The loud purring
Of a sensitive soul
Rumbles across my lap
A gentleman-mouser
Whose claws are rarely
Sheathed in my flesh
Save for those few
Accidental motions.
He pauses in his
Hypnotic kneading
Of careful paws
Twitches a whisker
Opens a lazy eye
We are content
Devoted Familiar and
Current Provider of ear-scratches
Precious moments spent together
Do not last as long
As they once did
Those rare islands
Of near-silence
I try to spend
Writing.
Such a distraction
Is sadly unacceptable
In company
My failure to stroke
Soft furry egos
While fingers
Play over lettered keys
And coffee cools
At a careless elbow
Lead to gentle taps
Polite, then more insistent
I frown and mutter
Trying to shake loose
Some old ideas
From new forehead creases
Transmit them to my dusty screen
Before the next
Set of demands is issued
By the charming pout
Of the other House Tyrant
Whose three-year-reign
Continues to sway
The working lives
Of all her subjects.
It is not enough.
I cannot please all
Of my many masters
Not this day.
As gentle snores fade to yawns
I sift through the tired
Dog-eared card catalogue
Housed temporarily for safekeeping
Within my rapidly emptying skull
Brain cycling faster
The vocalisation
Begins in earnest
Close behind my ear
“Miaouw!”
He is starting to insist
“Pssst! Shush!”
It is a futile gesture
To try to silence
An old friend
The search continues
There are paws on my shoulder
Tapping, prodding
A hint of sharpness
A gentle shove
Hot breath on my neck
Can I find a verbal noun,
Subclause, or synonym
To convey my sense
Of panic at the first stirrings
Of any sleeping creature
Under four feet
But still a giant?
Too late.
“Mummy!”
I hiss my discomfort
At the sudden perforation
Of my thigh.
Time’s up once again.
Writer’s block
On International Women’s Day
I tried to write a poem
For the women I have known
But the words kept on repeating
Like a litany of moans
Every small injustice suffered
Was enshrined in natty rhyme
But the sentiments uncovered
Were not altogether mine
With each line I scribbled while the bus
Kept up its steady crawl
Hoping soon I’d feel inspired – at home
Decipher bitter scrawl
The syllables collectively
All spoke in tones, irate –
During furious descent into
A semi-lettered state
On no account may these be seen
By those who read my page
Or all would label them obscene
A poorly crafted rage
Instead I will try gently
To uncover what I’d say
If I’d had a more productive pen
Upon this woman’s day
Wordcount
A challenge of words
Daily mileage to clock
When accustomed to torrents
May come as a shock
It appears that such distance
Brings a limit to speed
And more haste, fewer sentences
Grammar and greed
So I packed up the monitor,
The keyboard and mouse
And I, tentative, ventured
Outside of the house
As I strolled to the shops
In a shower of drizzle
My memory pops
At epiphany’s sizzle
A notepad, a new one
With freshly ruled page
And a packet of biros
Will surely assuage
My brain’s seeming outrage
At such a production –
Line focus to fiction
Instinctive and touching
Scribbler’s block
Paused.
The thread of thought broken,
shattered, smashed – irrevocably,
by the brief period of silence.
No breakthrough, no linear quality.
No quality at all.
Words – suspended, then fallen.
Dropped down to Earth like decayed teeth.
Katherine Shirley 