Jake

For anyone who ever reads anything I write on my blog, or on Facebook, you know all about Jake. Jake is my incorrigible cat, who has been documented in innumerable photos over the past 12 years--usually in strange places and/or positions. As one friend commented, "If I fits, I sits." That was Jake's motto from day one.

There are a bunch of stories that Jake has figured in over the years. Just recently, I related one where he alerted to something we hadn't noticed: a squirrel swimming for his life in an ice tub on our patio. (We saved the squirrel) Another was a photo-story of Jake's love/hate relationship with Carlotta-- a neighborhood cat/seductress who would tempt Jake at our living room window till he was jumping out of his skin. Yet, when he pressed his nose against the window, she hissed at him and walked away. Love was cruel.

He used to hide behind the screen of my laptop and try to catch my fingers as I typed. When a photographer came from the Washington Post, no less, to photograph me for an article on my appointment as poet laureate, Jake decided that he should be featured. As I posed in front of an impressive bookcase, Jake slipped into the room and leapt to the shelf behind me. The photographer cried, "Yes! Yes! Perfect!" and snapped the picture. Need I say who looked best in that shot?

In any case, it has always been clear who was running things in our house. Whether it was catering to his finicky tastes, disguising his medicine in crab or shrimp, or figuring out who had first claim to the real estate at the foot of the bed,  we generally knew Jake would have his way.

And now...now,  Jake isn't himself anymore. He does a lot of sleeping, very little eating, and a lot of throwing up. The vet says he has cancer, and the sonogram backs her up. He has had a shot of steroids that makes him a bit more comfortable, and he is eating, at least today. But we all know this is temporary. We brought him home for the weekend, but have decided that the kindest thing we can do for Jake is to let him go. Life is not so great for him now, and it only promises to get worse. I love him enough not to want that for him.

So, until his appointment on Tuesday, he has unlimited access to my lap, a place near my feet in the bed, as much shrimp he can eat--and I won't even yell at him as he criss-crosses his way down the steps in front of me in the morning. I'll miss him.

(And this is one of his poems..and a couple pictures. I'm still looking for the one in the crockpot, and so many more. He should have his own album.)

Working from Home

Today, when the office-bound

embark on their trek through

a wilderness of cars,

I grab a cup of tea and head for my first meeting.

Jake (my silent partner) and I

evaluate the tasks for the day

and devise a plan of action.

 

deal with the financials,

communicate with principals,

assess the status and needs

of ongoing projects

and alter timelines as needed.

Jake naps.

Today, when the office-bound

work through lunch,

scrambling to meet deadlines,

Jake and I move on to

supply and maintenance,

taking inventory, making lists,

selecting and transporting,

applying new techniques

and old-fashioned effort

to the job.

At least, I do. Jake gazes out the window,

considering product development:

the invention of a squirrel repellent,

or an electrified birdbath

to annihilate the competition.

This evening, while the office folk

celebrate productive days,

take stock of losses,

and plot tomorrow’s course

at various happy-hours,

Jake and I, in our well-ordered house,

consider our accomplishments  

and congratulate ourselves

on jobs well-done:

he with Friskies Party Mix,

me with my glass of wine.

Not--Spring

Hell is April snow

and winter coats that should have been retired a month ago

and hats and mittens and boots that should be

packed away by now for the summer.

Hell is 'should be' but not quite yet.

Hell is colorless gardens

devoid of spring flowers,

with frozen fountains, and disoriented birds,

torn between flying south again

or building nests,

baffled squirrels and my indecision:

what SHOULD I wear this morning?

Should I turn on the heat—

or open the windows?

Is spring dragging its feet around the corner,

or has it passed us by?

April is the cruelest month,

and hell is not-spring.

Impossibilities

There is a bird
overcome with spring
building a nest outside my window,
in the pear tree bright with bloom.
He is struggling
with a strip of tissue,
white as snow against
the snowflake blossoms
and his midnight feathers.
He twists and turns and flutters
through the branches,
managing his find.
(It must fit somewhere.)
He fails and it drifts away
but he, determined,
retrieves it, pokes and prods
and wraps and winds
with beak and claw--
only to lose it yet again.

O Bird,
of whatever name,
let it go.
The garden is full of tissue
and treasure, of twigs and leaves
that will serve as well.
I should know.
Pounding square pegs into
hopelessly round holes
is what I do.
But hopeful spring knows no reason
in man or bird. Who knows?
It might work yet.
In April, everything is possible.

Poetry Month: April 2018

It's not that April produces
great poems. It doesn't.
Instead, we celebrate the idea
of a month for poetry:
for setting aside
(if only for moments a day)
the perspective
from which we view our worlds.
We cock our heads
at a slightly different angle
and sniff the air for words
that speak in unfamiliar accents.
We listen for the snatch of music,
the melodies we use
to choreograph our days.

The poetry is always there;
April is when we taste it.

Notes on Birthdays

The years don’t matter;

not the number,

be it large or small. It matters

not where you are (or aren’t)

on this very personal day:

a day for celebration

of the you you’ve come to be.

This day is one of recognition

of people and places,

surroundings and treasures,

that made your everyday

for whatever years.

You are not GETTING older,

But growing.

Always. Every hour, every day,

toward the apogee

of you-ness:

the star inside your soul.