=^..^= poems =^..^=

              THE CALLING      In cages all around the room      they sat             most of them quiet                    and scared      and lonely.      You made a noise             like no other cat                   you paced your cage      I thought: "if only             you fitted the order                  that I had in mind."               But you did not -             not color, not gender.      I did not come here to get             you - yet your voice      although growing hoarse             still constantly rose.      I lifted you up -             your fur was so tender                   big amber eyes             looked into my heart      and now quiet tongue             licked tip of my nose.      There was no choice             (oh,cat, that was smart)      for then and there              as I held you close                    a bond was sealed      that brought so much joy!      Thank you, my pet,              for raising your voice                    to call for love,      thank you,               my sweet boy!

     Izabel Sonia Ganz      Sept.1997 revised May 1998

     Published on the elegant pages of Pat Crowley,     "Devoted to Cats"

This is Jake, typing from Florida

      Cats and Keyboards

      My cat jumps on the sofa
      looks at the keyboard in my lap
with unmistakable disgust
      places a delicate paw
      on my knee
      and utters a soft "meow"
      meaning:
      Please get this intruder
      out of my rightful spot."

      I pick up the keyboard
      he settles in its place
      The e-mail stays unanswered
      the cat purrs
      I read poems
      and rants
      by other people
      clicking the buttons
      of my trustworthy
      WebTv remote.

      Izabel Sonia Ganz August 14, 1998       published in Net4WebTv Voice, September 1998       and in SNAKESKIN POETRY WEB-ZINE        August 1999 issue.

           Strays

        Dark shadows
        on fast feet
        streak
        among bushy weeds
        billowing
        after spring rains.
        Tails straight up -
        rudders guiding their course
        towards my cooing voice.

        I stand
        under a round moon
        over a white plate
        fringed by coal-black shapes
        their tails at rest
        as I listen to the crunching
        of my food in their teeth.

        I also hear a voice
        every day
        calling sweetly
        promising fulfillment.
        Why is it that
        the plate
        is always served to me empty?

        Maybe I need faster feet
        to win the race
        a long tail for a rudder
        or to fill my ears with cotton
        and feed my hunger
        at the round and full
        plate of the moon.

        Izabel Sonia Ganz         April 1998         previously published         in "Gravity - A Journal         of On-line Writing"

This is Magick,
resting from the toils of writing
"MAGICK's LAMENT"
featured on a separate page

The Crone's Poetry Pages
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