Monday, April 08, 2013

Poem #8 for National Poetry Month.
Cleaning my office I found some poetry and a half written one. I submit the one I began as tonight's official poem.
I began writing this in February 2013 as I was looking at a baby picture of my son sitting on his Father’s lap reading “Winnie-the-Pooh” together. My son is very attentive to it at about 9 months old. What we didn't know at the time that this picture was taken he was hyperlexic and autistic. I finished the poem today April 8, 2013. Poem #8


















Hopes for the Hundred Acre Wood
He doesn't like Pooh Bear as much as we do anymore
I sigh stating that he did
I remember a small face straining
 to see the words set out to bright pictures
so important the words became
the stories, the sound, the letters came first
so very intense
stunned by his brilliance
Pooh Bear is a bear of very little brain
He has friends to guide him
in his home-spun wisdom they gather round
each with a talent, adding to the mix
of friendship and loving each other
In your brilliance, will your peers gather round?
Or run away because they don’t
see the wise-beyond-your years and fearless honesty
Your single thought or monosyllable replies
Not flowery language
Simple like the bear
But with lots more brain
Just as much heart
And I hope Piglet, Rabbit, Owl, Kanga, and Roo gather round you
Plus a benevolent Christopher Robin too

Written sometime in February 2013 for Sasha kitty as he was dying and I struggled to put into words a warm ordinary moment with him. I wanted to remember, but this was less about him than I set out to write.
Let Sleeping Cats Lie
A warm spot that doesn’t move
Except for that stretch and sudden motor
That turns on after two hours hold
I wait until the water is threatening to burst forth
Wiggling gently from my perch
Only to find a numb limb that cannot move gracefully
Awkwardly, I drop you in your sleep to the floor
Trying not to step on your superior fluffy black tail
Threatening to trip on my voyage forward on fetid feet
Turning around till I turn to place my hand atop your soft head
As you try fervidly to get me to assay to the kitchen or my chair
But not the dreaded W.C. that holds no interest for you

Written May 24, 2001
Conscious
Painful sleep
Fitful waking
Where I wear a scratchy blanket
In the full sun of my dream state
Being full of nothing and everything
A bare soul ready to be flooded
With goodness gracious beings
Thinking existing lightness
Any walk shakes new snow from my old form
I melt too slow to know anything purposeful today
So I float away to a new place
To swim underwater
In the world of color and silence





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