CAT’S CRADLE

A cat’s in a cradle, swaying in a tree
On the verge of snapping from snow white winds
That hit like a sucker punch to the jaw
As bad news blizzards coat its branches.
Three angels sit,
One still growing wings in her flesh,
Cold infants with baby blue eyes
Abandoned by their seed planters.
I can paint the tears
Gushing down their cheeks,
Forming brittle canyons in cracking skin.
They live like hobos on railroad tracks
Waiting for a train with no destination,
Praying for a home,
Praying for the day when misery
No longer stalks a doorstep,
The day when a roof stays steady during torrential rains,
The day when promises arrive as scheduled
And are shipped to the right address,
The day when money pours from a faucet
Without debt soon clogging its drains.

And boy does the cat pray,
Prays as much as her angels wonder,
Wonder why the sky is blue,
Wonder why the grass is green,
Wonder when they’ll be home.
They draw portraits of Heaven
On a makeshift table of dictionaries,
Coloring in perfection in imperfect strokes,
Drawing mommy,
Drawing her smile,
Cutting with the orange scissors of my childhood.
Those were simple days,
Days of arts and crafts afternoons,
Mother’s comfort, security blankets,
Swing set evenings when we’d all sing
“Let’s go fly a kite, up to the highest height,”
Bedtime stories of giving trees,
Moons and caterpillars,
When “bill” was a name and not the end of the world,
When tragedies were on telethons
And not in our backyards,
When mom prayed for others besides just herself
And her angels.
Boy does the cat pray.

If Jesus died for our sins,
He must have never heard hers before his hands were nailed.
So now I pray,
Pray that the cat and her angels
Will one day find happiness,
Will one day find solid ground,
Will one day find shelter to call their own.
And I pray that the bow will never break,
And the cradle will never fall.

Pretty good dude

I wrote this 6 years ago right after I read the Vonnegut novel Cat's Cradle.

The Granfaloon

Slowly walking on my own
through streets so subtly paved with gold.
Neon signs and lights so bright
vaguely cover a depth of fright.

With my pen the surface is scratched.
The fine gold shell so easily cracked.
A glimpse is given of rot and despair.
An offset stench lingers in the air.

Beneath the cover of beauty and myth,
the presumptuous mood begins to shift.
People lying cold and dead,
as people are lying, no tears they shed.

Bring your tired, your poor, and your huddled masses.
Throw them into your castes and your classes.
And your sons and your daughters yearning to be free
are locked in mechanical conformity.

Granfaloons' and pissants' voices fill the air,
cherishing and loving what is not there.
Surrendering so quickly of which they're defined,
to protect and fight for what no longer shines.

And that star spangled banner still waves so surely
over the land of the brave, but the home of the free?

Actually, I wrote this before I even knew Vonnegut wrote a novel called "Cat's Cradle." I only found this out earlier this week when I checked out a book called "10001 You Should Read Before You Die."

some great imagery in here whygo