Poetry by John T. Clark

Five poems
by John T. Clark

FROM HAND TO MOUTH WITH MAGIC THE CAT

It’s amazing how he’ll materialize -
Out of nowhere, will this clever beast
Emerge, with tastebuds charged to gourmandize
And allow me to share my lunchtime feast.

It’s not this pug-nosed Persian’s sense of smell
That sets him at galvanized gallopade;
It’s the soft wrinkly ‘irripp’ he hears tell,
For him a catcophonous cannonade.

As I try pulling with my lips to remove
The Handy Wrap sheet covering my meal,
Magic’s orange orbs do not reprove
Me when he sees I can’t undo the seal.

He figure-eights my flail arms while I feel cursed,
As if to say, “It’s only liverwurst.”

+++++++++++++++++++++

CATASTROPHES

Playing basketball, Leonard has the grace
Of a cat. On the court, always in your face,
Pawing at the ball, swiping it, with cheetah
Speed he blurs past you in a heartbeat. A
Source of the high school’s pride they lionize
Him for his catlike moves that agonize
The opposition. He flashes his eye
Of the tiger in those leaps that defy
Gravity. But cats don’t land on their feet
Each time. Sixteen now, he trips, falls - his sweet
Moves are gone. Like the spotted leopard, he
Stares into the face of grave jeopardy -
One faces extinctive catastrophe
The other - juvenile muscular atrophy.

+++++++++++++++++++++

SUPER DAY, SUPER DOG

Have you thought on an owner’s nexus
To cats? At the behind-the-scenes plexus
Of a show, with each puss primped for top shelf
Blues, some breeders think cats extend the self
And, in a pseudo shamanic shape-shift,
Will try everything short of a face-lift
To look like their cats – silvered crew cuts flare
To form oneness with the sterling shorthair.

Though dog folks can sport a totemic tress,
Whose dogs emulate them? Amid the stress
Of SuperDay, Lex, like me, wolfs his food,
Gulps his drinks, wears our colors and my mood
During the game. Our side receives its final squelch
And I wonder where my Super Dog learned to belch.

+++++++++++++++++++++

FRANKLY SPEAKING

The cat in catastrophe is Frankie,
A chocolate point, apple-head. This cranky,
Cold creature, as remote as Sumatra
Was named for Ol’ Blue Eyes - Frank Sinatra –
By someone else. A scion of Siam
Frankie is a one-person cat. I am,
My wife, son John - we’re all ailurophiles
And yet on our approach Frankie reviles
Us - he skyscrapers himself, hurls a hiss
And seeks asylum. But my daughter, Chris,
Sees a dissimilar salute. No sooner
Does Frankie hear her car than the crooner
Is on stage with figures-eight and serenade -
Adopting Frank is not the worst faux pas I’ve made.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

CATALOGING CATS

The cat in catastrophe is Frankie,
A chocolate point, apple-head. This cranky,
Cold creature, as remote as Sumatra,
Was named for Ol’ Blue Eyes – Frank Sinatra –
By someone else. A scion of Siam,
Frankie is a one-person cat. I am,
My wife, son John – we’re all ailurophiles
And yet on our approach, Frankie reviles
Us – he skyscrapers himself, hurls a hiss
And seeks asylum. But my daughter, Chris,
Sees no similar salute. No sooner
Does Frankie hear her car than the crooner
Is on stage with figures-eight and life is jake –
Adopting Frank is not my worst mistake.

Adopting Frank is not my worst mistake,
But I sometimes have a different take
At five A.M. Before the dawn chorus
Acclaims the morn, Frankie launches for us
A sound to freeze Jack London’s heart. Frank’s call
Of the wild puts the cat in caterwaul,
Flowing from feline fathomage unheard
By mankind before. This dirge disinterred
Could make an earwitness sound the alarm,
Certain that Ol’ Frank was buying the farm
Because of us. But the only death done,
Here, is to a night’s sleep. Then someone
Rises. If it’s not Chris, Frank’ll lurk and he’ll
Hide ‘til proffered his peep o’ day prandial.

When proffered his peep o’ day prandial,
The cat keen ends and thoughts of Mandy’ll
Come to mind. No pusillanimous puss
Was Mandy. Not like this worrisome wuss –
She possessed none of the deep-set dimmage
That grips Frank. She was a mirror image
Of him though, but that’s where the parity
Ends. I can recall with great clarity
When we met. Alone at lakeside, I sat
On a chaise lunching, when this gorgeous cat
Approached, asking for some liverwurst.
One of the besiegers, I thought at first,
Of my bird feeder, but they never came near;
This was the cat in catamount; she had no fear.

This cat in catamount which had no fear
Chose only morsels untouched by the smear
Of mayo. Sans was, the Spanish onion,
The proper pungent profile of grunion
So after a sniff and sneeze she demurred
And off she went. But when the day deferred
To evening, she returned to our arbor
For the barbecue. With ample ardor –
Cat-chats, leg-rubs, lap-jumps – the adoption
Exam resumed. By meal’s end co-option
Was complete. She stayed near that night and soon
Became a house guest. We were over the moon,
On postering hither and yon, hills and dales,
When no one claimed our cat-o’-nine tales.

When no one claimed our cat-o’-nine tales,
The legend began. Her memory never fails
To bring a smile. Actually an incog
Of a loyal Tibetan temple dog,
She protected her turf. This mastiff
In disguise permitted no mischief
On her watch. The nighttime knavery
Of our forest friends’ forays met bravery
Each time. One memorable escapade
Witnessed the rash charge of a night brigade
Member. Our Mandy simply growled. King ‘Coon
Realized, in this four-footed High Noon,
From the far reaches of his raccoon rationalism,
This cat would be the cat in his cataclysm.

This cat was the cat in cataclysm
For critters who came too close. An abysm
Bloomed. Midnight marauders failed to muster
Enough of a bluff to match her bluster
So word was, on the wildlife telegraph,
By summer’s end – this cat has your epitaph
Ready. Then, back at our north Bronx abode,
On hearing our doorbell ring, she bestowed
Welcomes on those who came in – a leg wrap,
And the like. Home from work, after a nap,
I’d wake up and motoring on my chest –
Mandy. A loving, family cat, the best;
All who knew her will support my thesis
If you think I put the cat in catachresis.

If I am the cat in catachresis,
Prepare for some further exegesis,
And, now hear this. We are under attack
From fusillades of Frankie’s feline flak –
Constant cannonades of cat hair. Dander
Dragonnades descend daily. I gander
At Frankie. He returns fire while scarfing
His food. That alert says: Carpet Barfing
Imminent. But the mounting Eiger
Of evidence against this paper tiger,
His play at the penultimate poltroon
Notwithstanding, Frank is still a boon
Companion – to Chris. But to me, frankly
The cat in catastrophe is still Frankie.

Author bio:

John T. Clark lives in Scarsdale, NY with his wife Ginny, daughter, Chris and dog, Lex. A retired NYC teacher, his poetry has appeared in The Recorder when edited by Derek Mahon and again when edited by Eamonn Grennan and in Mediphors and Celtic Fringe. Currently, his poetry appears in/will appear in Exit 13, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, Lachryma, Hidden Oak, The Boston Literary Magazine, Contemporary Rhyme, Mobius, Hospital Drive, Cynic and Right Hand Pointing.