* * bad poetry * *

Sonnet 1

Do you admire this fragile attempt at verse
that shatters to crystalline syllables
on the tip of your tongue? Within the words
you try to search for something beautiful.
Perhaps you're moved by flowing, liquid lines
that join in seamless glaze like drops of tears
trailing down your face. In rhythm and rhymes
are you able to find a pattern clear?
Maybe you're inspired by brief flashes
of brilliance. Ethereal thoughts that dance
elusive just beyond your eyelashes.
You think this too intriciate for chance?
A confession to serve this poem justice-
sole reason I write: penmanship practice.

Calico Cat

Within a blurry swirl of feline fur
sleeps one small patch of orange and white and black
oddity among cats whose single shades stir
not with other colors orange, white, or black.

I know a simple cause biologically
with chromosomes and basal bodies that
explains that stunning singularity
occurring in this multicolored cat.

But I prefer to think it rubs it back
against the graceful curves and gentle slopes
of table-legs and armchairs newly stained,

and with its tints of orange and white and black
it curls its undulating back and goes
to sleep with dreams of walls of drying paint.