“The Forgotten Ones”
We
the forgotten ones
have just gone a day or two on a diet of rug fibers,
old cheerios and hardened raisins that your demon spawn could not be bothered to pick up.
Yet, you
the forgetters,
feel we should pay rent
to cover the cost of the most disgusting expensive cat food
we’ve ever eaten.
It's about time you realize that
We earn our keep.
Exhibit A:
When
you make hollow threats to your youngest demon to the effect of
“Leave the cat alone!”
“Leave the cat alone!”
or
“Kiwi doesn’t want to be touched
Or
(the ever-effective:)
“Don’t pull her tail,”
and then walk
out of the room
with the knowledge that your youngest demon is occupied for the moment,
you expect us to babysit free of charge.
Exhibit B:
When
you allow that same little animal obsessed toddler
to say “goodnight kitty” 62 times
while she is crushing one of our lungs and squeezing the other’s precious tail
with the knowledge that she could be hurting us:
we call this mean-cat-owner-syndrome.
You should look into treatment.
Exhibit C:
When
you search for your demon spawn
only to find them harassing one of us
you say
“Oh he’s just playing with the cat”
and then walk away
to check your phone,
we call this severe cat neglect.
Exhibit D:
When the squeezer-biter-demon
belly crawls under your bed
to pull our tails
and you say "oh they love the attention,"
we call that everything-that-is-wrong-with-this-world.
So what if our litter box smells because we don’t know how to cover things up?
So what if we gallop down the hallway between midnight and 2 a.m.?
So what if we crash land on your stomachs just as you are falling asleep?
So what if we howl in the face of any closed door?
So what if we drink from your water glasses the minute you turn your backs?
So what if we play with the noisiest Christmas ornaments at 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday?
Serves you right.
Consider this:
We are the babysitters who don’t charge.
We are the babysitters who don’t charge.
We endure torture on a daily basis.
Does anyone hug your face for extended periods of time?
We didn’t think so.
We didn’t think so.
Not only that.
But,
we keep your bed warm
and we love you
despite the hard evidence
that you have forgotten us.
“The Paper Clip”
My son the teller of tall tales
tells me his sister has swallowed the paper clip
when I saw her out of the corner of my eye
throw one out.
He says, “she scooped it up, “
He cups his hands.
“And swallowed it.”
I picture the plastic coated paper clip
traveling down her esophagus, falling into her stomach,
and I briefly wonder -
would she poop it out?
“Cat scratch”
“Did she scratch you?” he asks gently.
He kisses her face, the scratch on her nose
a defensive cut from the “good girl, kitty.”
Her eyelashes flutter.
She leans in to his kiss, into his big-brother-body.
Her protector.
She smiles so broadly,
her lips have reached the end of her face.
“Mommy, can you?”
Each day:
“Mommy...
Can you not go to work tomorrow?
Can you button this?
Can you unbutton this?
Can you bring me home a treat?
Can you read this?
Can you come in to see us in the morning?
Can you kiss me while I’m sleeping? Like this?
Can you tuck me in?
Can you follow me out to the living room?
Can you watch me while I pee?
Can you watch me while I pee?
Can you go to the garage with me?
Can you get me that remote control car? The one up there?
Can you kiss my boo boo? It’s on my foot.
Can you stay home tomorrow?”
Each day:
Mommy prays for Friday.
“There is poetry”
Yes. That’s what I do.
On the last day of school before break?
Yes.
The last period?
Yes.
Oh Wow.
Poetry is wow.
It’s beautiful and moving and touching and soothing.
And we are sharing it.
You are welcome to join us.
Students walking, reading, talking
through a gallery of poetry.
These past two weeks
have been an eye opening examination of
everything that I’m about: ideas, words, feelings, beliefs.
Poetry.
I live it.
I think in it.
I teach it.
I learned that there is poetry
in the way you take apart the words,
dissect them,
define them,
give them your own meaning.
And there is poetry
in the way you write
in response to something
you thought you’d have nothing to connect to.
But there is so much there that you didn't see.
At first.
And still there is poetry
in what you eventually saw,
what you heard and discovered
underneath the veil of the stanzas,
beneath the speaker's words.
They began to speak to you.
Those lines of verse.
“looked down one as far as I could”
“all the dark blue speed drained out of it”
“engrave them on your hearts”
“how your heart pounds inside me”
“I never liked you - not one bit”
“so he opens his throat to sing”
“did you know that a day is longer than a year”
“me: I’m weeping”
There is poetry in the way
some of us have been inspired.
Me: writing poetry at my kitchen counter.
Me: falling asleep reading Billy Collins; waking up thinking about Emily Dickinson.
You: writing poetry as we are reading poetry
You: writing poetry when you don’t even realize you are.
You: appreciating poetry (even secretly liking it)
"I woke up and poured out a poem"
You can take the girl out of the city
and - contrary to popular belief -
you can take the city out of the girl.
I don’t care what they say.
The F train doesn’t live in my heart;
I never long for the Q38 on windy days.
I don’t wake up yearning for gum spotted sidewalks
or well landscaped parks.
instead,
I yearn for the wild
the untouched woods
a fern covered hillside
flowing, gurgling waterfalls on either side of the windy, hilly road
a sunset over the Shawangunk ridge.
I don’t miss gated windows
and triple locked doors.
I never have an inkling for honking horns on endless repeat.
I don’t miss lamp-lined streets lighting up the way home in an orange gold haze.
I only want unadulterated darkness
in which you can tip your head back
and stare at the clear sky,
and the stars
on endless repeat.
in awe
on endless repeat.
I only want earth shattering silence
so I can sleep in peace and quiet
in my house in the mountains.
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