Poetry Friday: No Word

I took to the initiative of composing a poem on my own this week. Mona wasn’t able to offer a word of inspiration this week. It seems being super woman is eating into her blogging time. It is only right that I carry the torch, and continue onward in her honor.

The change of season is hardly noticeable here. The leaves don’t finish falling until January, and when the temperature falls below forty for a few days, the natives whine and moan. I prefer I clearly defined seasons compared to springtime lasting two days before merging into the dog days of summer. My inspiration mocking finely honed literature this week is seasonal.

Termination of hope blooming, green,
Fallen from the wings of a mocking bird
The parched earth littered with remains
From a season expired,

RIsing from the ashes, fallen leaves
Fashionably dressed in the carcasses
of the previous season’s latest and greatest
Full moon lighting the way for a quiet escape

Emerging in the unmolested glory
Newborn pure and an untainted
A white carpet blanketing the earth
Less garish than her predecessor

Promise shall rise again
On the wings of migratory foul
First ungainly like youth, all teeth and ears
Later maturing into the full ample bosom of spring

The charcoal drawing above was inspired by the Missus’s childhood. When she was young and the temperature fell below freezing, she would turn the sprinkler on and direst it toward a small dogwood tree. In the morning when she looked outside the tree would be the most amazing ice sculpture glistening in the sun.

Mystery Solved!

Sorry guys! I really should have gotten back to you sooner, but I was distracted. Good fortune smiled down on me and some dumb-ass left the door to the studio open and I managed to escape. Dirty Girl opted to remain safely hidden under the yellow chair. After leaving the hardwood floors of the studio, I detected an odd change in the surface quality once I stepped over the threshold. I was literally sinking into the floor. I spent the next two hours doing the backstroke across the living room.

It seems that a six foot tall SOMEONE became utterly disgusted with the fifteen year old carpet that has graced this house. I’m not sure if it was the wine and coffee drips, the worn down pile, or the stylish teal accent carpet that trimmed out the entire room, but Mister Hombre decided enough was enough.

Apparently shag carpet isn’t really shag carpet anymore. Now, the marketing gurus who work in glass offices with pristine views of polluted cities have proclaimed that shag carpet shall now bare the name frieze. So, frieze is supposed to sell more cubic yards than shag. Well la de da. It may not be shag, but it makes a mighty fine bed to lay on.

Gradually, the furniture is being returned to its proper location, and by proper, I mean the exact same position it was in before. I hate me some changing. I spent most of the afternoon re-marking my territory. Since I am prohibited from utilizing standard tomcat marking procedure, I have rubbed and rolled on every new surface. I even resorted to painter’s tape and a china marker to establish my ownership in case my attempts at scent marking were too subtle.

The Mister is quite pleased with the results. He is satisfied with the color, the pile, and the installation. The Missus is mostly happy that the Mister is happy. It’s a bit odd, but the Mister takes more interest in decor than the Missus does. In the early days they would negotiate down to the last paint chip and and dust collecting accessory. Now the Missus says, “Screw it” and waits for the Mister to make up his mind. I think her strategy is if he makes the decision then he should be content with the consequences. Oddly, it doesn’t usually work that way.

Well, I must be going. A soft spot is calling my name.

Shrinking World

The morning started off earlier than usual. At first, I was concerned the folks were leaving town because they only wake before eight AM if someone has to catch a plane. The suitcases were properly stowed in the closet, so I wondered if maybe Dirty Girl was sharing her new found love of tuna by dropping SBDs in the bed. No such luck, Dirty Girl was sleeping in a kitchen chair.

The folks showered, and left for a while, then returned smelling like omelets. They were hauling in wood thresholds. I thought, cool something else to mark, but I never made it near them. Their behavior became increasingly more bizarre. First, they moved my food dish and litter pan into the studio. Next they quarantined Dirty Girl and me inside with a few creature comforts. I’ve spent most of the morning, looking out the French Doors into the foyer. My world used to include four bedrooms a kitchen and my private bath. Now I have to share studio space with the Missus, and pee in front of god and everybody. I am so not enjoying this.

I’ve been surprised by the activity level. There are three burly guys, who don’t live here, making trips in and out of the house. These are not ordinary guys. One is only about two inches taller than Missus Chica, and he looks a like Chris Cornell from Sound Garden, another one has a mullet. and third is definitely the guy I want on my team if I ever get into another bar room brawl.

The Missus has joined Dirty Girl and I in the studio, while the Mister supervises whatever it is that requires so much damn banging in the living room. It sounds like they’re using chisels, or maybe even crowbars. Why do they need to disturb the peaceful silence of the home?

Amiss

The house has been filled with abstract business. Moving furniture, rearranging computers, and removing pictures from the walls. The thing is, nobody is packing things in boxes, and the stuff that’s been moved is just stacked in the kitchen, or in the spare bedroom.

The real kicker is some mischievous hoodlum has hidden my cat bed and blocked my favorite window seat. I am not amused. I have no choice but to lounge on bare tile, how plebeian! Oh the injustice, oh the indignity!

I was a little apprehensive when the hand truck appeared. I thought they might be taking me to the vet in the same stylish transportation used for Hannibal Lecter. It couldn’t be because I’m a little over endowed from summer’s hedonistic menu of fresh cream with berries, accompanied by seared tuna. It turns out, they needed it to move a filing cabinet, and a credenza. Big whoop.

Well, I’ll keep you posted of any important developments. For now, I need to find an adequate location to bed down for the night, ’cause this tile floor so isn’t going to cut it. Mere tile for a fur coat as glossy as mine? You wish.

Poetry Friday: Fear

Poetry Friday is upon us once again, and Mona, has provided us with a most excellent word of inspiration, fear. I fumbled with this week’s selection. This is such a tough act to follow. It’s like painting water lilies, after Monet.

Afraid of the known? Or the un?
Apprehension of marksman? Or gun?
Does fear drive you, or cause you to bolt?
Excite? Or cause you revolt?

I worry not for myself;
My heart placed high on a shelf.
It is for you that I fret;
Losing you the real threat,
Both dread of the known and the un.