Directions – Day 30

Journey: The Part I Love

Move across the kitchen to the back door.
Ooops, the cat under my feet.
She’d open the door if she could.
She has this habit of when it comes
time she wishes to go outdoors
she doesn’t actually scratch, she
paws at the door in a little knock,
knock sound. (I know, she’s clever.)


Now she is nosing at the security door.
How many times a day do I open it
just for her? But a Kitty Latch Door!
No, we have strays who have seen what
a good wicket this little cat is on.

Down a couple of steps, cat not sure and tries
to herd me in the opposite direction.
Round the side of the house we go:
walk the metaled metres down the path.
Past hibiscus, roses and Japanese anemones.
All I see of cat is a tail among the day lilies.


Past the orange tree, then the lemon tree
and then push aside the jasmine I’ve
been meaning to cut back: how can the
post-person even see our lovely ceramic
street number screwed on the post under
the box? But he seems to. (Been known
to put mail in that’s not for me. I re-direct.)


I lift the tight closed flap of the letter box.
Today’s mail in hand I stop to smell the roses;
wave to my neighbour out for a stroll. Mail
deliveries cut back to three times a week.
(That was gonna happen Covid or no.)

And this is the part I love; when cat comes
galloping around the corner, comes
to an abrupt halt —
and waits for me to take the steps.
Holding back the security door
I turn to her saying, “Coming?”
And just like that we are back in
our warm kitchen.

Benita H. Kape (c) 30.4.2021

Note: I couldn’t seem to get started on this prompt and really contemplated doing a haiku or tanka. They weren’t working for me.

Notes: “And now for our final (still optional!) prompt. Today’s prompt is based on a prompt written by Jacqueline Saphra, and featured in this group of prompts published back in 2015 by The Poetry Society of the U.K. This prompt challenges you to write a poem in the form of a series of directions describing how a person should get to a particular place. It could be a real place, like your local park, or an imaginary or unreal place, like “the bottom of your heart,” or “where missing socks go.” Fill your poem with sensory details, and make them as wild or intimate as you like. “

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Rhapsody of Courage

Rhapsody for Courage

to: Glenys

 .

And as I sat reading Billy Collins

all through this beautiful autumn morning,

I listened first to the lawnmower next door

struggling through an overgrown lawn.

And as I did so the clouds, which have

only just come on the scene, scudded by.

I was, though, in the middle of thinking

about this when disturbed by the cat,

who, as she washed,  did so

with a particularly raspy sound and shifted

a little with the sun; a sound I may not have

heard had the mover not ceased its strange music.

.

The cloud movement increased and I thought

about the music of the morning. How the music

of clouds scudding was so pure, so high above me

and yet so beautiful as to make something within

me sing. And now the cat who may or may not

be aware of this has slipped further into sleep;

the sky now a total blue and silence give me

its beauty, its own very special sound. And the

cat stretches one lone paw toward that shifting

span of sunlight.

.

The cat is still sleeping, the sun has shifted into

a corner of the room and begins an afternoon ascent

up the wall when the phone goes; a sibling with news.

.

And what would be the music in that you may ask (as

we see you have come back to the poem:)  though yes

I did leave the poem for a long conversation. I left off

reading Billy and carefully, sadly wrote the final stanzas.

.

Our youngest sister begins her radiation treatment today,

another is having a hip operation. So, I come back for both,

but especially for the sister who is in and out of chemo or

radiation treatments saying, every time;  “No long faces here.”

 

That’s so god-damn difficult because the music of the morning

is now so different and yet she makes it so necessary to write on

into the late noon with No Long Faces Here and she can, and she

does make this sound both musical and courageous. This is the music

I now hear. A rhapsody of courage. Then on request, No More Visitors.

And this is when silence is at it’s most strange. But for you

No Long Faces.

 .

Benita H. Kape © 4.5.2017

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Forestalling, a Nocturnal – NaPoWriMo 2017 – Day seventeen – prompt: a nocturnal poem

My moon

Forestalling:  a Nocturnal

 

Celebrating the things of the night.

The expanse of stars across an ocean.

The moon in its many phases.

.

Moon friend beneath the trees

A wise old face is winking at me.

Winking forever in sunlight and dawn.

Celebrating the things of the night.

.

I kiss your cheek and a star appears.

The cat comes by to nuzzle

before an evening of prowling.

Returning to sharpen her claws on the

nearby tree trunk.     And, to camel her

own celebration of night before resting.

.

I do not see all that goes on in the garden

at night.

I am saying my prayers celebrating

the things of the night.

I am inching my way to the forestalling

of eternal night.

Scatter my ashes at the foot of my moon friend.

24/7, he’ll wink at you.

We will be celebrating the things of the night.

The kiss of a star on his cheek.

Benita H. Kape © 17.4.2017

 

camel  found from  “Of Jeoffry, His Cat” by Christopher Smart

And now for our (optional) prompt. Today, I challenge you to write a nocturne. In music, a nocturne is a composition meant to be played at night, usually for piano, and with a tender and melancholy sort of sound. Your nocturne should aim to translate this sensibility into poetic form! Need more inspiration? Why not listen to one of history’s most famous nocturnes, Chopin’s Op. 9 No. 2?

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Twilight Cat – NaPoWriMo 2017 – Day nine – a nine line poem

 

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Twilight Cat

Cat on bed 1

 

I am never alone in the evening hours

If Puss is not on my doorstep, I’ll call her.

She never waits for dark or the evening stars

Sometimes at twilight, she’ll come with a rush

Because every move I make indoors, she’ll decipher.

She has no tactics, no hidden ambush

Her evening ritual is usually to be mild and patient.

We always spend our evening hours together.

But mornings, to be outdoors, sees a new agreement.

 

Benita H. Kape © 9.4.2017

 

“Finally, here is our prompt (optional, as always). Because today is the ninth day of NaPoWriMo, I’d like to challenge you to write a nine-line poem. Although the fourteen-line sonnet is often considered the “baseline” form of verse in English, Sir Edmund Spenser wrote The Faerie Queene using a nine-line form of his own devising, and poetry in other languages (French, most particularly) has always taken advantage of nine-line forms. You can find information of various ways of organizing rhyme schemes, meters, etcetera for nine-line works here. And of course, you can always eschew such conventions entirely, and opt to be a free-verse nine-line poet.”

I have chosen to write a poetic form called a Nocturna. Nine lines, eight of which deal with the night and one with the morning.

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