Stories

The Cat

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Peering through a stall opening in the old barn,
the tom cat watched as human tears
fell on a sickly, dying cow.
He’d seen many a birth and death down on the farm.
With no heart for compassion himself,
he focused instead on a hunt for his favourite prey.
The timid mouse entertained his curious interest
for a few agonizing minutes of clawed vivisection
before her death.
Life here was a demanding education in survival skills,
a harsh, strenuous reality compared with his former
luxurious life-style in suburbia.
There, he was hugged and petted with countless
caresses by loving human hands.
There, he was Nature tamed, gently reassuring
and prettily packaged for proud ownership.
Constant human indulgence and flattery
made him lazy and vain, lounging in regal splendour
until he felt like engaging in feline courtship rivalries
or teasing leashed dogs or pouncing on careless squirrels.
He passed the long and dreary winters
play-hunting catnip toys or hiding yarn balls.
He was so bored with the easy life,
the yawn of tidily undramatic lawns,
the sigh of plush rugs and cozy chairs,
the routine feeding of tame conformity,
and the false pretense of independence.
He sniffed the air one summer morning
and followed his adventurous instincts
into an exhausting journey of self-exile.
Discovering vestiges of wilderness,
the farm country, and the old barn,
he traded creature comforts for deeper needs.
April,1992 revised April,2004 February, 2006

The Mating of Snails

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Longing For (my digital music composition)
I’m slowly dying away
these long and lonely hours
waiting for you, Eduardo, my almost lover.
So near, and yet so far,
this snail-paced almost love affair
tortures me with tempting promises,
aching fantasies, and bittersweet betrayals.
Whenever I imagine
the unspoken slow pleasures
of our chemical bonding
and mingling energies,
I feel the barely restrained
naked aggression waiting—
waiting in some elusive
time-warped dream.
There I’m suspended in deep desire
as I grasp at slow-motion visions
of what could be.
I dream that we glow in the magic
of transforming love energy,
the catalyst of our lives.
Is this catalyst just beyond reach?
I’d prefer to watch snail races
and digital clocks
than be your collector’s hobby
or a substitute side dish.
Will we always live in a world
of anticipation
landscaped with question marks?
So near, and yet so far,
waiting for you, Eduardo, my almost lover.
February,1998 revised May, 2004

The Ant

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The Ant
The battle-fury now dissipated into the usual calm
miseries and slowly savoured spoils of scavenging pride
such conquests bestowed on the ranks of his species.
Theirs was a long history of unchecked gluttony
for conflict, combat, and conquest
making them the most feared aggressors of their kind.
Their militant society continually advanced
in steps marching beyond survival instincts
into zealously fanatical, constant acts of aggression.
They were a vast army of ants,
a single-minded soldierly race of beings,
each working in a frenzy of duty and self-sacrifice.
They were empowered by their numbers
and unquestioning obedience
to serve the dictates of the common purpose
of their robotic insect lives.
They abhorred the mutations of individualism
which rarely surfaced in their troops,
considering such manifestations
as treacherous treason— as dangerous
as the weaponry of weak mandibles.
He knew he was somehow a mutation,
but had hidden his secret
with desperate cunning and desperate courage.
He successfully fulfilled frustrating demands
to act out his life in the expected ways,
ways tolerated and accepted by his social order.
All eyes were the eyes of spies.
He looked about the battlefield of this new territory,
disgusted by the weakness of this particular enemy.
Their bodies were now grotesque statues
spread everywhere in rigid poses,
some with missing limbs and heads
like the statuary of fallen ruins he’d once seen.
He observed the scene with analytic fascination,
his large protruding eyes unblinking
in their detailed examination of the carnage scene.
The mutated sensitivity of his vision
artfully brushed every raw edge of severed body parts,
carefully noting every angle of captured gesture,
studying the chiaroscuro of light and darkness.
The scene was endlessly repetitive in his memory
yet held him in captive fascination every time.
He understood this far better than
the mystery of caterpillars and harmless butterflies.
Everything about them caused him to question his
natural instincts, his drilled education—
caused him to think more deeply about survival,
aggression, and his own mutation.
He wondered about how many unimagined alien lives
might fill the unknown territories, the vast unknown.
How often such thoughts betrayed him to himself
and he reacted with swift executions
of self-condemnation and guilt.
He detected sudden movement among the dead—
an enemy with the audacious will to survive his wounds,
yet too badly wounded to provide a threat
and soon surrounded by scavengers busily at work.
He turned from the drama,
indifferent to the merciless death
taking over where merciless life left off,
looking up instead.
His ever-alert antennae informed him
of the vibrating drone overhead—
a massive swarm of killer-bees on the move.
Now here was a species he understood,
a breed of aggressors without conscience,
a rigid and militant society much like his own.
His leg twitched uncontrollably
and his body grew strangely colder
despite the summer day’s heat.
March,1992, revised May, 2004

The Mountain Goat

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The Mountain Goat
Sure footed in her climb to loftier mountain heights
where few others were able to reach,
she moved with skilful ease
enjoying every challenge of daring crag
and dizzying, dangerous ledge.
She kept her balance even in the most difficult extremes
of rocky, treacherous situations—
making courageous leaps
on hooves flexible in their experienced understanding
and agile in response to life’s continual dangers.
Born to the aggressive muscularity
of mountain goat temperament,
she was a female much desired by males
of her tough and weathered breed—
males confident and secure
in their own proven strengths upon the heights.
They respected her dominance in their presence—
respect hard-earned when her stiletto horns
boldly argued their points through the tough skins
of many a rump and many a cheek.
She challenged even the much-imagined
goat devil-god of myth so many kid-like adults feared
and slavishly empowered
with their tradition-bound superstitions.
She’d butt that false idol into oblivion
whenever others threw its conjured image in her way.
This was a lesser obstacle
than the ferocious beasts below—
the adversaries of flesh and blood
who sought to corner and pounce.
Even in most vulnerable position
and hopelessly outnumbered,
she used the power of her horns and hooves—
somehow managing to survive
to the season of another rut.
She’d surrender her guard only for a moment,
by Nature’s decree,
to a courting male who’d instinctively crawl
on his belly with tender whispers to gain her favour.
It was a ritual of her species that she just accepted.
Then she’d zealously protect her kids,
teaching them gradually how to cope
with the harsh realities of their environment.
She encouraged free and independent thinking,
showing them creative transcending of limitations
with caution and regard for safety in their gambols
through the high and dangerous passes.
She was a domineering female
in control of her chosen steps.
No matter what, she’d find her way—
determined and decisive in every step.
No mere weak-minded, docile creature of other species,
she was ever questioning all aspects of her existence.
How she loved the rugged, untamed beauty
of the rocky mountain heights!
March, 1992 revised May, 2004

The Porcupine

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The Porcupine
He moved through life’s wild and challenging landscape
displaying his defensive, threatening weaponry—
sharply pointed quills able to instantly pierce
another’s mind and heart like arrows into the flesh.
Each quill was a painfully clear message—
a demand for physical and emotional distancing.
He sometimes yearned for a transformation
of these sharp barbs into Cupid’s arrows—
arrows of romantic idealism
celebrating sexuality and love’s mystery
with adventurous, eager innocence.
He longed for such Romance,
but when it appeared in female form
he purposely ignored her subtle invitations,
ignored his own yearning,
and fought with well-aimed piercing barbs
to fend off her quietly seductive charms.
Romance died, and he moved on…
August, 1992 revised April, 2004