When I first stood over the

grave of youth, uncertain

a crow perched himself

upon the crooked cross

motioned his beak as

if to give last rites and

sacrament

“Do you know, fool boy,

what to say to the ferryman?”

I crossed my chest, considered

his question, shook my head 

“Not coin, nor offering.

Not blood, nor bravery.

“It is but a word, yet still

a weapon, a danger.

“Utter this, fool boy,

and you will know.

“The garden. The valley.

The soil of creation.

“The man at the gate

fancies himself a saint.

“He will ask a question

scripted in iron, in stone.

“Do not let your eyes

waiver and say ‘No’.”

I thanked him and

went on my way

telling him that

I would rather burn

in the truth

than sing with the 

lies 

It was the kind of day that made you want to lie around and wait for a belly rub. A breeze was slinking about the neighborhood, and the welcoming scent of McAlister's Pet Friendly Kitty Chow was wafting through the window. But I had to be on my paws. Trouble could come scratching my door at any minute.

So I sat at my desk, playing with the blinds, waiting for my nine lives to run out. On my desk were a few toy mice and a ball of yarn I'd bought at a flea market to relieve stress. Whatever effect the yarn was supposed to have was being negated by the fleas. I used to have a pot of catnip, too, but I gave that stuff up.

That's when she sauntered in. A domestic long-hair, although tame is the last word I'd use. She was a tall bowl of milk, white and fluffy with cream on her shoulders like she was wearing a second fur coat. Soft blue eyes. The type of dame you wish hadn't been declawed.

"You stalking anybody?" she asked.

"No," I purred. "You got something for me, or are you just looking for the litter box?"

"I might have something," she said, cool as a calico. "See, there's this fancy cat I've been nuzzling. And he's gone missing."

"You check the pound? Maybe he rubbed someone the wrong way?"

"Mittens always keeps his address on his collar. See, he's forgetful sometimes. I'm afraid something's happened to him, Sam." Her whiskers twitched pathetically and I was string in her paws. She went on to describe her plaything. A Himalayan long-hair, blue-gray, googly eyes. Not the sharpest claw on the paw. More like the type who'd run out of an open door and drown in the pool.

"You armed?" she asked. "This might get fuzzy."

I opened a drawer and pulled out my Ktaxon 5mm laser pointer.

"So you'll do it?" she said luxuriously. "I should warn you, I can only pay in Purina."

"Salmon?" I said. "Or Chicken and Liver?"

She looked sheepish: "Chicken Gravy."

"Hmm." I thought about it. To be honest, I would have hissed my mother out a window for a spoonful of Meow Mix. "All right, I'll be your puss-in-boots."

She rubbed against me in appreciation. “Thank you, Sam," she said. "Now, please, find my Mittens."

In the late afternoon

An onyx cat stretches

Before the bay window,

Reveling before the warmth,

Bristling its fur,

And sneezes in the dust

Brushed up by its tail.

The small sound echoes

In the empty house,

Where he wrote every day,

Until he left this world,

Left this quiet house,

And cobwebs filled the void.

The hour grows later,

The cat walks away,

It's quiet as I stand here;

The cat is all that's left,

But I can't bear to take it.

The sun streaks through

The mullioned glass

And casts shadow

From a fallen post-it.

It's length stretched

Upon the floor

Reads like a sundial,

Maybe I can read it- but I

Forgot to check the time,

And now it's too dark, and the note disappears- and I'm alone.

The beauty of this language

Is fulfilled in deep mystery. 

No one knows truly how it began;

Only historical textbooks with 'scientific guesses.' 

But where did we learn to speak this way,

To sing, 

To write, 

To learn, 

And to love?

Adam and Eve made a bad choice,

Which faltered the fate of the universe. 

Yet here we are, living and breathing and loving one another. 

The beauty of life lies in the mystery of God. 

The unforetold stories of where this earth really started.

How we all came to be.

And when we will all cease to exist. 

The beauty of our beating hearts,

And our sleeping minds,

And our wandering souls after the mystery of death. 

May never be fully explained. 

And so we wait within the mystery of time.