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The Poetry of Catnapping

JackDallas

Senator
Supporting Member
The Poems of Catnapping


The best poet on the Fray, in my opinion, Cat receives very little recognition for her writing. Her poems touch the soul and caress the senses like few others can.


My Father


Before my father became an old man,
people would turn and gaze
when he entered a room.
The walls would sigh,
and the floor smooth to glass.
And light would splinter,
falling around him in shards.


He stood with grizzlies,
his arms reaching up
hard branches the colour of manzanita,
his black hair waving blue in the sunlight.
He moved gracefully with the whitetail,
quick and deadly with the puma.


He'd lift me up
onto a brick wall that anchored our patio,
so I could watch giant silver beasts
a mile away.
He willed my eyes to stay open,
against the sun's gold daggers
And my little body to stand,
against the beasts' roar.

My father's magic
lifted the silver beasts
from a wide concrete ribbon,
and carried their bellies overhead.
Their jets brought
a wind that I could not inhale,
And an explosion I could not resist.

Before my father became an old man,
his voice enchanted women,
and turned men to stone.
He commanded the winds,
and held off the thunder.

He brought light to my eyes,
and wonder to my world.


Catnapping



All my Relations


I thought to myself...
that's how it all moves.

We are not unconnected
lonely ghosts
housed in eyes and ears.
Just waiting to leave…

The rock who powders
and becomes a part of our bones
'til we crumble
and sweep back to dust;

The rain that rushes
crimson through our legs
when we run,
and falls back to the earth
when we cry;

the air we breathe in
and then back out
into the mouths
of verdant trees;

or the grasses and deer
who lend us their lives
'til we pass it on
to the bears.
and then the beetles.

We connect one way
and then another
held by a thread
never separated
never lost© 2003 Catnapping




Subject:

Goodbye

From:

Catnapping444416

Date:

May 1 2003 8:06AM


I held him.
Skin like cold rubber
Pale, plump, and white
Soft blue lips
on the verge of
A quiet smile

Thick brown lashes resting
on cold white cheeks,
his eyes closed forever
A proud straight, cold marble nose
That breathed no air
And smelled no grief

Ears that didn't hear me
crying his name.
Begging him to come home with me.

They covered his body
with a freshly laundered
hospital sheet.
And tucked it under
his bushy red beard
to hide the hole
they'd put in his neck,
too late to save his life.

So I kissed the bottoms
of his feet and
the palms of his hands

I pressed my lips against his
The way I'd done
every night before
he went to sleep
And every morning before
he went off to work.

And I kissed him goodbye

© 2003 Catnapping


veterans day at the vfw


Sitting with friends

at a long table cluttered

with bowls of oatmeal

and cold stacks of pancakes,

he holds his coffee mug

with both hands

and recites the memory

of a cold ditch in Korea


Of hot chinese metal in his ribs

and of smoldering wool

and the certainty that he

would have burst into flames

on the spot

but for the fact

that so much of his blood

was still warm enough to be wet


Another Ghost

the sun slips
behind black silk,
and breathing stills,
lilac floats
on swollen air

twilight's hand
caresses my face,
fingers on my cheek,
a petal's kiss
on my lips

i stand naked
under blossoming trees
shadowed from starlight
moss grows
under bare feet

a cricket calls, lonely,
from another valley
in another hollow
another shadow
another pause


© 2004 Catnapping



Moongoddess

He is in love
with the moon
and she with him,
his soft white hair
reflecting, gently
her quiet light.

In a dark world
she holds him.
His blue eyes follow
her gleaming hands,
as she smoothes
away his day.

She bathes him
She kisses him
He sleeps,
shimmering.
lovingly cradled,
in her tender radiance.

© 2003 catnapping


Subject:

I'll have mine with blue on top, LOL!

From:

Catnapping444416

Date:

Jun 27 2003 9:39AM


I'll have bright yellow birds
And candy apple trees,
Pink petunias and
Snapdragons, please.

Orange marigolds, and
Bright red poppies
Would go great with
Swing, and
A clothesline of nappies.

Grasses to drape the hills,
A soft velvet green
Running with the wind,
Her footprints, only seen

I'll breathe Jasmine and Lilacs,
and sniff Honeysuckle vines
wrapping myself in their petals
my new clothes, divine.

Garnish with floating puffs
Of white cotton candy
Sugar, spun from dreams
Sunny, sweet, and dandy

Drizzle with glaze,
Transparent and blue
And top it with love
My gift from you


© 2003 Catnapping





The poetry of Catnapping…quietly supersedes the doggerel, the pretentious, the would-be poets and the mundane. It is the true essence of the art.


If her stalkers, attackers, and posers had but a fraction of the talent she exhibits on this board, they would busy themselves with creating things of worth rather than cluttering the forum with evidence of their ill-breeding, ignorance, and inferiority.


