Sitting on the Deck in the Company of Cats

Sunday morning wake up call, a pair of paws pat my face

Up, hurry up, we need a treat and then they’re off in heated race.

Pull on favorite Sunday wear, faded sundress and flip flops,

Splash some water on my face, run a brush through my mop.

Stumblebum into the kitchen, set coffee on to brew,

Putter bleary-eyed to the place where the felines sit and mew.

By their urgency one would think they’d not eaten in days,

Their respective weights dispel that lie in unambiguous ways.

Coffee’s perked, a cup is poured, I grab my current book,

And slip outside to honeysuckle’s welcome in my sheltered nook.

Ripples slide across the lake, while a tiny lizard scampers,

My cats examine its every move in hopes that they can batter.

And I sit and sip my coffee with a splash of Irish cream,

As breezes rustle through the pines and invite sweet daydreams.

  
Peace, people.

Thunder

She passed away
on a sunny
summer Sunday,
not a single cloud
in the sky.
No time for
regrets, tears,
or laments;
only just enough
time to die.

After all these years
And all those tears
With all her scars
And baseless fears
She always thought
Or hoped I guess that
Death might give some
notice, some alarm
at the last.

Instead she smelled
honeysuckle on the
wind and for some
reason heard
the dull roar of
thunder on this
cloudless day.