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