Showing posts with label fauna. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fauna. Show all posts

Toothed

If my words are toothed
they were born that way,
dreaming of howling
before they clawed out of my chest.

It may not be wise,
but it’s less painful

than seeing them
crawling beneath my skin
when I look in the mirror.

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash



Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem was created for the Friday Writings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United. "To Speak Up or Stay Quiet?"

That Last Morning

That last morning, you woke me up when the light from the alarm clock was brighter than the sky outside. It didn’t bother me because I knew the clock had been winding down since January of last year, when I prayed that you’d see one last snow fall. You got your snow. You got your week by the sea. You played with the children you loved. Earlier this week you even got steak. So when I heard you whimper during the morning shift (Dad always takes the night shift) I lay down next to you. I rubbed your back until you felt better. And together we watched the sky lighten, waiting for Dad to get up and so we could that last morning walk together. 


On that last morning
your pain finally left you.
My pain is lessened
knowing that we gave you these gifts—
a full life, a gentle end.

Kit, looking dapper


Song Choice: Cracker Jack by Dolly Parton


Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem is linked to the Friday Writings Prompt at Poets and Storytellers United. It was written for my sweet boy Kit, who crossed the rainbow bridge last Friday. I am grateful that our whole family was able to be in the room when it was time to say goodbye.


By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Lift Off

I thought I had to wait
for an invitation from the wind
to test how far I could fly.



Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for the Friday Writings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, Upcycled Words. I did go through a bunch of my old poems, intending to reuse a couple of lines here and there. As I tried to see how they might fit together, this bit came to mind and I thought it was pretty decent as is. 

Prince of Rabbits

You have a thousand enemies, little rabbit,
all made the moment you came out
from beneath the safety of the earth.

How could you have known
about old, innocent blood on a far-away field

when your only thoughts
were of playtime in the sweet grass
as lush and green as your eyes could see?

The moon has seen
multitudes of pitiless horrors
play themselves out.

But it has also seen triumphs
and unforeseen beauty.

Feed yourself on those stories,
little rabbit, play to your strengths.

Keep a kind heart,
cultivate some cunning,

so that you may run with other rabbits
aware of, and delighted in, their power.

Make and find new stories,
Little Prince Unafraid
to Rebirth and Rename Himself—

stories of survival and joy to share
on cold, dark nights.


Photo by Jason Leung on Unsplash



Song Choice: Baby Mine covered by Bonnie Raitt and Was not Was


Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem is linked to Poets and Storytellers United's Friday Writings Prompt. Today is also my Darling Youngest's birthday. Ren is 19 and I am proud of the young man he is becoming.


By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Living His Best Life

My dog, Kit, struts
on the last half block
of our walk.

He was successful
in diverting me to the retirees’ home
where belly rubs and bacon treats waited.

A careless squirrel
passed within less than a foot of him.

If Kit was less full
he might have caught it

(at least that is what I think
he tells himself
as he struts home).

I am hungry after all the side quests.
I call the pizzeria to put in my order.

Kit starts howling
at the words “chicken fingers”.

He knows that means it’s pizza night.
He knows there will be left over crusts
and more belly rubs.

The girl on the other end laughs.
She hears him too.

“Can you imagine that,” I say,
“He was actually shy when we first rescued him?”

"I tell you I was t-h-i-s close to catching that rodent!"

Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem was inspired by the prompt given at Poets and Storytellers United, Keeping it Real. Yes my dog is really this ridiculous. Most of my neighbors can vouch for it.

Becoming

Amid the soup of my innards,
I am searching for hints
of what I may yet be.

Nothing is familiar
in these runny remains
of a life that no longer exists.

Liquid eyes are blind.
I must trust completely
in the memory of the shine 
of kindly stars.

I can still feel
the edges of me 
wrapped up 
in the strength 
of that remembered fire

and in other things that insist
that my dissolved being is still whole.

Happy and strange words are my home
creating a place for me to make sense of it all—

a place for me to remember myself.
When it is over

the flowers and leaves I’ve always adored
will still be cherished, 
in a new way.

And I will fully know
the sky I was meant to fly in
with no fear of falling.

Photo by Evie S. on Unsplash


Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, Equinox. I chose to incorporate the words "Happy and strange words are my home".

King Koi (Obon)

The koi rises
like a splash of sunshine
from behind clouds of murky water.

The golden-orange flash
dances though the pond

in and out of branches
trailing at the pond’s edge
playing in the reflection of the moon.

Until, conceding defeat,

he sinks back,
all the brightness swallowed
again in the gloom of the water.

No treats have been set out for him
tonight. There is only the flicker
of floating candles lighting the way back

for those who swim
in far darker places
than the gilded king of the pond.

