The kitten seeks.
Warmth, play and feeding
fulfil his dreams.
He paws the page the child is reading
and prepares to pounce
on his own elusive shadow.
I am constantly putting him out.
Somehow the children know
and let him back in.
He is the star of his own show
as he flips, crouches, vaults.
But the terms are his;
he will not play ball...
unless the ball jingles.
He rests in the slimmest shaft of sunlight
or on a cosy lap.
On waking he stretches, wrestles and bites
and may curl into another nap.
This does not always suit the two girls.
I am reminded of another
three who just loved
waking their sleeping baby brother.
The irony, not lost on me;
the frustrations of a weary mother.
He purrs as if he houses
a tiny motor under his fleece
and a single mew rouses
actions to meet his every need.
Never doubt that this creature
is in charge;
He is your trainer and teacher,
you are just a pawn.
For all your adoration
you cannot reach the levels
befitting his station
so he simply worships himself.
He is only a pet to his own ends,
he cannot be bought;
he will eat and drink to his hearts content
then go without a grateful thought.
He will climb up high,
regardless of your rules,
and perch where he likes.
Small eyes are watching you
when the kitten hides.
Saturday, 1 December 2018
Thursday, 1 November 2018
Michael Walsh's Shoes
His first child was new,
he saw his feet go
to his father's shoes,
and his baby's toes
into his.
His father now stepped
to the pair from the time
the grandfather had left,
took his place in the line,
for now his.
I saw the pairs in my mind;
the ones not yet seen
and the ones that had died.
Pairs still to come and pairs that have been.
Tiny and shiny, knitted and fleece,
tattered and battered, slip-on and heeled,
leather and weathered, polished and laced,
safety and weighty, office and suede.
If a baby could choose
at the event of being born,
they could do worse than safe shoes
and a path that's well worn.
(In April 2017, I met my cousin, Michael Walsh, at another cousin's house. We weren't chatting about anything profound when Michael mentioned how he had felt when his first child was born; that he had seen himself moving into his father's shoes and leaving his free for the baby. I was in bits, I left with my eyes welling up. What a beautiful sentiment and such poetry, not from me!!!, in what was otherwise a normal chat.
he saw his feet go
to his father's shoes,
and his baby's toes
into his.
His father now stepped
to the pair from the time
the grandfather had left,
took his place in the line,
for now his.
I saw the pairs in my mind;
the ones not yet seen
and the ones that had died.
Pairs still to come and pairs that have been.
Tiny and shiny, knitted and fleece,
tattered and battered, slip-on and heeled,
leather and weathered, polished and laced,
safety and weighty, office and suede.
If a baby could choose
at the event of being born,
they could do worse than safe shoes
and a path that's well worn.
(In April 2017, I met my cousin, Michael Walsh, at another cousin's house. We weren't chatting about anything profound when Michael mentioned how he had felt when his first child was born; that he had seen himself moving into his father's shoes and leaving his free for the baby. I was in bits, I left with my eyes welling up. What a beautiful sentiment and such poetry, not from me!!!, in what was otherwise a normal chat.
Michael Walsh is the twin of Cath Walsh, one of two cousins who worked on the family tree with me. My poem, Rita's Silver Box, was written after all that work).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)