

reassuring. Marge

Piercy titled her memoir

Sleeping with Cats,

and there’s a reason.

 

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This is Poem #18 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

I appreciate your feedback as these poems are not “finished,” and I intend to go back into many of them in the future.

 

RIP Woody.

The old Victorian around the Arch

Hill Cemetery was my dream

Home – before they renovated

 

It – fixed the rotten

Clapboards in the tower

And painted it pink.

 

One day – I imagined –

I’d live there alone

from other humans but

 

With a gang of

Cats. The neighborhood

Children would be fearful

 

Of me in my worn, pink

Bathrobe and fuzzy slippers,

Wild hair, but some

 

Would slip in for homemade

Cookies and to sit with the cats

And my stories saved up inside.

 

This is Poem #11 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. These are second drafts of  pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state. Feel free to give critique.

I cannot get out

of the driveway. Blame

it on lost keys-

 

Hidden in some

jeans’ pocket, obscure

corner where I set

them down, or in

the Lost and Found

 

at the local bar.

Where I could drink

troubles dizzy if I

 

could only get there.

So, I’ll circle the house;

 

the cat chasing

her own tail

in a bathtub.

 

Looking in the same

places two or three

times – but to no avail.

 

They’ve not – those

keys to ignition –

magically resurfaced

 

since I last left

the room and the car’s

a powerless lump

 

of insufficient

engine, and metal

and glass – inescapable

 

in the side yard.

 

Poem #6 of the Poem (almost) Everyday Project. These are second drafts of  pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state. Feel free to give useful critique.

 

I am also reading Robert Bly’s  Morning Poems as I revisit the poems in this project and am finding it interesting to imagine and analyze the inspirations he found each morning as he wrote, as his project was one of my key inspirations.

 

 

This a.m.

The alarm bleeps

but you do not

wake. The cats

and I sit

in anticipation,

 

But the cough syrup

you’ve taken and the

earplugs you’ve inserted dull your

senses. Put up a

wall between

the world of

 

the sleeping and

the realm of the awake.

 

Sleep’s been dodgy

as of late. This morning

My turn to wake

at 3:30 a.m. in darkness.

 

Pinned like a butter-

fly to the matt-

rest. Cat on my hip.

Kitten at my

feet, and husband,

motionless, on

my other side.

 

This is poem #2 of the 2016 Poem almost everyday project.

 

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