Eleanor Hammond on the mid-Calif coast, Cambria Photo -JG Hammond

Cat Ear

Watching the late afternoon sunlight
shout through my window,
it suddenly caught the paper thin skin,
the perfect curve,
of my cat’s ear as she perched on the sill.

The pale ear lit up like a tiny monitor,
revealing small crimson veins,
vibrant with circulating blood life
branching in a network as if on a hand,
or young leaf.

Just over the delicate furred edge,
grows a thicket of protection,
coarse interior hairs strategically thicken
guarding the inner chamber.

A marvel this robust ear,
acute hearing
the magical cartilage swiveling endlessly
for prey, for rogue sounds,
even in sleep.

But as ever, the sun wanes,
the cat disappears,
and I’m left to my own devices.

Treacherous Woman

Witness the audacity of this female,
always well shorn, sleek leather shoes,
as she slides among the gathering
concealing covetous plans and schemes.
Flaxen hair, silken voice ,
slip from her with effortless charm,
as she makes her way around a room.

Never at peace, addled when alone,
her anxiety, her poison, latch on
as a spore might onto cloth,
finding your moist eyes
and entering there,
riddling you with doubt,
caustic thoughts,
a mistrust of those you knew before.

Her treachery is tied up 
to your self-esteem,
proportionate to your ego,
the sting of that truth,
she doesn't let you realize,
while seducing vestiges
of your remaining earnest style
with her candid chatter and décolleté.

Beware the art of this woman,
her graceful fingers, her perfumed wrists,
her round breasts,
to wave you over
like that Siren’s call,
a youth knows not her skills,
a man in the fourth decade should.

Winged - a poem

Feel the rising air
stiff against your feathers,
as you drop into earthly space,
adapted muscles pull up, thrust down,
three dimensional volumes to soar in,
to bank into and cavort with,
to scope prey from,
then plummet towards and seize upon,
conferring death for ready food,
the eternal exchange for existence.

Adrift on changing winds,
changing landscapes,
use the loft and take rest,
if migratory, you must,
searching for beacons and marsh. 
Every entity designed for flight,
hollow bones, hollow feathers,
but warm blood,
and a heart that soars
in the wind.

Let Go - poem

The exquisite sadness and joy of letting go,
of handing the baton on,
the torch,
to those who will carry it forward.

One moment I had hubris enough to see
blood in my tears,
as I traveled my old lanes and sound hallways;
comportment gone,
only a self centered indulgence,
in sensory whispers
of scents and fabrics and images.

Ahh, it’s difficult to let go;
unfinished seams to sew,
doghouses still to paint,
hoeing to be done, and bills to pay,
all that writing to be cajoled.

But, a new age, a new sensation comes,
the digital generation will be had,
while cynicism coils
looping over its young neck,
the cold comfort of electronic isolation,
ash in their supple mouths.

Wrench away like a spooked horse,
heat yourselves instead
in the warm exchange of ideas,
creative enterprise and community.

Sadness will ebb then,
seasons will be praised,
empathy will be composted,
and then I can let go,
really let go.

What happened to the thanks in Thanksgiving?


Before we all indulge in what has become culinary gluttony, we should spend a little time reflecting on what we have in our lives to be thankful for. Four hundred or so years ago, people were just trying to survive, and they sat down with several Native Americans to have a mostly meager dinner of corn, squash, wild turkey, venison and flat bread. And then they prayed in thanks, to their native friends for showing them how to grow most of what was on their table.

How far we’ve come and how far we’ve lost sight of gratitude and thanks giving. If I see one more ad about Black Friday, I’m going to scream. This blatant materialism is shameful. It has no part in the meaning of Thanksgiving. Crass commercialism is unfortunately invading most all of our holidays. I think I know why.
Corporate America drives and oils the consumer machine, of which we are the end part.
I know our society functions that way, but there is a time and place for it.

It’s difficult to be thankful when you’re disabled, but we must be. Never mind the consumer frenzy, never mind the stomach fill to bursting, remember what you do have.
Look around, see not things, see family love, appreciate the trees and gardens, the mountains and the power of the sea. Look up, notice the amazing sky, the sparkling stars at night. Appreciate your part in it. Even though you may not dance anymore, you still have love in your life.

Have gratitude your situation is not worse than it is. You are reading or hearing this article and can read or hear more, in any genre, and that’s good. If you can move your limbs, be thankful. If you are part of a support group, tell them thank you.

Thanksgiving is not about busting your seams, or running to the superstore or mall, it’s about thanks, appreciation, gratitude, and what that means for you, and in you.  

Suburban Chapter

poem from my old house on Windsor Ave.:



                     Suburban Chapter
   
                Municipal street maintenance boys
                cut the huge dying cedar out front
                as if it was so much refuse.
                From their boom buckets
                they jolly the day away
                as I watch a friend
                carried away by loud coroners.

                Strangled by a sloppy gas leak
                its choked roots succumbed under asphalt
                like a coal miner without legs.
                Malfeasance on an elder.

                Earlier in the week  up the nice street,
                under a burgeoning banana tree,
                a man’s body was dumped,
                tossed in the azaleas like a used six pack,
                his dress was torn.

                Tonight
                looping feline whines fissure the dark
                forcing my audience,
                boasting pathetic territory.
                Not far away, slipping from buses
                come the desperate, who sometimes
                accost gold watched men
                returning home
                as they park their maroon cars.
           
                Further east
                clapboard slung bungalows
                weather eighty-five years
                of particulate haze
                only to be pelted by semi-automatic bullets.
                Vertical irons manacle homes,
                unnoticed as seeds on a bun.

                But, angry old women still make their way
                to market,
                people walk their dogs
                putting fear aside,
                battling far worse odds on the freeway
                than the caustic curb outside.