Community Cat


I met Cheech at Lincoln Park in West Seattle on a cold autumn day in 2022 and our friendship continued into 2023. 

I kept a zip-lock baggie of bonito flakes, which he liked to lick from my hands, in my car.  Other people in the community brought him cans of sardines and paused to pet him.  Someone even transformed a doghouse into his sleeping quarters and set it in the brush.

Today when I visit Cheech’s hang-out, I do not find him.  Only the doghouse.

I met his owner once.  She said Cheech was born to be wild.   But she made sure he was micro-chipped. I noticed that Cheech had no collar and tags.  Was the micro-chip enough to locate him?    

Did Cheech die in the wild?  Was he at the mercy of racoons, bald eagles, or coyotes?  And what about Cheech’s owner?  Had she abandoned him?  Or maybe Cheech abandoned her?  How was the ju-ju in the human’s house?

Where is our community cat? 

I miss Cheech’s warmth and his purrs when he lapped up my bonito flakes.

Not Alone


The deserted house at the edge of the shore
whispers of lives lived there before.

The bones of the house creak in the wind
empty of families that Time has thinned.

Swaybacked from wind, salted by sea,
the windows are sockets, the clapboards pitch east.

A parade of generations left marks on the house.
To ask who they were, query the mouse.

My feet find a path that winds to a dock
no colorful kayaks, no boats near rocks.

The smell of the Sound meets my nose.
Time stands still.

I am not alone.

Ode to Mark Twain

On the eve of a Halley’s comet —
in the year 1835,
Mark Twain was born in Missouri,
and world truths were given life.

How fitting that the stars aligned
with fanfare for Mark Twain.
His wit and wisdom are universal,
if people tune their brains.

When Twain crossed over —
in the year 1910,
the fanfare did not stop:
as Twain lay on his death bed,
Halley’s comet flared again.

And Sew It Goes

Pincushions strapped on our young wrists.
Kettlecloth fabric, irons that hissed,
Butterick patterns, and dressmakers chalk.
“Cut with the grain,” Miss Kane would squawk.

A deadline to finish my culottes loomed.
The project came home with me; I was doomed.
I would have preferred to write a poem
than take my sewing project home.

Our machine had a bobbin that constantly jammed.
It was ancient and faulty — was my project damned?
I finished the culottes — they did not fit.
No more sewing class; I resoundingly quit.

Seasons of Play

The 1950’s, before burning raked leaves was banned.

A poem ~

Time slips under leaf piles, foliage crackles.
You roast marshmallows in the raked musk of October decay.

Time slips under frozen lakes and icy ponds.
You cut figure eight’s, sure-footed in white skates.

Time slips under daffodils, birdsong trumpets.
You study a robin feasting on a worm.

Time slips under fish bellies, tangles seaweed.
You loll on a rubber raft in the green waters of a golden day.

Threshold

Within and without —
cross the threshold for new dreams
in the pulsing heart.

I came upon this lone door in a valley outside the town of LaConner, WA during a 2015 bike ride before the pandemic.

It was a treat to stop and ponder a displaced door in a rolling valley near an old cemetery with leaning tombstones. 

Surreal. 

But not nearly as surreal as 2020.  We collectively crossed the threshold into a changed world. 

What would be our attitudes?  To get riled up by world chaos? Or to find moments throughout each day to be in the present moment? Easier said than done!

I lie on the grass to contemplate the sun filtering through our mountain ash tree.  Sun sparkles through its pointed leaflets.   

At night, I listen to the wind rustle its branches.  Music!  Our mountain ash uses two of my five senses:  sight and sound.  In fall and winter, I am surprised to learn that robins, blue jays, and black-capped chickadees become drunk on its fermented berries. 

Must keep eyes open to witness the little winos.

And You?  What activities or non-activities bring you joy?

May your one pulsing heart find you safe and happy!