poems about cats

Her name was Midnight and she was the first girl I ever loved. 

Blacker than Las Vegas, she slept on my chest and drooled all over my heart. (I don't want to be metaphorical or poetic right now. I want to tell the truth.) She was a cat. She pooped in a box and covered it with sand. It's not about poetry.

She coughed up hairballs on the carpet and licked herself all over. Her tongue felt like the moon and I know this because she licked my face like it was a hobby.

Her name was Midnight and she was the first girl I ever loved. 

I couldn't tell if she felt the same way about me. Sometimes I'd see her rub up against the leg of the chair and she looked happy. But she never bit me no matter how many times I forgot to feed her. Sometimes, late at night, she would lie next to me, her head resting on my arm, like we were cuddling, like we were in love, like our lungs were learning to share.

Her name was Midnight

She got diarrhea when we drove too long in the car.

and she was the first girl I ever loved. 

I'm not superstitious, but I needed her to fall asleep. Part nightlight, part bedtime story, part sleeping pill. (I don't want to be poetic. I needed her in order to fall asleep.) She had nine lives but nobody knew how many she had left.

Her name was 

(whistles and kisses and whistles)

She got hit by a car, but I didn't want to believe it. I was on the porch like,

(whistles and kisses and whistles)

She was a cat. She pooped in a box and covered it with sand. (I'm not being poetic. I'm just telling the truth.) The truth is that the cat's name wasn't Midnight. It was kitty. (My sister and I couldn't decide on a name, so we just called her kitty.) I was on the porch like "Here kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty. Here kitty, kitty." It was like we didn't even know each other.

Her name was Midnight 

I didn't come here to talk about cats. The last cat I owned crapped on my bed, so I gave it to the pound. I'm not a sentimental guy. She's just another dead cat on the side of the road. The truth is that Midnight wasn't really a girl. She was a boy. I was just ashamed to admit that I was sitting on my porch for an hour waiting for a boy to come home, because I loved him more than anything.

Explanation

I'm sorry.

I made an executive decision tonight.

I separated the OTHER WRITERS (people who aren't in the class) from the WRITERS (people who are in the class).

It wasn't a rash decision. It's something I've been thinking about for a while. Here are some of the reasons why:

• The OTHER WRITERS list went from 5 to 12 to 26. 
• I was having trouble keeping everyone straight (who's in the class? who's not?).
• I was neglecting my current students.
• Some of the OTHER WRITERS were just too good. 
• I put two OTHER WRITERS in the hall of fame (one by accident).
• Now the list of WRITERS is 75. 
• It's only fair. 

Anyway. I'm sorry. The OTHER WRITERS are still on the WritersParis home page, they're just separated. It's probably not the same, but I'm sorry.

Especially after reading this brilliant post by Sky Trillion.

Your hair was long when we first met

"Then Samson went to Gaza, and saw there an harlot, and went in unto her." (Judges 16:1)

I told the class to take out their bibles and turn to the Old Testament. They looked at me like I was crazy. This wasn't Sunday School. It was English. And it was Wednesday. We were supposed to be learning about allusions.

We talked about the story of Samson and Delilah. She cut off his hair (allegedly), and he lost all his power. We listened to Regina Spektor's song, Samson.



I asked a bunch of questions I don't know the answers to. Like who's this song about? Where do we go when we die? Does God remember me? (I didn't ask them all out loud.) We talked about love and sex and power (then someone asked to use the bathroom), and we talked about God and strength and betrayal and man, it's such a pretty song.

I looked out the window and saw Jared (aka The Fighter, aka @22JaredL, aka Tiger, aka one of my former football players). Last month, Jared was diagnosed With T-Cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. Fresh off chemotherapy and radiation, he just came by to say hello.

I asked him how he was feeling, what he's been up to, how the mask he was wearing felt, if he remembered me, if he was in pain, if he still believed in God, how long he thinks he's going to live, if he ever asks why (I didn't ask them all out loud.)

Gabi, Sarah, and Lexi stopped by during lunch. I haven't seen Lexi in months. Her hair was shorter and hipper and she looked happy. She showed me a picture of when she cut it all off. I asked her why she did it, if it hurt her or anyone else, if she lost her power, if she still believes in God, if she's happy, if she's cried today, if she's nervous about coming back to school, if she's all better, if she ever asks why (I didn't ask them all out loud.)

"And Samson called unto the Lord, and said, O Lord God, remember me, I pray thee, and strengthen me"

It was supposed to just be another day at the office. But sometimes Wednesdays are more than just Wednesdays. Sometimes teachers have more questions than they ever say out loud. And sometimes we're all just waiting for our hair to grow back.

I know Spring doesn't officially begin for a few more weeks, but here's to hoping.