Photo I took of an obon observance I went to
at Shofuso (The Japanese house and garden in Philadelphia) over the weekend.



Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, Pay Attention

Embrace

I embrace decay,
trusting it to feed the seeds
too small for me to see now.


Liner Notes for This Groove: This senryu was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, Micro-writings.

I Pity the Poor Old Bird

I pity the poor old bird
who didn’t value the strength of the tree
that sheltered her from the storms,

and instead spent her nights
lamenting over another
tree that would not bend
to cherish her near so well.

I pity the poor old bird
who knows nothing
other than playing
at being a harpy,

befouling every space
unlucky enough to know her presence.

It is clear she envies
the kestrel and her mate,
lovingly paired and partnered,

with no wingbeat taken for granted—

the kestrel who knows the joy
of the welcoming blue sky,
the stars, and rising sun,

who has flown with true companions
that were only taken from her by death,
and not driven away by spite.

I pity the poor old bird,
who when she finally falls
stiff and cold from her perch,

will fall
unmissed,
unloved,
and unremembered,

save for the worms
that will find plenty of room to burrow
in the cavity of her empty chest.

I hope those who hold you fondly in their mind have a true and clear image of you. 
I hope you are seen clearly for who you are.
May you never look into a mirror without seeing your true face.




Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, Bird is the Word.

Once A King

My dog was once king
of the elementary school bus stop
every morning.

He was a fair monarch,
granting belly rub privileges to all
the children before they started their school day.

But the corner has been empty
of adoring subjects. If they see him,
they wave from behind windows now.

And the once king of the bus stop
makes his rounds near an empty playground,
howling at the other exiled kings and queens
who also miss the noisy old days.

Kit, in his pre-pandemic stance.
 


Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt given at Poets and Storytellers United, Beloved Companions.

El Búho

There are times
words come to my mind
faster in Spanish
than in English. Why

just this evening
búho flew faster
into my mind
than owl did. Something

suggested in the wing beats,
felt more like búho
than owl
to me. The remembrance

of a word I hadn’t used
too terribly often,
even in childhood,
made we wonder

what else
is flitting about my subconscious,
waiting for me to discover it.



Owl Queen by Don Martin.
You can find more of his whimsical work on Etsy and Red Bubble.
Don is a poet as well as an artist
and you can find his latest poetry collection on Amazon.




This poem was created for Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings #17.





Corgi and the Ramp


We aren’t 100% sure of how old our Kit is. The rescue organization estimated he was about 3, and we’ve had him for 6 years. That puts him at 9. Like our first dog, Faye, he’s a corgi. But unlike Faye, he’s lazy. He was a whopping 45 pounds when we adopted him, compared to Faye’s top weight at 19 pounds. And also unlike Faye, who was notoriously picky, Kit eats like he’s unsure of his next meal.

Corgis can develop back problems when they are too heavy. Despite our best efforts to whittle down his weight, things came to a head this last holiday season. We don’t know what his life was like before he came to us, but we do know he’s terrified of loud noises—whether it’s loud laughter, expressions of disgust during video games, or teen bickering. When things get noisy, Kit likes to retreat into our bedroom. The trouble is, that’s on the second floor. After a week of going up and down stairs several times a day, he was done.

The vet said it was vertebral disc injury, but it was too soon to tell how bad it was. His stomach wasn’t doing so great either, so mild meds, acupuncture, and rest (no stairs) were recommended. We got him a ramp to deal with the last issue.

He wasn’t keen on it at first. We tried to tempt him into using it by setting it up to go to the window seat. If he couldn’t chase squirrels, at least he’d be able to bark at them. He sniffed but refused to trust the odd new addition. We want to keep him less pudgy, but he was getting better enough to be sassy and try jumping up and down off things. Low-cal rewards were clearly the lesser evil. And it worked. 

I need to be fast folding it out, because he can be impatient and try a leap he has no business attempting. Still I’m thrilled that the acupuncture is working so well, and even more miraculously he doesn’t seem to mind it. We’ll still need to keep an eye on his back, but hopefully he has plenty of squirrel chasing years ahead of him.

Kit near his downstairs dog bed, wondering what I am doing.



Song Choice: Jump by Van Halen

This essay is linked to Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings #4

The King of the Bus Stop: Blogging Around with Rommy Week 45



I thought I knew what stubborn was, but that was before we rescued Kit. Oh I knew corgis could be stubborn, thanks to my first dog, Faye. But Kit has taken corgi stubbornness and elevated to a Michelangelo level of artistry.

