Collected Writing: in History, Philosophy and Theology; Poetry, Politics and Commentary, Given in Prose and Verse
There is a knocking sound coming from the refrigerator
I listen to the heavy breathing of my cat
Curled up behind me on the couch
Resting on her white blanket
Maybe she knows I am writing about her
She lifts her head up and squints
Maybe it is the noise coming from the kitchen
The knocking noises mimic the scurrying of mice
Random, faint, clicks and scratches
Like a voice calling to kitty
Get up and play.
Observation
It is dark in the room
The lamp by my desk has gone out
I am writing, typing
In the glow of the computer screen
Backlit by another lamp
On the end-table by the couch
Behind me, the talk from the TV
Contains shades of treason
The orange-man has pulled
The curtain from its rungs
He meant to cover his naked ambitions
He revealed the fragile
Crumbling facade of America
Plutocracy, we are governed by Hades
Lord of the underworld
And his host of kleptocrats
Thieves like orange-rats
Scurrying for crumbs
My cat sits on her blue chair
She is bored of her string
I can hear her breathing, soft purring
She would make short work of them
The neighbor’s door opens
Across the hall
Someone exists
A car starts in the cold, outside
A plane flies overhead
To the airport, landing
The city is full of revelers
Tomorrow is the Super Bowl
Observation
It is cool in the house
The cool of early September, it will give way
To warmth in the day, then dissipate
There is ragweed in the air
The pollen is scratching my throat
Raking my sinuses, my head is pounding
The phlox outside my kitchen window
Bears the softest tone, a shade of matted fuchsia
Rising against the cedar fence
My cat is sleeping on her blanket
Her tawny gray head resting on her soft white paw
The streets are quiet
It was dark, deep dark
In the middle of the night
The witching hour passed
My cat is sleeping
She is curled up on her chair
She does little else
There is a rattle
Noises come from the upstairs
The house is creaking
A car rolls past, bass
Booming down the avenue
The bars have let out
I woke too early
I came to my desk to write
My fingers tapping
The morning sun is streaming in through my kitchen window
Reflecting off a stack of boxes against my book case
The morning sun is bright, and flashing
The day promises to be sunny hot
There is a for sign in the yard next to the sidewalk
It says for sale
I anticipate the footfall of strangers
Walking through my domicile
There are transition coming, I can see them
My cat is sleeping blissfully
Unaware
It is 5:00 am and the city is stirring.
I have been awake for a few hours writing.
My cat is sleeping in the window,
Half lidded and watching.
There are rabbits on the lawn in the frosted morning.
The news is of the Attorney General lying,
Lying to the Senate under oath.
My lady is on the couch drinking coffee.
We are talking about the news, and wondering,
Is there a place for justice at the table in March.
Observation
It is 4:00 pm, and the rain is freezing.
The rain covers everything in a thickening layer of ice, a slurry of slush and snow.
It was warm today, but the temperature is falling, dropping below zero.
There are people outside, they have no shelter.
Some will not make it through the night.
I am warm in my house.
My cat does not give a care for the world, except to see through the window a bird, a rabbit, or a squirrel.
Observation
It is morning. Dark in Autumn.
The house is stirring.
I hear the creaking of footsteps on the floor boards above me.
The news anchors chattering on the T.V.
There is one week to go before the election, a new president. There is fear, and uncertainty in the country.
She and I are talking about our changing lives.
She talks just as much to me, as to the cat, sitting behind me on the blanket on the chair.
Outside, the maples have dropped their leaves, a bright yellow carpet laid over the yard.
Today the sun is promised.
Observation
It is noon, the autumn sun is bright,
And silver.
My cat is sitting on her blanket in the window;
Soaking the soft light into her soft tawny fur.
The news talkers are chattering as I type;
Trump, trumpet, strumpet, hype.
I am tired; from three weeks straight of working.
My sweetheart is in the garden; weeding.
I hear her talking with neighbors as they stroll by.
