FRED THE TOM CAT - THE FIRST

April always sweeps me away. Then I come to my senses and realize April is Poetry Month. And I have not presented a post about one of my favorite subjects. Today is the day. One of the first of more to come. But just in case, I have picked three quick, simple poems.

Fred The Tom Cat is my first poem complete with illustration. I found this gem in a book titled Stories and Poems. In all of my eleven year old glory. As is.

FRED TOM CAT

Hello, I'm Fred Tom Cat

When I walk by people

they say, "Scat you dirty
rat!"
Now lets make this clear.
I should cause no fear.
I do not bite.
Even though I fight.
I have a wife,
She leads a normal
life.
I have three kittens,
They have their own mittens.
Our house is a big box,
Our beds are a couple
of socks.
My salery is fair,
Even though its is a
terrfic scare.
We eat fish,
Right out of a dish.
Today put out some cream
If a Tom Cat gulps it
down, don't scream.

*********

Seven Falls was written for the last page of my daughter's high school graduation scrapbook. The poem is placed next to a photo of the maple trees - the picture shot on the very fall day we danced as three.

SEVEN FALLS

BabyBird,

your story begins with a pile of leaves from the red maple trees

standing in front of Mama and Daddy’s home.

A student was raking leaves for the BSU at the U of A.

He caught my Mama’s eye,

and she was not the type of Mama who had ever gotten caught

worrying over beaus and grooms.

She just handed him a broom.

Months later, in the middle of summer

she was reading the paper and said,

“There’s my friend.”

I could not have known then

when she first said his name—

our traveled road would be the same.

On the fall afternoon when he had finished his job

he told Mama goodbye and handed her the broom—

the unsuspecting groom—

none of us ever would have guessed.

Seven falls down the road would find we three—

our family—

dancing with you in our arms

beneath the glow of the red maple trees

where he’d raked leaves seven years before. 

*********

Three 3 O'clock A.M. In the middle of the night, really morning. Waking up, putting on my robe and walking into the den. Turning on the lamp. A bump in the night wakes me up. In this case, snoring. I have written poems in total darkness but a circle of light is my preference. A clear spot on any piece of paper will do. 

THREE O’CLOCK A.M.

Three o’clock in the morning

Sounds like a snoring wall,

Joints creaking in relaxation,

The power of 1 AA battery marking the second

boxed in a red metal clock high on the shelf.

Dark and quiet.

When most people are fast asleep.

A.M.

I am awake without effort

Or caffeine

But a mind that won’t stop

Counting numbers in the dark

Without thinking

Of what to wear in ten days

On a Saturday

Three days after I turn fifty

And the color on my toes

But paler on my fingers

I will wear “Happy to Me.”

Happy to be me

Maybe not always

But always grateful for the love in my life

That has helped me get here.

A station in life

Not the stop I wanted

Or the brochure picked out

But still waiting

Breathless

Excited for the next trip.

Always grateful

Even for an illness trying to pull me down,

Showing me weak and on my knees.

Grateful for grace

That reaches down and lifts me

Back to a good day walking

Across a pebbled lot crunching

With the sun in my face

And air in my lungs.

Life in my bones,

These fifty year old bones

Carrying around the heart of a sixteen year old girl.

Amy Holt Taylor@2018