The Cats – Charles, Peter and Tapioca
I am an inanimate object;
My three spoiled cats have told me,
I’m just a thump in a well-traveled route,
Between their water, fresh food, and smelly sandboxes.
They expect me to know their special needs,
They prefer houseplants to dry crunchy kibbles and bits.
But whatever they eat, they cough and they spit
Messy hairballs on my dining room carpet.
At night when I lay in my warm cozy bed
Scampering claws dig into my flesh.
They scream and hiss in purr delight
Then quietly settle wherever they wish.
It seems like so many years ago,
When my daughters selected cute bundles of fur.
They promised us they’d alwys take care,
Now they’ve fledged and left them behind.
Nine lives is a long, long time,
About nineteen years, my vet has advised us.
But still I would protest if someone took them from the nest,
I’d miss my lords and my fur masters.
-Clarence Holm, Servant of the House
Dusty gravel roads
Near swaths of ripening wheat
-Father’s furrowed brow
I think of my father, especially when I am trying to solve a problem that requires some patience. When all seems lost, I think back to my days on the farm, remembering the endless chores and the way my father attacked them day after day after day. Dad’s stoic acceptance of running a small farm with old equipment held together with bailing wire and cardboard gaskets, in a weather cycle that didn’t produce enough rain to parch the sandy soil, taught me that even in a losing effort there are battles to be won.
Though our family gardens were doomed to be raided by the neighbor’s pigs and the Massey Harris combine and the old John Deere tractor were unwilling farm servants, dad always found ways to persevere. Even when most sane men would throw in the towel, his stubborn Midwestern will would drive him through the crisis.
I remember lots of happy times too. Noon-time meals with the entire family sitting down to meat and potatoes, covered in gravy served with Mom’s fresh white bread on a plate in the middle of the table. I loved hearing his lunch time dreams of tomorrow, when the next harvest would run over our bins.
I remember him during those times of joy and sadness and wish I could stand near him again to walk in those fields of Dakota. Even though Dad rests in peace, I just wanted to say just one more time, Happy Fathers’ Day dad; I love you this much.
Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge 152 Color/Warmth
When I was young, my grandmother had an old wood burning stove that she would use to heat the kitchen and make meals. She would get up early on cold winter mornings to stir the ashes and rekindle the fire. Once started, it would only take a few minutes for grandma and the fire to bring the house back to life.
Ash colored embers
Stoked deep in smoldering warmth
Gave our morning life