Feline Flurry
I awoke with a start, to a whirling tempest of fur,
Paws and claws, smashed porcelain, in a maddening blur.
It was just shy of three, in the dark hours of morning.
Fragile slumber was obliterated, without warning.
Awaking I saw, with eyes unfocused with want of sleep,
Two brilliantly green eyes and a softly emitted peep.
Willing my desperate heart to stand still within my chest
As it ached and throbbed, pounding like a great drum without rest,
I assuaged my fearsome imagination with knowledge.
I felt familiarity as specter leapt from ledge.
I left the gentle caress of soft woolen blankets
And approached fallen figurines and delicate trinkets.
Thankfully, the damage was slight though the disarray great.
Jackets were strewn from one side of the room to the other,
Like an archipelago over a sea of floorboards,
Mapping my cat’s lengthy voyage from closet and forwards.
Still looking over fallen piles of books and small sculptures,
I sealed threading of damaged clothing with haphazard sutures.
I became aware of a quick series of scratching sounds.
I heard it from bookshelf to within bed frame, all around.
Just as the disturbance came, so did suspicious silence.
The quiet broken by the metallic tinkering suspense
Of a creature pawing at my dangling silver necklace.
I placed my sewing at hand near the end of my mattress
And wrapped my arms around the feral feline’s fluffy scruff,
Holding the scarcely tame beast, and whispering “that’s enough.”
I stroked her fine fur till it finally ceased to stand on end,
And knew that this twister’s rampage now did carefully suspend
And quit its wake of chaos, that I may at last get rest.
I swathed myself again in the thick blankets of my nest,
Convincing the settling cyclone to join me in slumber.
She approached, purring like the rumbling of distant thunder.
Relieved that the storm had passed, I embraced the bundle of fur,
Shutting my eyes, I wished that tomorrow’s sleep would endure,
The midnight adventures of my nocturnal companion,
And her imagined onslaught of a rodent battalion.
My Words Paint Portraits
Each word I say is a dab of paint over canvas,
A haphazard splattering or delicate brushstroke.
It’s my choice.
When I speak of others, I craft a portrait,
In any color that I like.
I can paint a raging, fiery red.
I can color with a brokenhearted blue.
I can be bold and brash.
I can be subtle and smooth.
Still, my colors are much too brazen.
My work is inherently flawed.
I paint with great globs for strangers
And finite details for friends.
The sullen fellow I met at the store,
Would best be a seething rouge.
That jealous girl a disgusting envious green.
Every word I say is a brushstroke,
Each shade my moral opinion,
Each hue my own emotions.
I admit it took me too long to realize
That I paint with my fingers.
Every color I decide to use,
Is liable to end up on my hands.
A Day of Rest Is Not So Bad
If you truly love yourself, do not repress yourself. If you arrest your own heart’s beating with chains and locks, ropes and straightjackets, how will you know its intents? On a somber day in January, when gray sleet cascades on your windows, when a sadness settles over you, do not try to fight it. Do not feel an ounce of shame, or a splinter of doubt for your emotions. On that solemn day, you want to lay in bed, cold and unmotivated, fatigued but restless. You feel a pang of guilt for what you deem as laziness, for wanting to stay bundled in the sheets of your bed. Do not. Do not feel guilty. Do not be upset with yourself. Do not ignore your soul wailing in your chest, to please, let it rest. You beat yourself with weeks upon weeks of strain, and punish and ridicule yourself for a day of emotional slumber. But why would you ever treat yourself with such negligence? Had your dear friend rapped at your door and implored that you speak with them, would you turn them away? When they admit to their melancholy or rage, do you tell them that their emotions are uncalled for, or perhaps trivial? Absolutely not, so why must you shun the person who knows every inch of your body and every secret you stash, every one of your mistakes, and all of your aspirations? You are only a sapling now, a tree waiting to grow in any direction you choose, and you will not grow without nourishment.
