Cat Wine

She’s wondering
if there’s been
nearly enough verse in a year
to fill a potion glass with cat wine

If then, perhaps, half a tale more
will be enough this year
to lick happiness
catch the tickle feather
teach puppies to meow and fly,
pussies to howl at the moon,
or play with a ball invitation
where the poetess has
the Cinderella glass
half full enough
to dance with the
Prince without portfolio
who owns a pumpkin farm
where a couple of stars can
twinkle in rhythms like
a rhyme wine glistens

Wilted Dreams

Hating roses is
a passion fate,
a habit like
throwing out
chocolate without cherries

You were a healer
nursed the saved
rose above the battle
fire for awhile,
soothed the singed,

I look for the
squiggle code on the chocolate:
it tells me which to save
which pure chocolate must go

For good luck
I gave you a rose
and a promise
for hot chocolate

Roses are red
I’ve heard, but
haven’t seen them
hold your ghostly fire

I wrap all red cherries
in chocolate squiggles
never to giggle again,
to love roses wilted

Helping Her Cross the River

Someone let her cross the river for me
when I skipped stones sadly past tadpoles, and
she was glad to speak of leaves and frogs as if
I were a prince in need of a kiss, and she were a princess

But we don’t need to know if the river is wide
or if she is escaping a palace, and if
I am a wandering King because

she laughs with me and the giggling stream
as if we could rule every meandering river
even if she’s come from far banks of sadness, and

for whomsoever helped her cross the river wide
I give you the sky and
a dove for your love

Baking Apples

Baking Apples

Wind storms through orchards
mocking calm branches
left a bird frantic,
fruit on the ground

She hasn’t stopped singing
this mockingbird
who mocks the calm, my thoughts
seems searching for a perch
a mate, perhaps, like I
seek Cindy, yes

I will learn the mockingbird song
before the next storm, so birdie luck
will perch a finger, and

I will storm home
like the shocking bird,
my Cindy electric and flighty

As Sweet As a Tiger

As Sweet As a Tiger

Lady Bard upon the roughened road:
Doth not your imagination possess you too much
and hath you protest your name with harpsichord?

The rose can be cat, but
can the cat be rose?
I don’t suppose so, though
the sweetness of your perfume is angelic

If you’ve become nocturnal,
a silvery moon should light your way
for a sun has grown you
as silky as the day, and
the night has made you slinky

pull off that leopard skin dress,
doff the aqua boots, and
skinny dip with me like the swan you are,
for to swim with you in a pool of roses
will settle a name into Love like a walk in the park