The horse in harness casts an eye of woe
and plods along her daily weary path.
Perhaps she dreams of places she could go
And disregard all masters and their wrath:
–Of endless meadows green with knee-deep grass
and running waters cool and fresh to drink…
–Of vistas wide and open… but , alas…
these things a horse is not supposed to think.
So heavy hoofbeats mark the road each day
falls one after another, week by week.
She thinks of nothing more than oats and hay
and barely is aware her life is bleak.
It profits not to want what you can’t win;
A moral bitter, and a little thin…
Octopus
Lurking
loosely, blobbishly
unrolling,
your enormous
bulbous head
a-lolling,
with a kind of
neckless grace
as you come pouring
down the face
of rocky coves
and coral caves
that shimmer
with a most enchanting glimmer
through the roof
of pulsing waves–
Gem set in a jewel…
Red or yellow,
white and polka-dots
or maybe cobalt blue:
Loosely committed to your shade,
your shape also defined
sort of
by whatever space you fill…
And yet, in you
a hunter’s will…
And truth be told,
you’re really rather smart and bold:
Gravity’s your bitch
and physics, too,
and even literary art
as suddenly, you’re
outofhere!
with jet-assist,
and last-word mockery
expressed
in ink.
LOBSTERS ON PARADE
Across the abyssal plain,
in waters weighted with the entire ocean
and as utterly black as night can be,
lit only by the thrashing sparking flaring
of creatures bizarre by any notion
of ourselves, the lubberly kind…
Across these heavy deeps
in measured tread of little feet crustacean,
they march, determined in their quest
with thoughts in mind, if there is any thinking,
of dancing fandangos in slow motion
with lady lobsters, fair and fine…
Across the rippling sands
the lobsters march in single-file profusion
parading to their dancing grounds
driven by intent of reproduction
with no digression or confusion
Miles of lobster swains divine…
copyright February 2005 by CLRedding
The Song of Hungry Cats
(borrowing a tune from Les Miserables)
Do you hear the kitties sing?
singing the song of hungry cats–
They are a feisty fetch of felines
who are hunting in the thatch!
Do you hear the cats’ demand?
Say, do you hear that hungry sound?
If you’re a mouse, you’d better run
or your life is done!
Will you interrupt your sleep?
Will you get up, and face the mouse?
Some will doze and some will leap,
will you go tearing through the house?
Will you stir from your slumbers
to set up your moment to pounce?
Do you hear the kitties sing?
Say do you hear the hungry howl
Of the starving of the felines
crouching sly upon the prowl?
Do you see the twitching tail,
Say do you see the eyes so wide
as they stare and stare at the bowl
with naught inside?
revisions co 2024 by CL Redding
Here, Kitty Kitty…!
The cats have run away to hide,
They do not wish to go for a ride.
“Oh no, I won’t!” the wise cat sings–
“Rides generally arrive at unpleasant things
like trimming of claws and shots in the ass
and minor surgeries… Thanks, I’ll pass!”
The cats are crouching in unlikely places
with wide opal eyes and resentful faces.
Under the sofa they’d rather abide
than companionably get in the car for a ride.
co 5/98 CL Redding
Dreaming
I saw a vision, riding high
up in the mansions of the sky…
I saw bright waters running wild;
And stars in the eyes of a magic child.
I witnessed dancing Elven folk
And heard the solemn raven croak
In ancient woods, still, dark and deep–
All of this, I saw in sleep..
I heard the yearning Elven song,
And soldiers as they tramp along
Bleak miles of black and broken stone;
And the voice of one who sings alone
To raise himself above despair
And one who sings a sadder air
To ease an infant’s soul in flight
I heard it, in the deep of night…
A garden’s perfume filled my dream
And scents of forests, shades of green
A-warming in the summer’s heat…
The smell of wonderful things to eat…
Baking bread and toasting cheese,
No better scents of life than these!
Deeply, deeply, breath I drew,
And in my sleep, I thought it true…
Grasses glow green on every side,
And horses run free, their nostrils wide;
Some folk watch and some folk guide,
And some live all their lives inside
Their own close worlds, the rest denied.
There are some who dream, and stand aside
And brace themselves against the tide–
From this dream, I woke and cried…
co 2005 CL Redding
Breaking the Heat
The wind is blowing–
cool air comes down out of the mountains,
night comes over the sky
filled with clouds.
Summer heat flees on the wind,
last of the summer darkens
with the end of the day.
Curtains billow like sails
out into the air
and in again,
floating on the wind
on its changes.