17

1. Sometimes we stay up late and talk about all the things we’ll never do.
2. I crossed the street on a rainy afternoon and was never the same.
3. I’m afraid that most of my students don’t have poetry in their hearts.
4. Watching The Croods with my children tonight, wondering why we’re so scared. 
5. We all try to be different, which makes us all exactly the same. 
6. I teach high school because I think my real life began at 17. 
7. Lying in a coffin, waiting for her kiss to bring me back to life.
8. My dad stopped drinking on a Sunday, but the weekend still didn't come.
9. pleasefindmehere's been gone for months, but she's here more than ever before.
10. The pills in the medicine cabinet have us all comfortably numb.
11. "Lucy takes the long way home"- she hasn't been this lost in a while.
12. If the moon could talk, she would tell the world how much she misses the sun.
13. I haven't crashed my car in years, but I can still smell the gasoline.
14. I wear pink socks and my wife runs a saw- so you tell me who's the man.
15. I wrote my name on the back of her heart, but she will never see it.
16. I'm allergic to the sound of my own name - except when she says it. 
17. Tell Cy he's smart, and Bo he's funny, but each wish they were the other. 

(These are all American Sentences. An American Sentence has 17 syllables. It's like a haiku, but different.)

Looking for pleasefindmehere

She was in my creative writing class before she got sent away. It was weeks and weeks and then a surprise post came on a Saturday. I don't think our class has been the same ever since. Writing is no longer something we do for points. It saves us.

She tries to tell us where to find her, but every time I look, she's gone.

This is me trying to figure out how to get everyone to write like her. Including myself.

I read her most recent post and it didn't make me cry. It made me swear. Four times. I felt a burning in my heart. It wasn't heartburn, necessarily. But my heart was burning. (It's different, I don't know how.)

So what's the secret? Maybe you have to be born with it. It's not something I can teach. Maybe you have to have red hair. Maybe you have to sit in the front row. Maybe the key is dedication. You have to read blogs for a year before you even take the class. You have to know Roah and Avery and Emily and all the greats. You have to read every blog (and I mean every blog) in the class. You have to comment and steal and comment and steal. You have to fall in love and know what you're falling in love with. Maybe you have to write about sad shit. Maybe you have to swear. Maybe you just have to be real. Maybe you won't become great until after you've already taken the class twice. Maybe you have to get sent away in the middle of the semester for anyone to listen.

"Somedays I wonder if I'm being heard. Or if I still have to cut off all my hair for some attention."

I didn't think I'd ever get over Teenwulf. I didn't think I'd ever get over Syl. And certainly everything would die when The Devastation Diaries and Joel Wilder graduated. But somehow, we're all still alive.

My neighbor across the street got a birthday present this morning. It was a car. She's 17. Not 16, but 17. She woke up this morning, saw the car parked on the lawn with the balloons, and exhaled. Finally.

Somehow, I think that explains it all. 

Things I'm trying to forget

"I feel like my English skills are going backwards in your class. Last year I had Malouf and you have a lot in common to him but I feel like he taught me more."

I read 126 letters singing my praises. But I always dwell on the negative one.

I tell Cy he's smart, and tell Bo he's funny, and tell Brooklyn she's pretty.

But all Cy thinks about is why he's not funny. And Bo thinks about why he's not smart. And Brooklyn wonders why she can't be anything but pretty.

We are never happy. 

No matter how many times we try to convince ourselves that this is the purpose of life. We move around the furniture and look under rocks trying to find it. But we're not actually looking.

I keep telling myself to ignore the noise and focus on the positive. I tell my kids to do the same thing. But we all keep forgetting.

Here's to the strings around our fingers.

A post that started about one thing but ended up being about something else.

It's all starting to blend together.

The mondays and the lessons and the blogs and the Super Bowls and the memories in the backyard and the bedtime stories and the drive homes and the pictures and the tweets and the comments and the jokes I've already used and the stories I've already told and the students' names and the faces and the feelings, oh my goodness, the feelings.

I don't think there's an app for this.

This is only my 6th year teaching and sometimes it feels like my 28th.

And sometimes it feels like my first.

I don't leave the school until after 4:30 every day and I used to think that's what made me a good teacher. Then I started hearing voices. "You need perspective, it's just a job, an A- teacher, an A- husband, a B+ father, what do you do so late?, just plan lessons?, English 12 prepares students more for college, wake up, what are you doing?, are you coaching next year?, happy friday, it's almost the weekend, it's almost Christmas, it's almost Spring Break, it's almost Summer, your family's the most important thing, nothing matters when you think of things eternally, what are you still doing here?"

I've never been more sure of anything in my life.

I don't know if I was called to be a teacher or a writer or a coach.

But I know the day doesn't end at 4pm.