Nowhere is this more obvious than at around 8:30 am every morning. You see that’s the time the elementary school bus comes around our neighborhood. And Kit knows that not only is the bus stop filled with children lining up to rub his belly, he knows the bus driver always has treats on hand for any dogs that happen to be around.

This is slightly mortifying for me as my children are well past elementary school age. There is no reason to be at the stop. But if Kit just sees one child heading in that direction, he will tug on his leash until my husband or I bring him there. This dog, who is known for the most part to be a lazy fellow, will sprint if he hears the bus coming down the block. He has also been known to have an attitude if we are late getting him out and he misses the bus.

It’s gotten so bad that every time Kit sees a bus, he assumes it’s his bus and won’t budge unless its proven otherwise (the bus drives past with no one paying any attention to him and no treats getting tossed his way).

While this can be very exasperating, especially when I’m trying to get him to take care of business quickly between errands, I can’t stay annoyed for long. I remember how shy he was when we first adopted him, a few months after Faye passed away. He grew to love and trust us, and we were grateful for his cuddly derpiness after what had been a sad time in our lives. I don’t know why his previous owners gave him up, but I’m glad he’s part of our family now. A little stubbornness now and then is a very small price to pay for that.

If I stay perfectly still
maybe I'll get a cookie

This essay is linked to Poets United Pantry of Prose and Poetry

Song Choice: Whenever I see Kit waiting for a bus I often imagine the Wells Fargo Wagon song from the Music Man playing in his head.

Hunger Pains

There was no question—his mews were less robust than his brothers’ and sisters’ from the moment he was born. And now they had gotten even fainter. None of the litter had opened their eyes yet but Mayra knew that one would not get the chance, even if she didn't intervene. She looked down at the pitifully undersized creature.

 A patched tabby strutted into the alley where Mayra and her brood lay. Lyla gave her a contemptuous look as she got closer.

“You haven’t done away with it yet?” Lyla scoffed.

Mayra didn’t look up. She continued to look at the small kitten, wishing things had been different, wishing he was as strong as the others.

Small white paws…dark fur…white patch on the throat…dark nose…Mayra tried to fix in her mind every detail about him she could.

“Oh move out of the way. I’ll do it if you won’t. It’s a shame to waste food, even if he won’t make much of a meal.”

Mayra hissed at Lyla. “I’ll do it.”

I don’t know if I can care for the others, or myself for that matter, Mayra thought. She had a hard time finding much to eat lately, even with Helia’s help, and worried if she could make enough milk for all the kittens. She had hoped for a miracle. Sometimes she’d daydream about one of the two-leggeds taking her and her children into a warm home. But she had found nothing more comforting from them than glass bottles thrown her way.

There was going to be no miracle. Nothing would help the small one now. She knew that this would give her food she desperately needed and buy the rest of her children just a bit more time. But her heart still ached. It would be crueler to let him linger like this.

Mayra opened her mouth and in a few seconds it was done.

“There now. It wasn’t that hard. You first time brood carriers, always so dramatic. You actually have tears right now! I’ve eaten at least 4 of my own kittens and it never bothered me once. They were actually quite tasty. If it wasn’t such a strain to bear the little beasts, I might have another litter, just for the chance to taste one again.”

Mayra hissed and spat again. Lyla raised her paw to strike.

“All right over there, Mayra?”

A scarred pit bull loped over to the two cats. She barred her teeth at Lyla. “You wouldn’t be thinking of hurting a new mother, would you, Lyla?”

Lyla turned tail and fled. Helia gave a snort in her direction. “I never did like Lyla all that much. She bothers you again, I won’t feel bad about taking a nice big bite out of her backside. Oh, I almost forgot. I got something for you.” Helia ran to the front of the alley and came back again, bearing a large mouse. She wagged her tail excitedly, dropping it at Mayra’s paws. “This is nothing. There’s a whole warehouse full of ‘em. When you and your babies can move, I’ll take you to it. The two-leggeds would probably love having some good mousers. Maybe they’ll need a guard dog too. I already had plenty. This one is for you.”

Mayra ate, grateful for the extra food. She tried not to think that this was the first time her belly felt full in a while. “Thank you Helia. I don’t know why you’re so kind to me.”

“Already told you. You look like the cat from the place I was before. She was the only good thing about that place and the only reason I made it out.” Helia noticed there was one less kitten curling up to Mayra to nurse. She licked the cat tenderly, deciding not to bring it up unless Mayra did. “It’s been a busy day. I don’t know about you, but I could use a bit of rest.” Helia placed herself in front of Mayra, and lay down.
…

Mayra picked her head up drowsily. There was something in the sound of the wind that woke her. She sniffed the air. Beside her, several kittens shifted restlessly in their sleep, squirming more closely against each other. A faint whine came from Helia, but she still slept. Blinking, she looked more closely at the shadows near a stack of slowly rotting cardboard boxes. 