Jack Dallas (Posted on The Fray 2004)
 

Days

Commentator
Likewise, in our daily "discussions"

I would to God

these morons would speak words

plain broad boards of truth

and not these gnarled twisted patches of thorns

they pretend to be arguments

I would to God

they responded in kind

to thought and energy and meaning,

answering back what was actually said

line upon line and pretext upon pretext

making sense

in touch with reality

instead of inventing Lies and pushing them headlong

against the innocent

who give them space to speak

and they abuse that privilege

in order to deceive us all

with lies
 

Days

Commentator
Someone did a Jewel Kilcher interview and asked her how she writes the incredible lyrics that she is famous for(!?!) ... and Jewel answered directly to her audience, looking past the interviewer, who was seeking to put her on a pedestal... "just write whatever lyrics come to mind, they don't have to be good, lyrics are not important". The interviewer was stunned.

That's how I remember catnapping... she encouraged me to try to write poetry even though I plainly have no clue what or how to do that. She told me that she started the same way - late in life - without a clue how to do it. So I tried to write a little; I set out with little more than faith, not for myself, but I tried to write something because she was encouraging me to try. I visited poems fray with all the real poets - and none of the real poets had anything but respect for catnapping (with one notable exception). And jesus, does it matter if I still can't write poetry? How many people in the world will encourage you to write a poem? catnapping and Sandy were genuine people, big hearted people, people you wish you knew in some small town somewhere, people you would head to the local tavern to talk with - even if you don't drink - just to see their faces and hear their heart... thru the words they speak.

well, shit, I'm crying all over my keyboard.

Jewel put out an album in 2004 called "pieces of you". After all the lyrics to all the songs and her thank yous to everyone that worked on the album, she adds two poems; these are not songs and they are not really poems, they read like more lyrics, not poems, but she adds them as poems; she calls them POEMS. I get the feeling that Jewel tried to write a couple poems, not knowing how to do that. She titled the first one Me. (obviously about herself; and it is) Here is the 2nd one... all the brackets, every word, are hers... exactly the way she wrote it in the album cover...



FAITH POEM (a poem about faith)

I don't know how to do anything
I am trying to move mountains with words
But I am an ant
I scribble
I drool
I move like a worm
whose world
(words)
encompassed a mile
How do I rise above?
Where will this worm
find wings?
I look in the mirror
and I see filth
Who is that?
Where did The Angel go?
Why is there dirt
staring back at me?
Why is the soil of
incompetence beneath my nails?
Why does doubt paint
blue rings
beneath my eyes and
stain my skin?
Why does my spine assume failure?
Why do my lips
flirt with the sky;
why do I try to lasso
Beauty with such a
pitiful rope?
Where is the hair of Rapunzel
or Samson?
Where is my sling
Where is my stone,
My gun?
Where is the weapon with which
I might fight this apathy
that feels like sleep
in my limbs
that loosens my brother's smile
that kills my neighbor's daughter
This pen is scrawny and hardly
seems able to ink out
or erase this plague that
infests my
Generation
This Giant, This Ogre
This Beast, This Death
that assumes a million faces
that borrows my own.
 

JackDallas

Senator
Supporting Member
Someone did a Jewel Kilcher interview and asked her how she writes the incredible lyrics that she is famous for(!?!) ... and Jewel answered directly to her audience, looking past the interviewer, who was seeking to put her on a pedestal... "just write whatever lyrics come to mind, they don't have to be good, lyrics are not important". The interviewer was stunned.

That's how I remember catnapping... she encouraged me to try to write poetry even though I plainly have no clue what or how to do that. She told me that she started the same way - late in life - without a clue how to do it. So I tried to write a little; I set out with little more than faith, not for myself, but I tried to write something because she was encouraging me to try. I visited poems fray with all the real poets - and none of the real poets had anything but respect for catnapping (with one notable exception). And jesus, does it matter if I still can't write poetry? How many people in the world will encourage you to write a poem? catnapping and Sandy were genuine people, big hearted people, people you wish you knew in some small town somewhere, people you would head to the local tavern to talk with - even if you don't drink - just to see their faces and hear their heart... thru the words they speak.

well, shit, I'm crying all over my keyboard.

Jewel put out an album in 2004 called "pieces of you". After all the lyrics to all the songs and her thank yous to everyone that worked on the album, she adds two poems; these are not songs and they are not really poems, they read like more lyrics, not poems, but she adds them as poems; she calls them POEMS. I get the feeling that Jewel tried to write a couple poems, not knowing how to do that. She titled the first one Me. (obviously about herself; and it is) Here is the 2nd one... all the brackets, every word, are hers... exactly the way she wrote it in the album cover...



