The Feral Cat Ladies

This is a sequel to “She Chooses Trust” (FromUnderThePages 4/9/2014) and “Open Your Eyes, Kitty!” (Writewireless 5/25/2014). A foray into magical realism and fun. Enjoy!

write wireless

Cats in Pot 3

This is a sequel to “Open Your Eyes, Kitty!”, published on May 25, 2014 on Writewireless. It is basically a true story. Only the names and some of the details have been changed to protect the feral—and the domesticated as well.

When I heard the knock on my door, I thought it was someone else—wandering friends who show up occasionally. When I looked through the peep-hole, it could have been Jehovah’s Witnesses. Two ladies, casually dressed, on the other side of middle age. I opened the door. One had white, somewhat tousled hair, and was holding a long cage with a bowl of food at one end. Her face was soft and malleable and looked forgiving. Her companion was thin, with streaky gray hair pulled back into a severe ponytail.

Her voice was strident, and clung to the high registers like the nervous claws of an excited feline, ready…

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Manatee Vanity

(A Limerick)

Pier with rain

If you look closely, you can see the shy manatee lurking under the water, just above center.

A hysterically self-conscious manatee

had trouble maintaining her sanity;

She swam up to a pier,

where she looked in a mirror:

Self-repugnance gave way to great vanity.

 

—Dedicated to R.M., in recognition of his great admiration for large marine mammals

She Chooses Trust

 

Mama Kitty with babes

She came day after day,

trusting us enough

to lie in the sunny patch

of our neglected garden,

but running away when we came near.

Today, too tired to run,

she chooses trust

as a mainstay of

motherhood.

Mama Kitty 2

(Read the sequels  “Open Your Eyes, Kitty!” and “The Feral Cat Ladies” on Writewireless.wordpress.com)

 

 

The Call of Spring

Hairy Tree 1

The glorious clarion-call of spring
extends its voice to every thing:

to wild trees that dance and stomp,
their red tails sparking as they romp;

Hairy Tree 2 Evergreen Fingers

No less, to stolid evergreen
with bright-tipped fingers reaching keenly
outward toward the fiery glow
of brilliance every way bestowed—
on orange paintbrush, flares of red,
on hanging blushes overhead,

Red Blooms Purple Daisies

Red Burst Rhododendrons-White

on dainty violet marguerites,
’mid celadon, succulent sweets,
’mong spid’ry pastel maidenhead,
within an ink-blue orchid bed;

Overhanging Blushes Violet Iris Iris Bed

Even the fungus no light blesses,
like folkloric Spanish dresses,
flounces subtle elegance,
while new-green leaves find fresh expanse;

Pastel Spidery Blushes Frilly Fungus Green Leaves

Aground, e’en rocks have loving spots
of old-grown lichen, green-moss dots
that shine like polished medals, proud
to fete with the exub’rant crowd;

Indian Paintbrush Moss-dotted Rock Rhododendrons--Yellow

Let this young spring, so long awaited,
blossom as anticipated,
every squirrel and fish and bee,
donning his vernal finery,

Tree branches

set about the world’s renewing,
every moment busy, doing;
Let every living, growing thing,
reciprocate the call of spring!

© 2014 Anne Campagnet-Reed

The Startle of Appreciation

Flying Pelican
Then you see one
for the first time
this day
and then a whole production “ “ “
are they cormorants? geese?
certainly not seagulls
because they don’t fly in a V
You look closely and see
as he tells you, they’re pelicans.
MY GOD!
Never have you seen
so many.

Death of a Spider

Crow

There, silhouetted between the gossamer curtain
and the window, i saw it:
the perfect silhouette of a fat, healthy spider.

the shape looked like
a black widow (sort of)—
stocky and fat enough. Well fed.

I moved the curtain up a bit
(though it was held top and bottom by rods attached to the windowsill
of my back porch door)
and he moved a bit in a jerky sort of way, the way spiders do.
Just imperceptibly up.

At the same time, I was removing my slipper
(sheepskin, with the fleece starting to wear)
ever so smoothly but with conviction…

He was now clearly outlined between
the pane and the curtain; nowhere to go.
“Whap!” he didn’t seem hit.
“Whap!” again, and this time,
the light shone through
the browns and blacks
of his corrupted body;
a stain on the white curtain.

I carefully removed the top rod, then the bottom,
freeing the curtain
without letting the liquefied mass
touch my clothing

and put the two pieces of the curtain in a bucket
with detergent and water
to soak.

The stain will come out; the fabric is nylon.

Why am i such a murderer?