Unidentified

The female feline, ghostly white,
Gazes up at the swirl-swept ceiling.
Fills us with uneasy feeling;
What does she see, a wispy sprite?
(There’s no one there, whom we’d invite.)
I feel a chill run through each bone;
Blanche* stands stock-still—a pale tombstone.
I find the spot, she’s fixed upon;
Was something there? For now, it’s gone.
Were we perhaps, too impolite?

Kat Mortensen©2010

Our cat, Blanche, passed away that fall, maybe now she’s the ghost at our former house.

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The Old Man and the Settee

Our boy, Gilbert. will be 20 years old on Monday, August 5th.
His favourite spot is on the love seat in our family room – under a tented blanket 
with lots of pillows and a fleecy throw underneath.
Spotting the rare Black Capybara leaving its den!

July 27: A year already

Although it will be a year tomorrow, since we lost our dear little Daisy, we still miss her greatly, and think of her often. Below, is the post I did for my now defunct photo-blog, “Shooting Cats and Dogs”. It’s a bit of an obit for her.

We lost our darling girl, Daisy last Friday, July 27.  She had struggled with  a thyroid condition and kidney problems, but we always seemed to be able to restore her to decent health and a good quality of life.  The end came without warning; on Thursday evening she was on Kev’s lap for her nightly cuddle and she was eating well, but by Friday morning there had been a drastic change and by Friday afternoon, I knew we were going to have to let her go.
I am so deeply sad at times, I can hardly express it.  I was her caregiver – the one to administer the medication – the gel in her ear twice a day, the special diet and the monitoring of every single change in appetite, and bodily function.  We had an absolute communication, she and I.  She trusted me implicitly and I never let her down.

When she was given the drug to put her to sleep, I leaned over and kissed her head and said, “Goodbye my Lambchop” and she made a little sound in response. I miss her so much!

Somebody’s watching me …

My next-door neighbours are big hockey fans.  Their handsome cat, Lemieux (I see LeMew) likes to watch me when I’m at the kitchen sink.  His face puts me in mind of those monkeys with the British Major-like mustaches. (Please click to enlarge photos.)

I’ve got my eye on you.

I say old boy; jolly good show, what?

River of Stones: Day Six

This moving thing is really taking its toll on our sleep.  Last night, Kev was up until after 1:00 a.m. and as a result, I was tossing and turning all night.  I suppose my brain was taken up somewhat with the ancestry research I’ve been doing—poring over endless names, dates and details in the 1901 and 1911 Census documents for all of Ireland.  I had Margarets and Williams and Josephs flying around in there like the people in Dorothy’s hourglass-dream when she’s in the clutches of the Wicked Witch of the West. (Stay tuned to my Acadianeire blog for developments.)
In an effort to give Kevin a bit more time in bed this morning before he had to get up and going, I got up at 4:45 to feed the cats, clean the Bodum glass coffee pot and change the water bowls and ended up staying up.  I’ve been up ever since.
So forgive me if I haven’t even revealed the windows to the outside world.

~ vertical blinds, billow above the heating vent—weepy will0w-branches on a cool spring day.
~ the two-tone feline finds the duvet; leaves a dead-skunk impression
~dark nuggets in the wood-pellet litter-box—too hefty for sifting and shifting (at the moment)
~scalding hot, strong tea revives taste buds and brain cells

Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

Gilbert Grieves

Left Behind

 

Do I imagine that

                 the line of your spine

                              hunches

                                  beneath 

                                     the weight

                      that hangs upon your black

                                   shoulders?

can it be tears that well in those

                              eyes of gold-green?

does your tail fail to flick—

                                                          your pace, not race—

                      show no trace of glee

                                  because you can’t find your queen?

when you nudge the edges

                where once she smiled

                              and left her scent

                                               do you subsume the memory

                of she who was—your

                            ever-present companion—

your yang or yin—

                           the din of her gurgling cry

                                      do you wonder why

it can’t be heard

               (or perhaps it can

                           from some distant plane—

some sphere),

she’s no longer here,

                                                 and yet

              the ghost of her

remains…

Kat Mortensen©2010 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

Monday Poem (In preparation for the re-launch of TFE’s Poetry Bus)

Not Mystery, but Imagination

 

In the semi-waking hours,

 

The gnawing on the wires

Between the walls:

A mouse’s mandible—

Munching.

Is the trapped ghost

Within those inner walls, waiting

To be released?

Infortunato.

 

The croaking outside my door

And on the stair:

A feline’s faculties—

Fading,

Is the demon

Above the chamber door, waiting

On pallid Pallus,

Once more? For Lenore?

 

Quick!

Wake up!

 

Kat Mortensen©2010 
Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape

 

*Be sure to visit Totalfeckineejit for updates on the re-launch of the Prestigious Poetry Bus.