Mayra never had trouble distinguishing objects in shadow before, but instead of the broken glass, mildewed rags and other assorted city trash she was used to seeing, all she could make out was an inky haze pooling around the boxes. As she watched, all of the shadows seemed to take on the same velvety darkness. Mayra shook her head as if that might clear her vision, but the shadows started to congeal into shapes with no relation to their surroundings. 

A legion of small, fragile figures could be made out, some of which occasionally shifted back to the formlessness of the larger shadow before coalescing into a tiny feline form again.

“Mama” came a tiny mew and dozens of equally high pitched mews of “Mama” followed after.

Mayra hung her head, “I am sorry, little one. You should have been born to a mother on a comfortable farm somewhere, with kind, big two-leggeds to bottle-feed you and kind, small two-leggeds to adore you. I am sorry I wasn't enough to save you.”

“We know,” answered dozens of tiny mews. “You cried Mama. Only Mamas cry. Not everyone cries for us.” The words repeated again and again like ripples across a pond.

Mayra blinked, “We? Us? There was only one kitten I…” She turned to look at the rest of her babies. They were all still there, still asleep and moving fitfully. “Who are you?”

“Ones who could not survive. Lost and found ones. We have each other. But we still need a Mama.”

“Why?”

“Feed us Mama. We are so hungry. Please feed us.” The small echoing mews filled the alley.

“I don’t know how. I wish I did. You’d still be alive if I knew how.”

“Feed us Mama! Feed us!” came the insistent mews, rising ever higher in pitch and volume. “We’re so hungry!”

“I don’t know how!” Mayra screamed.

“Whoa, Mayra. Hun, you alright?” Mayra felt a large wet tongue on her side. She opened her eyes and saw Helia’s worried face. One of her kittens started to mew and she flinched. It was a perfectly normal and healthy mew of a hungry kitten. She trembled and gave it a tentative lick. The kitten was warm and solid. Mayra moved to start to nurse her and the others started to move closer.

She looked at Helia. “Just a nightmare. I guess I knew the little ones needed to eat now.”

When Mayra was finished nursing her children Helia got up to leave. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to go to warehouse and get us some food. It’s going to be all right Mayra. Just a couple of days and we’ll all go together.”

Not too long after Helia left, Lyla came into the alley, followed by two cats Mayra didn’t know. “I know Helia’s gone. She won’t be back for a while.”

The fur bristled on Mayra’ back. “What do you want Lyla?”

“Breakfast.”

The three cats started towards Mayra. She hissed at them. All I need to do is hold out until Helia comes back, she thought. I can do that.

But even if she had been well-fed and not weak from giving birth three days ago, Mayra was small and young. The two cats with Lyla were strong and well used to scuffling with bigger opponents. After the first few blows, Mayra was dizzy. The world started blur in front of her. As she fell, she could hear the kittens crying behind her.

I can’t feed you, she thought. And as soon as I’m gone they will eat you.

“We’re hungry Mama,” came dozens of little mews.

“Little ones, I wish you could eat them,” she whispered.

Immediately the shadows from the alley gathered and a sea of small, indistinct shadows crashed over Lyla and her friends. Myra heard their pained yowls but couldn’t see anything besides the forms in shadows pouncing over and over again. Eventually the yowls stopped and even the mass of shadows stopped moving. One small figure came away from the larger body of shadows, and dropped a bit of meat in front of Mayra.

“For you Mama.”

“Thank you sweetheart,” Mayra answered. 

Photo by Ricardo Tamayo on Unsplash


Song Choice: Baby Mine from the movie Dumbo

Liner Notes for this Groove: This is a slightly updated version of a story I wrote awhile ago. It just felt right bringing it out again this time of year. It also feels cool revisiting some of my older work after the amazing time I had at the Nerdtino Expo. (More about that later, I promise!)




Autumn's Breath: Blogging Around with Rommy Week 41


Autumn Breath
Jason Limberg
Used with Permission


Autumn’s breath should be crisper
than the first bite of an apple.

It should carry the musk
hidden in the heart of leaf piles.

It should whip past you
with the snap of a newly bared branch.

But when it is smothered too long
in a zombie summer’s dregs,

even the animals’ whispers will carry
across the sullen air.


This poem was created for Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads' Art Flash prompt. It is also linked to Poets United's Pantry of Poetry and Prose.