FAITH POEM (a poem about faith)

I don't know how to do anything
I am trying to move mountains with words
But I am an ant
I scribble
I drool
I move like a worm
whose world
(words)
encompassed a mile
How do I rise above?
Where will this worm
find wings?
I look in the mirror
and I see filth
Who is that?
Where did The Angel go?
Why is there dirt
staring back at me?
Why is the soil of
incompetence beneath my nails?
Why does doubt paint
blue rings
beneath my eyes and
stain my skin?
Why does my spine assume failure?
Why do my lips
flirt with the sky;
why do I try to lasso
Beauty with such a
pitiful rope?
Where is the hair of Rapunzel
or Samson?
Where is my sling
Where is my stone,
My gun?
Where is the weapon with which
I might fight this apathy
that feels like sleep
in my limbs
that loosens my brother's smile
that kills my neighbor's daughter
This pen is scrawny and hardly
seems able to ink out
or erase this plague that
infests my
Generation
This Giant, This Ogre
This Beast, This Death
that assumes a million faces
that borrows my own.
Cat helped me quite a bit with info on Native Americans for one of my historical books. I wrote this poem, not for her necessarily, but with her in mind because i put it in that book and attributed it to Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce Indians:

Windsong


from the lonely valleys

far below,

the rustling leaves of

aspens call

my troubled soul

from deep within

to live again

to love again

beside Blue River’s

raging flow

‘neath mountain skies

and whispering winds

come gentle clouds and

summer snow

and memories of

long ago

the lifting wind

the searching wind

the whispering wind

that calls my name

still you now

my fractured heart

hide in me and

bring me peace

let haunted dreams

i once held dear

lift me now and

hold me near

and take my mind to

heights unknown

the lifting wind

the numbing wind

the whispering wind

becomes my own

tho i be lost

and all alone

and free of all

that i have known

with all my hope

now turned to stone

i close my eyes

And I am home

Chief Joseph, Thunder travelling to the loftier Mountains, 1877
 

Days

Commentator
Cat helped me quite a bit with info on Native Americans for one of my historical books. I wrote this poem, not for her necessarily, but with her in mind because i put it in that book and attributed it to Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce Indians:

Windsong


from the lonely valleys

far below,

the rustling leaves of

aspens call

my troubled soul

from deep within

to live again

to love again

beside Blue River’s

raging flow

‘neath mountain skies

and whispering winds

come gentle clouds and

summer snow

and memories of

long ago

the lifting wind

the searching wind

the whispering wind

that calls my name

still you now

my fractured heart

hide in me and

bring me peace

let haunted dreams

i once held dear

lift me now and

hold me near

and take my mind to

heights unknown

the lifting wind

the numbing wind

the whispering wind

becomes my own

tho i be lost

and all alone

and free of all

that i have known

with all my hope

now turned to stone

i close my eyes

And I am home

Chief Joseph, Thunder travelling to the loftier Mountains, 1877
that seems fitting... I think cat would have approved.

I'm married to an Aztec; she too moves in mysterious ways. When Jesus said everyone born of the Spirit is like the rustling of the wind; you don't know when it is coming or where it goes... these girls are like that. The Nez Perce were like that also... chasing the wind; hunting buffalo, riding up and down the Rockies; they ranged enormous distances. One with the land, anywhere the ground was beneath their feet, they were home.

If we look around, where ever you live in this great land, you are treading on what was once the home of native Americans. I live in Black hawk land. Black hawk nation was huge, and it was still thriving here a hundred years ago. But the white man made no reservation for them, stole all their land, and the entire tribe vanished. Nothing here but suburbia and ghosts.

I haven't chatted with catnapping (Caitlyn) in a long time. I think she did this site...

http://thefraybackmachine.blogspot.com/search/label/days

not sure, though. She has a blog, put a lot of work into it. It is well worth the time spent there...

upload_2017-8-26_2-32-34.png
 

JackDallas

Senator
Supporting Member
that seems fitting... I think cat would have approved.

I'm married to an Aztec; she too moves in mysterious ways. When Jesus said everyone born of the Spirit is like the rustling of the wind; you don't know when it is coming or where it goes... these girls are like that. The Nez Perce were like that also... chasing the wind; hunting buffalo, riding up and down the Rockies; they ranged enormous distances. One with the land, anywhere the ground was beneath their feet, they were home.

If we look around, where ever you live in this great land, you are treading on what was once the home of native Americans. I live in Black hawk land. Black hawk nation was huge, and it was still thriving here a hundred years ago. But the white man made no reservation for them, stole all their land, and the entire tribe vanished. Nothing here but suburbia and ghosts.

I haven't chatted with catnapping (Caitlyn) in a long time. I think she did this site...

http://thefraybackmachine.blogspot.com/search/label/days

not sure, though. She has a blog, put a lot of work into it. It is well worth the time spent there...

View attachment 37061
Yes, that was Cat's Blog.
 
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