Fog

 Fog
BY CARL SANDBURG

THE fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

Guest Poet: Lori Desrosiers

Lori Desrosiers is a fine poet I "met" on Facebook last year through mutual acquaintances. She delighted me throughout the fall and winter with her marvelous lyrical bedtime status updates.

Here is an excerpt from her recently published book of poetry entitled "The Philosopher's Daughter": ~~GH

Looking at Bees
Among the rushes on the shore
the only bright thing
was a bee’s black and yellow abdomen

Three trials
one of bees, one of bicycle, one of whirlpool
the year I turned six

At the sight of bees
I tried to hold myself
as still as the moon

I don’t usually enjoy
the sound of buzzing
but today the mower
sounds like home
although the bees
seem annoyed

It was the bees’ fault
hiding in deep woods brush
I almost died

Running up the hill
covered with welts
ladies offering jars
of various bright hues
Daddy would have
something that
wouldn’t hurt

He rode up the drive
in his magic coach
with a doctor’s bag
and a hug for me
his baby girl.

The night
when we counted
the bee stings
there were
fifty-two

From The Philosopher's Daughter Salmon Poetry, 2013. Also in Tygerburning 2012.

Lori Desrosiers’ first full-length book of poems, The Philosopher's Daughter is from Salmon Poetry (2013). Her chapbook, Three Vanities, was published in 2009 by Pudding House. Her poems have appeared in New Millenium Review, Contemporary American Voices, BigCityLit, Concise Delights, Blue Fifth Review, Pirene's Fountain, The New Verse News, Common Ground Review, and many more, including a prompt in Wingbeats, a book of writing exercises from Dos Gatos Press. Her MFA in Poetry is from New England College. She is editor and publisher of Naugatuck River Review, a journal of narrative poetry.

The Philosopher's Daughter is available from Salmon Poetry

Open Letter to My Cat

An Open Letter to my Cat,

Thank you for the coughed-up hairball on the stairs this morning. You provided me with some early-morning aerobic exercise as I reacted in horror to the cold squishy sensation on the bottom of my right foot. 

Your surprise woke me up like no caffeine could possibly do. I had figured on stumbling around blindly for an hour since I only got four hours’ sleep last night, but oh no! Your generous gift brought me immediate alertness!

You in your kitty wisdom knew I would have wasted literally minutes of valuable early morning time sitting in a semi-comatose state in front of the laptop, reading emails. Instead, I got to apply problem-solving skills such as how to hobble to the kitchen on one foot and a heel. And in all fairness, the stairs needed wiped down anyway. 

We do need to talk about this whole missing-the-litter-box thing. I’d much rather scoop than sweep, if you know what I mean. But I’m willing to turn a blind eye to whatever’s happening behind the entertainment center, until next spring. 

Sincerely,

Ginger

See the Light

There is a decorative rod on my living room wall from which a quilt once hung. For the December holidays, I draped a string of large, old-fashioned multi-colored lights like these across the length of the rod:

Both because they're a PITA to take down, and because I like how they look, I decided to leave them up. For some reason during the last couple of weeks, Momma has begun to get as close as possible and sit staring at the lights. 

Here she is studying a red bulb (the colors refuse to photograph properly).

And here she is, studying a white bulb.

What secret information is she gleaning? I am not privy at this juncture. Maybe she is trying to burn out her retinas because of something she saw on Facebook. 

I can relate to that feeling. 

I am routinely disappointed to see images posted on social media showing results of graphic violence and abuse under the guise of calling folks to take action. I feel subjecting others to those images is in itself a form of abuse. 

This isn't a matter of squeamishness; I have seen horrific graphic situations in real life. I am not squeamish, nor weak-stomached. I actually have been accused by peers in the nursing profession of being cold-hearted and unfeeling as far as my reactions to disturbing scenarios go. Let's just say I did my job, and did it well, come-what-may. I left the freaking out for later, once the event was over.

I believe it unnecessary to post images of aborted fetuses, abused animals, and victims of violence in order to trigger empathy. 

Unfortunately, the disconnect between our society's tolerance of violence and our capacity for sympathy has grown to epic proportions. Maybe some people do have to literally see the results in order to condemn the actions that lead to them. If this is the case, I hope the paradigm shifts quickly and tips in a positive direction.

Momma, resting her overworked eyes

Until then, Momma and I are going to invest in eye bleach.~~GH

Dreams

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
   ~~Langston Hughes