Who Chooses the Music (Day 481)

My cat is a tiger lily, 

wild and bright.

Vivaldi is his kryptonite.

To get him into bed at night,

I turn on The Four Seasons.

My dog is innocent 

as a daisy.

Bach settles her 

when she feels crazy. 

Sheep safely grazing 

make her lazy.

She finds sonatas pleasing. 

Sweet music soothes

the savage beast,

so I’ve collelcted quite a feast

of Beethoven, Hydn, and Liszt,

for pets who need appeasing. 

Who needs another reason?

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

The Weekend Shows (Day 347)

cold toes in wool socks feet

sweating inside slippers that 

clearly aren’t doing their job   

comforting weight of the cat 

spread across my lap from 

knee to thigh folded and 

draped from side to side like 

a sun-warmed blanket 

knitting needles making a trim 

clicking sound when the tips 

graze and nubbly yarn turning

into fabric as it slips through 

my fingers   spicy floral tea 

growing lukewarm in a pottery 

mug painted by a mystery artist 

in an intricate pattern of blue 

flowers and green leaves that 

remind me the world will not

always remain frigid and gray

conversation on the radio in calm 

public-broadcasting voices so 

familiar they are almost like friends

—the ones I saw every day when 

I lived and worked in a city I loved—

though since That Man took office 

I’ve had to bar even NPR from 

my house during the work-week

because they never stop talking 

about him for an instant from 

Monday to Friday dwelling on 

the most bitter upsetting news

and in that way they aren’t really 

like my old friends at all

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: From Radio World magazine, 1923

via Wikimedia Commons

Cat (Day 326)

Awake?

Get up.

Asleep? 

Not now.

Come here 

and pet me—

no, not there!

Fill my food bowl.

Scoop my box.

Stop knitting socks

and play with me, 

but only if we 

play the game 

you don’t enjoy.

Not with that toy!

Some wet food. 

NOW.

I’m cold, 

your lap Is warm.

I’m hot, please move 

your arm away.

Don’t pick me up

or try to hold me.

You’ll be sorry!

Brush my fur.

Not with that brush!

Now, come to bed—

I’ll purr for you,

unless you really

want me to.

For Charley, who inspired this poem. 

Today.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

World Like a Cat Toy (Day 313)

Sometimes the world 

feels like a cat’s toy, 

a little blue-green ball, 

new, shiny, frantically 

spun about for a while, 

then batted under the bed 

and soon forgotten. 

For weeks, months, or (yes), 

even years, the toy remains 

inert in dust-laden darkness.

But, on a far-off moving day, 

someone may find it, 

pick it up, and say, 

“Hey, remember this?” 

Then, once again, the little ball 

will enjoy more light and 

find renewed favor, and be 

maniacally spun about, until 

it is batted under the bed again.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Moritz320

Cat (Day 216)

Takes his rightful place.

Ringed tail tip, slowly: right, left.

Imprints lap with fur.

(c) by Hannah Six

Image: Charley, H. Six

You Come Back To Me (Day 146)

 Katja, on hand-crocheted ripple blanket

In the strong line of my pen, 

you come back to me—

playful, an acrobat, more sure 

of your skill than I, but you

prove yourself, and, high 

above us find a view that 

inspires your frequent high-wire 

displays, much to my dismay. 

In the light of a midnight moon, 

you come back to me—

ghostly presence just beyond 

my toes, leading me through 

darkness on the route I always 

follow, then you take me back 

to bed and perch, a quiet 

presence, near my head, and 

I slip into sleep hearing you

purr, my fingers tangled in 

your luxurious fur. 

In the still moments before I wake,

you come back to me—again, 

alight in the rose-gold morning 

glow, solemn, silly, cherished 

little friend, somehow you 

always know my dreams are 

at an end, my eyes about to open, 

and, mysterious as joy, you’re 

there to meet me, the sweetest 

way to greet another day.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six