Govt & religion don't mix. unknown photo credit

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.