Quiet Cat

In this, the wide tumbling wake
of suffering’s ship,
there bobs the newsman,
with the machine gun smile,
and the net pot-stirrer,
whose manic guile
thrills to trigger and engage.
They have us beat our chests at dutiful pace,
while the wedge of woes they drive divides,
and turns both parted sides
to hate, and rage.

There is no respite
even in the velvet deeps of sleep
where, amid the churn of day-spun things,
we might yet coax the quiet cat come lay,
across our laps and, deep-vibrating,
purr our fears away.

Night-forest black, cautious, fey,
it gazes, curious, upon the fires,
and at the ghoulish dances of our kind,
then turns its head, and stalks away.
None sees it come or go, but it’s our fate
that all shall feel the void it leaves behind.

____________

(Photo by Denishan Joseph on Pexels.com)

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How long shall it be?

 

How sudden-keen am I aware,
And never as before,
Of a radiance arising,
To shine from every pore.

Your breath alone, I’d long to feel
Its tingle on my skin,
While visions of your tenderness,
Turn butterflies within.

You are the very best I’m sure,
A man could aspire to.
No, there’s never been another,
Quite as beautiful as you.

They all shall fade to shadows now,
Insignificant and plain.
How perfect would my life then be,
If you only knew my name.

How joyful and how rich at last,
My days would then become.
If you would only turn and look at me,
I’d feel I had begun.

I’d sense a movement in the air,
That all was not the same,
That the world was not so empty,
As it was before you came.

Was it not the world that gifted me,
This simple heart to crave?
Why then must I feel its pity,
Carved in verse upon my grave?

I want the world to know me,
As I think I have been made,
As a man whose love for loveliness,
Cannot bide long in the shade.

So look at me and speak my name,
And know that I am yours,
Or shall you pass me by again,
And let slam shut the door?

And slamming shut, loud let it ring,
Then how long shall it be,
Before I can accept at last,
You were not meant for me?

MG

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The Ebb Tide

The tide ebbs,
And leaves nothing.
I scan the beach
For bits of interesting flotsam;
Things that might sparkle in the sun,
And which, from a distance
Look promising.

I imagine rare jewels,
Or a twist of something golden in the sand,
And scamper after each,
To discover amid the tangle
Of fly swarmed detritus,
Only junk;
Uninspiring;
Worthless as the world.

It goes out a long way here;
Miles and miles of slime-mud,
A disturbing plane of nothingness.
How naked and alone,
At ebb tide,
I am revealled,
Void even of the illusion
Of my robes of idle fancy.

Is it true then?
That beneath the jolly roll
Of light-danced waves,
There is hidden nothing but the sly clams sucked deep,
And the rotting carcases of those
Who swam too near
A barren shore?

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