A poem inspired by a sweet friend with help from a rhyming dictionary....
Philadelphia, Philadelphia how I love you.
Every corner my mind must attend to
with your Brotherly love and diversified crew
which I will attempt to break down for you...
The goal of the artists to make a break through
with their beautiful paintings of purplish blue.
No category too large for them to dig into
including meat shaped like states or garbage art debut.
Then we have the businessmen and their economic point of view,
Their eyes on the prize of their financial accrue.
The ways of the privileged they are thoroughly used to
Let us pray that the Spirit will make them anew.
And of course are our neighbors, a most beautiful motley crew
composed of many colors, languages, and tattoos.
With children with children and racial taboos
the least of their worries is rent overdue.
And Monday through Friday preschoolers cries I subdue
with developing minds and motor skills all askew.
I have already mastered the tying of the shoe
and avoid like the plague the ominous stomach flu.
But there seems to be missing something very true.
Perhaps it's the mountains or Appalachian dew?
Perhaps it's a friend I miss talking to!
No it's actually quite simple, the answer is YOU!
Sincerely, your boo.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
The Beast
Believe it or not, my cat teaches me a lot about the forgiveness of God.
For some reason, my parents allowed me to get a kitten my senior year of high school, perhaps overlooking the fact that I was soon to enter college. Little did they realize that the cat I chose on that rainy afternoon would actually become their cat; living in their home, sleeping on their furniture, and peeing in their corners. And I can honestly confess I have no idea where it all went wrong. With the cat, and her anger, and her abrasive hissing, and the truly terrifying cat-growl (I'm pretty sure she's fluent in Parseltongue).
You see, I chose her out of all the batch because she seemed the most playful and approached me with great boldness. Great temperament, right? And maybe it was the constant holding and squeezing that did her in or maybe the traumatic transition to another home or a genetic mutation but whatever it was, she is now a beast of an animal. We like to call her Pyro Kitty because one day my mother was being the motherly figure she is, cleaning the house, preparing dinner, when she noticed a funny smell in the air. It was none other than the sulfurey smell of smoke drifting through the house. She appropriately sped from room to room until she found Lola (a travesty of a name for such a demon) sitting on the corner of a bed (cough, my bed) calmy watching as the lamp she knocked over burned into the linens. Fortunately, we still have a house and fortunately, I was not sleeping in my bed.
Ok, so now you must have an idea of this Lola and the household infamy she seems to pride herself on. But the worst part about Lola is not her laser beam eyes or her self-righteous trot. No, the worst part is that she refuses to be loved. By me. By my parents. By anyone. I swear, if you even think about petting her she hisses. I walk through the door after months of separation from her and she sits. And watches me indifferently and then.... hisses. I look at her, she hisses. I approach her, she hisses and turns. I pretend to cry over her coldness (or am I pretending?) and she struts away with only her ugly cat-backside for me to look at, insult to injury. So why do we still house this scroungy cat? Why do I continue to yearn for her affection and approval? It's really quite simple.
I just can't help but to love her. Because I cared for her and watched her grow from kittenhood to the awkward teen phase (I hear it's even worse than middle school) to cat. And sometimes I think to myself "This must be why and how God loves us". Because in all her beastly ways we, the mastered homosapiens, are far worse than this pyro puff ball. I literally can't help but have warm feelings for Lola when I think of her. And even though I've painted a harsh picture of Lola, she's actually kind of cute sometimes. And sometimes she lets me hold her and touch her fur and kiss her ears. And sometimes, early in the morning, she lays on the stairs, belly side up, and waits for me to play with her.
But of course, she WILL return to her only method of communication, that is hissing and growling. And for some reason, I will still love her. And as I sit here in the dark folds of Philadelphia I pray God will help me, in the same way, forgive others with this love.
Because it's all so simple; He has done the same for me.
Purrrrr, La Loba
For some reason, my parents allowed me to get a kitten my senior year of high school, perhaps overlooking the fact that I was soon to enter college. Little did they realize that the cat I chose on that rainy afternoon would actually become their cat; living in their home, sleeping on their furniture, and peeing in their corners. And I can honestly confess I have no idea where it all went wrong. With the cat, and her anger, and her abrasive hissing, and the truly terrifying cat-growl (I'm pretty sure she's fluent in Parseltongue).
You see, I chose her out of all the batch because she seemed the most playful and approached me with great boldness. Great temperament, right? And maybe it was the constant holding and squeezing that did her in or maybe the traumatic transition to another home or a genetic mutation but whatever it was, she is now a beast of an animal. We like to call her Pyro Kitty because one day my mother was being the motherly figure she is, cleaning the house, preparing dinner, when she noticed a funny smell in the air. It was none other than the sulfurey smell of smoke drifting through the house. She appropriately sped from room to room until she found Lola (a travesty of a name for such a demon) sitting on the corner of a bed (cough, my bed) calmy watching as the lamp she knocked over burned into the linens. Fortunately, we still have a house and fortunately, I was not sleeping in my bed.
Ok, so now you must have an idea of this Lola and the household infamy she seems to pride herself on. But the worst part about Lola is not her laser beam eyes or her self-righteous trot. No, the worst part is that she refuses to be loved. By me. By my parents. By anyone. I swear, if you even think about petting her she hisses. I walk through the door after months of separation from her and she sits. And watches me indifferently and then.... hisses. I look at her, she hisses. I approach her, she hisses and turns. I pretend to cry over her coldness (or am I pretending?) and she struts away with only her ugly cat-backside for me to look at, insult to injury. So why do we still house this scroungy cat? Why do I continue to yearn for her affection and approval? It's really quite simple.
I just can't help but to love her. Because I cared for her and watched her grow from kittenhood to the awkward teen phase (I hear it's even worse than middle school) to cat. And sometimes I think to myself "This must be why and how God loves us". Because in all her beastly ways we, the mastered homosapiens, are far worse than this pyro puff ball. I literally can't help but have warm feelings for Lola when I think of her. And even though I've painted a harsh picture of Lola, she's actually kind of cute sometimes. And sometimes she lets me hold her and touch her fur and kiss her ears. And sometimes, early in the morning, she lays on the stairs, belly side up, and waits for me to play with her.
But of course, she WILL return to her only method of communication, that is hissing and growling. And for some reason, I will still love her. And as I sit here in the dark folds of Philadelphia I pray God will help me, in the same way, forgive others with this love.
Because it's all so simple; He has done the same for me.
Purrrrr, La Loba
Believe it or not, this whole Birthday hat scheme was not my idea,
nor did I facilitate it. But I am so glad it happened.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)