Liner Notes for This Groove: I can remember being disappointed by freezing Halloweens in my youth - ones so cold that you had to wear a big jacket and no one could tell what you were dressed as. As much of a bummer as those were, I have to say that this recent one's unseasonable warmth bothered me more. I was able to run around in a short sleeve dress without needing a light sweater. I did however have a cup of tea with me as I was giving out the candy. As Thea Devine wrote, "Tea was the great leveler. It brought calm, quiet, contentment, warmth. And it was something to do." At least I could depend on my evening cuppa to be exactly what I expected.


Song Choice: Fall on Me by R.E.M.



Ant Cthulu: Blogging Around with Rommy Week 17



I always joke about my black thumb, but I happen to have two orchids that I’ve kept alive and in relative good health for years. They’re actually not too bad to care for. Just let them soak in a sink full of water once a week for at least 10 minutes and make sure they get fed a little too. So when I left for my vacation I figured the orchids would be OK while I was gone.

Bwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

So when I went to give the smaller of my two orchids its weekly soak, I was completely unprepared for a swarm of ants to emerge from the recesses of the potting mix and start going everywhere looking for drier ground.

Good thing for me, I don’t squick out over bugs easily. And it wasn’t like they could go anywhere, surrounded on all sides by water. Truth be told, I felt a little bad for the suckers. They had no idea they would face an apocalyptic deluge when they got up that morning. Victoria Schwab once wrote, “The bodies in my floor all trusted someone. Now I walk on them to tea.” I’m sorry they felt my samurai orchid was a safe place to camp. But they had to go.

Although I wasn’t scared of them, I also had no desire to have them immediately race up my hands and fingers when I picked up the pot. First I made sure the front door was open. Then I grabbed one of the husband’s t-shirts, dunked it in another sink until it was sopping wet, and used that to airlift the pot to the outside, while I shouted “Leeeeeroy Jenkins!”

I don’t know if there was a smarter way to do it, but not too many ants were willing to make the crossing onto the wet t-shirt during the space of time it took me to get the pot out. Once I put it down on a grassy spot in my yard, the survivors streamed out the side. I gave them all night to clear off. In the morning I poured off all the water, carefully wiped the outer pot with vinegar, and moved it to a sunny spot near my computer so I could keep an eye on it. So far, so good. I hope they find a better home. But it better not be in my other orchid.

Ants keep to the dark
knowing that the large don’t care.
The small step lightly
to reach safety in the loam
where some control is achievable.




This poem is linked to Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads' Tuesday Platform.


Art work by Gina Morely, hostess of Daydream Believer. 
She created it as part of an on-line class she took (Beautiful Bugs) through Willowing Arts.





Bug


Dreadful headlines buffet the breath from my body. I recoil from their continued assault, only to be knocked over like bug on its back. The natural comfort of my carapace becomes a trap. I flail, finding no purchase in the air I flew freely through not so long ago. News marches on. I feel the whoosh as its passing feet come close to crushing me in this vulnerable position. A well timed gust of wind combined with the wriggle of my legs helps me rediscover my center. I go to my place of safety, and remember though I am small, I am also not alone. There are far more of me, buzzing, whirring and clicking in every city and town. And together we are a swarm that outnumbers them all.




Uncaring footfalls
promise my annihilation
unless I stand up.
Fear threatens to entomb me
but anger keeps me fighting.



This poem was created for the prompt given at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads: 13 is Poetry. It is also linked to Poets United, Poetry Pantry 399. I used the following 13 words from the original quote: 

dreadful
annihilation
breath
the
comfort
natural
their
a
on
continue
anger
to
rediscover

The quote given:

“People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.” ~ Diane Setterfield


Songbird

When conditioned to the silence of winter, that first sound of bird song can be surprising. Its music is a far better reminder than a date on the calendar that warmth will soon return. Even if there is snow on the ground, each trill carries a seed of spring to plant inside the hearts that hear them.

A bird intends its song
to be heard. It is a gift,
inspiring music
in an appreciative ear.
The worlds needs more songbirds.


Song choice: Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus (acapella version)

This poem is linked up to Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads' Tuesday Platform. It is also linked to Poets United Poetry Pantry 392.

Recluse

The light came again, shrinking my circle of sanctuary. I shut my sun-scorched eyes and pressed my limbs into the safety of roots and earth, their presence steadying me.

You knew it would come again, and you know it will go again too, I whispered to myself, letting the pain ease before I opened my eyes again.

The light was still there, dimmer than it had been when I was pulled from my dark and tossed among these roots.


“You won’t last,” I hissed. “Night will come. I’ll see without pain, find better shelter and good hunting then. I’ll wait.”


Clouds Above the Trees, photo by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


This bit of flash fiction was inspired by the photo prompt given at Friday Fictioneers.