Monday, May 11, 2009

Miss Roxy Roo

I miss my favorite cat, Miss Roxey Roo.
I remember those early mornings,
her body draped across my shoulder.
The way she wagged her fluffy tail
that wrapped around my neck
and fanned my nose until those
super fine hairs sucked into my mouth
and into my nose with every inhale, buffed
my face 'til I spewed, scratched and sneezed.

She loved to prop her smooth, velvety,
Persian head on my comfortable pillow,
lifted and gleamed her lime-green eyes
then smacked her lips for her silent meow
to catch my smile through sleepy blue eyes.

I miss petting her long-black fur
wiggling my fingertip in the hole space between
her soft-padded paws, touching her pug nose,
wet like dew, marveling at her idling purr
which hummed a tune of contentment.

She pranced and held her tail up high,
that powder puff, my little Zsa Zsa.
She answered to her silly nicknames,
like "Putty McDutty" and "Little Spudnutty."
She came to my high whistle sounds.

My in/out girl who picked her food,
guarded the yard and scared large dogs.
Made acrobat stunts, grand somersaults,
like a moonstruck cat on a full-moon night.
She pounced my fingers between the cushions,
poked 'til I bled if I moved too slow.
Chased long strings I dragged through the house,
'til she got tired and plopped on the carpet.
Sat by windows and chattered at birds,
swung her head as they swooped from trees.

I remember one day...
she scampered, shameless into the kitchen,
brought in a bird covered in snow.
Yes, it flew behind the fridge, riled
the humans which excited her,
and made us late fixing dinner.

We played fun games like hide and seek.
Imagine me shuffling down the hall
on all fours as if I'm a cat –scuffed
my knees and hurt my wrists, turned
the corner to hide in my room.
I think she laughed along with me.

She followed me like a loyal shadow,
in the yard and around the house,
trailed behind me to the street corner.
I carried her back to the house,
cradled her lovingly in my arms
as if she were a sweet, little child.

I still miss my sweet little Roxy.
She's been gone over 20 years.

Neighborhood Walk #3

I walked to the park again
and to a place down the street –
for exercise, photos,
Vitamin D from the sun,
inspiration, nature –
hoping to see something minuscule,
bugs, dandelions, objects windblown.

To capture new images
with my camera –
textures in tree bark and
bus stop grill work,
ruggedness in rocks,
frailness or strength in twigs,
even tire tracks on the dirt made
by two yellow Caterpillar trucks
sitting by a large hole
that workmen have dug there.

Like my hair blown by the wind,
I saw the resiliency of life
in grass, leaves, wildflowers.
I would think the wind
would rip all of it out by the roots.

Ground cover with yellow flowers
the size of a freckle on my arm,
and purple flowers half the size
of my palm, met the roundness
of my camera lens, and eager clicks
of my finger on the shutter.
I wish I knew their names.

For the first time I saw beauty
in weeds, even those dried up,
droopy and wrinkled, stuck
by the ditch on El Paseo and Farney,
a ditch half full of murky water,
stippled by white and yellow streaks
made by the sun, trickling
between large trees
in neighbor's back yards.

The wind forced water ripples
in the same direction as my path.
On that path, supple plants soaking
what's needed from the water,
green in contrast to whitish dry weeds
next to tall, reddish-stemmed
growth that looked like Amaranth.
White flowers - pollinated
by a zipping hummingbird
moving too fast for me to
stare at its colors or take a picture –
its fluttering wings cutting air.

That alone was worth the trip,
realizing that nature takes care of itself
without worrying about life,
death and all stages in between.


A relic, old school, traditionalist,
a dinosaur. I must be ancient when...
xxxxxxxxxxmy preference is oldies –
like classic soul power,
early rock and roll, doo-wap,
post second-war blues, gospel, jazz.
Four and five-part harmonies –
horn-driven, guitars, funky saxophones,
walking bass shuffles, call and response,
turnarounds, improvisations.
xxxxxxxxxxDigs deep into my veins.
Carves itself into my brain. Mesmerized.
Wanting more. A habit.
Like a feisty old fish caught
on a hook but I can't get away.
I'm dancing on reeled-in line,
satisfying the pits of my everything
xxxxxxxxxxand loving it.


Loud gray pigeons, cooing,
surround one brown one.

Some peck between gravel,
search for wind-blown seeds
from yellow-flowered shrubs.

A sated fat pigeon
hobbles along the curb,
performs a dance,

part clumsy curtsy, some wobble,
a little trip and fall, prancing,
part "Madam, look at me."

She, a center of attention,
stands firm, dignified,
perhaps amused
by the entertainer, Mr Fatso –
white-chested, ash-bellied.

I picture him wearing a white
round hat, white jacket,
tapping a baton, a grand fanfare.

Oh the competition, abundance
and what a pronouncement
out of 10 or 20 cooing males
to one reserved, silent female.

She ignores the others
who wait and stare at her.
They hope she chooses
one of them who cares,
won't bring fake promises
as would the showman,
the quick overnighter –
Mr. Extraordinaire.