I turn off the fans,
false winds,
open all the windows,
all the doors
and let in
the change.
c 2017 CL Redding
Autumn Storm
The earth does what it does
and always has–
Storm bellowing,
Flood rushing,
And the reeds bend;
Trees sway and sometimes
go roots up;
The waters wild
sweep the land
forgetting former banks
erasing dams
the diligent beaver built.
_____________________
The tempest swoops in
off the ocean
where it trained,
charging
like a heavyweight
out of his corner,
Knocks
the ancient weather vane
a-tizzy,
sets its ponies
running circles
in the wind;
Slaps
the last
of autumn’s fire
off the swaying trees–
They, and later
the weather vane as well
fly free on the wind,
the ponies
whipped up as wild
and rambunctious
as the lashing rains.
Squirrels
in tree-top nests disrupted
suddenly
learn to fly
and small birds hide
as best they can
and cats
of independent disposition
come inside
Where we, close-huddled
by the fireplace
hope that the wood
already in the house
will be enough,
have candle lanterns ready
and flashlights
close to hand,
with extra batteries…
The kids are energized,
taking it in turns,
crank on the new-fangled
old fashioned swamp-radio
that never needs a battery replaced,
praying for a sudden cold
and maybe feet of snow,
and make extravagant plans…
Even when the blast
exhausts itself to fitful gusts
and wanders off,
the rain drums on a flat percussive
shingle-drenching crevice-seeking
drumming over-head…
The water fills
the hollows of the land
and saturates the soil,
drives out small rodents
from their earth;
And even the dog is whining
that, in fact,
he’d rather not go out today
but must, he must oh dear,
and not alone…
And the water buckets down
and drums and drums
and finally lulls
the last of us to sleep,
that flashlight by the bed…
The dawn comes luminous
and calm as if
the weather
never had a single
brutal thought,
never blustered,
never raged,
never came in reeling
like a drunk,
never loosed the ponies
nor beat the land to
sodden helplessness…
The day comes on
gently, cheerfully,
the light a little harsher
through trees denuded
their columns etched and dark,
still gleaming with the wet…
Birds sing,
Squirrels scold,
Cats consider going out,
The dog can hardly wait!
The kids are disappointed
not really getting
what disaster is…
And someone must go out
and find the weathervane
then climb up the misty roof
and put it back
onto its naked pole.
c ~2004 CL Redding
revised 2024
A Shire Reverie
A gathering of stones,
of mortar and affection:
warmed by April sun,
a drift of fragrance–
cow’s breath and old hay,
ripe cheese, pale grasses,
the lightest scent of blossom
and the lingerance of snow,
and second breakfast hearth-smoke…
Distant crows wheeling, crying, cawing,
coarsely calling admiration
of the new-turned turf,
of turning season,
of turning, turning, turning
in the sky above the oaks…
The distant touch of talk,
and laughter muted–
It clings, this lacey sound,
to the walls and roofs
and ventures not too far afield…
The passing day, in hours
unaccounted,
hardly missed;
Hand-in-hand
the Sun and warmth decline
yet not too fast…
Dark brown, the depths
of barn and cellar,
grey the shadow side
of house and wall;
Night is blue,
bluer at the dark of moon
than any ocean
or deep mountain lake…
c 1980 CL Redding
Pioneer Cafe, Montana Morning
Ladies of a Certain Age
girls no more
except in the heart:
What Life has given
you have taken
despite the dreams you had,
despite intentions and resistance;
Age acquiring resilience
for survival’s sake
when life is hard
or dull beyond endurance.
Power in the circle
around the cafe table
every morning, every day
except Sundays, maybe:
Ladies, old and aging
socializing despite,
because of Life;
finding, making,
sharing power
’round this table…
and resilience,
endurance,
and amusement–
even some days, joy!
The Pert Young Thing
with young good-looking Fella
full of certainty, resolve
and years-to-come
prances past in her low-cut denims
perky T and perm of wild curls…
She spares not a glance
towards Ladies
of a Certain Age.
Her dreams, her angers
her determination
not yet tested, not yet tried
nor slapped around by Life–
as long as Fella’s true
and things continue looking up.
The Ladies come and go;
pull in the extra chair
as needed.
The conversation
does not lag–
not often, anyway,
does the stream
of interaction fail,
fall into gaps
of silence–
pensive individuality
for just an instant,
before the shield
of gossip, cheery news
and practicalities
asserts itself again.
There is no evil spoken
at this early hour
over coffee, cream,
the solace of bacon
and well-buttered toast,
oatmeal with raisins…
No, in the morning
hope and cheer
and charity prevail…
The Ladies of a Certain Age
observe the Pert Young Thing
and know–
her chair is waiting.
c 2007 CL Redding
LOOSELY SPEAKING... 