Here I proudly present some works by my friends. I will be adding to this page occasionally, so please visit us again!
Love Cat
I am honored to present the following two exquisite pieces written by my friend,
Paolo Palazzi-Xirinachs
feathers
The Cross Room
"Who gave you permission to rearrange me?/certainly not me/who told you that it was alright to love me?/certainly not me/Iwas not looking for no love affair/and now you want to fix me/was not looking for no love affair/and now you want to mold me/and now you want to kiss me/and now you want to control me/...hold me""Certainly" by Erykah Badu on her album Baduizm"
it is dead silent now
with feathers everywhere
and you sleeping
to win this war we have waged;
and i'll wait, as warriors do
because i am waiting
for that right kind of thing.
in never-ending battle, our lives
are endless snapshots
flung into thin air
pictures taken
that amplify the ravages
of what we will them to show;
i think of this
as i study your flushed face
trying to soak up your expression
of unforced innocense.
the duality of you
is fascinating;
the dark body of water
of your sensuality in which I have swum
evidenced by our sweaty pillow fight
--pillow bursting; an aerial apex
attained, as i sank into the abyss--
and now, how you manage to sleep
cherubically, taste for lust partially slaked
and in a fixative state
i ponder you
the naughtiest of my hungry horde
while i steal myself
across to the nextroom
to shoo away the pigeons
on the ledge
they have stupid eyes
eternally watching what they
cannot see;
they fly off in an offended whir
of purple-gray flutters
leaving me alone
to coo my own thoughts
of you
my memories, erotic
like the ones we
created just hours ago
are already mourning
what we once attained
continue to sleep in the nest
for me, then
while i await a beautiful
nakedness to challenge me
and to do something that will
make me mourn once again
when we are done
amongst the feathers.
i have risen...(with wings)
"There is one question i have to ask, is there a place for the hopeless sinner who has hurt all mankind just to save his home?...There is no hiding place from the power of creation." Bob Marley "One Love"
my dog came through the pine woods dragging
the remains of an old dead fox--dry ribs and spine
and a tail with a splendor of fur still on it.
"where did you find this, girl?" i said to her.
she wagged her tail and showed me.
and there, alas poor Yorick!, there was the skull
and there were the leg bones and shoulder blades.
so i took them home, soaked them in lye
'til they were almost translucent and antiseptic
and put them on a display shelf to admire--
the figure eight of the pelvis, and the milky miniature helmet.
sometimes tucked away in the breast-pocket of the pines
amidst a gentle rain of starlight, an owl hunches
in the dense needles, and coughs up his pellet
the vole or the mouse recently eaten
the pellets fall through branches, through the hair of grass;
dark flowers of fur, a salt of bones and teeth, melting away...
in Washington, deep inside the bowels
of metal buildings of glass and stone
down long aisles and secrected inside wide drawers
are the bones of women and children, and bones of very, very
old warriors, whole skeletons, parts of skeletons.
they can't get up; for they can't fall down.
as chalk white as pieces of the moon--stripped of essence,
laid mute, catalogued--
they lie forever alone in anonymous drawers.
so it didn't take long, i could see how it was
and where i was headed.
i took what was left of the noble beast off the shelf
and back to the pine woods where it belonged
rubbed it with some twigs and leaves and a little pile of dung i found
and burried it with the emotional fanfare of a Viking funeral;
i don't even remember where.
but i do remember this, though--how i felt.
if i had wings i would have unfurled them towards the sun.
i would have risen from the ground and soared...
This poem was found scrawled on a piece of paper in an alley by a good friend of mine, Tim M. who risks his life daily driving a taxicab on the streets of L. A. I think that you will enjoy it.
Seeing no way out, he dropped to his knees in prayer
"God, I can't go on" he said.
"I have too heavy a cross to bear."
God replied, "My Son, if you can't bear it's weight, just place your cross inside this room." "Then open that other door and pick out any cross you wish."
The man was filled with relief.
"Thank you God!" he sighed, and did as he was told.
Upon entering the other door he saw many crosses,
some so large that the tops were not visible!
Then he spotted a tiny cross leaning against a far wall.
"I'd like that one God," he whispered.
And then God replied,
"My Son, that is the cross that you just brought in."
Father and Son
This piece was sent to me anonymously via E Mail. I was so touched by it that I decided to share it with you. It might make you cry. It did me.
As graduation day approached the young man awaited signs that his father had purchased the car. Finally, on the day of his graduation his father called him in to his private study. His father told him how proud he was to have such a fine son and told him how much he loved him. He handed his son a beautifully wrapped gift box.
Curiously and somewhat disappointed, the young man opened the box and found a lovely, leather bound Bible with his name embossed in gold. Angry, he rose his voice to his father and said "With all of the money that you have you give me a Bible?!" and he stormed out of the house.
Many years passed and the young man became very successful in business. He had a beautiful home and a wonderful family, but realized that his father was getting very old and thought that perhaps he should go to him. He had not seen his father since that graduation day. Before he could make arrangements he received a telegram telling him that his dad had passed away and willed all of his possessions to his son. He needed to come home right away in order to attend to things.
When he arrived at his father's house sudden sadness and regret filled his heart. He began to search through his father's important paper's and saw the still new Bible, just as he had left it years ago, and began to turn the pages. His father had carefully underlined a verse, Matt. 7:11, "And if ye, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your Heavenly Father which is in Heaven, give to those who ask him?"
As he read those words a car key dropped from the back of the Bible. It had a tag with the dealer's name, the same dealer who had the sports car he had desired. On the tag was the date of his graduation and the words "PAID IN FULL".
How many times do we miss God's blessings because they are not packaged as we expected?
Love Cat
The Invitation
By Oriah Mountain Dreamer, a Native American elder
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for,
and if you dare to dream of meeting your soul's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,
for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon,
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow,
if you have been opened by life's betrayals or
have become shrivelled and closed from fear or further pain!
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own,
without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own,
if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you're telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself, if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
I want to know if you can see beauty
even when it is not pretty every day,
and if you can source your life from God's presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours or mine,
and still stand on the edge of a lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"
It doesn't interest me to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair,
weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.
It doesn't interest me who you are, how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or who you have studied with.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself,
and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
Time Somebody Told Me
This piece was written by Bobby L. while doing time in solitary confinement in the California State Prison System, year unknown. I admire it for its frank simplicity and heartfelt emotion.
Time Somebody told me
That I am lovely, good and real
That my beauty
Could make hearts stand still
Time somebody told me
That my love is total
And so complete
That my mind is quick
And full of wit
That my loving is too good to quit
Time somebody told me
Time somebody told me
How much they love and need me
How much my spirit helps to set them free
How my eyes shine full of the white light
How it feels good to just hold me tight
Time somebody told me
So I had a talk with myself
Just me and nobody else
'cause it was time
Somebody told me
The Most Beautiful Flower
Anonymous
(sent to me via email by my friend Yancey)
The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow
tree. Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.
And if that weren't enough to ruin my day,
A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play.
He stood right before me with his head tilted down
And said with great excitement, "Look what I found!"
In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
With its petals all worn - not enough rain, or too little light.
Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
I faked a small smile and then shifted away.
But instead of retreating he sat next to my side
And placed the flower to his nose and declared with overacted
surprise,
"It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too.
That's why I picked it; here, it's for you."
The weed before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant of colors: orange, yellow or red.
But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I
need."
But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held it mid-air without reason or plan.
It was then that I noticed for the very first time
That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.
I heard my voice quiver; tears shone in the sun
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.
You're welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he'd had on my day.
I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
A self-pitying man beneath an old willow tree.
How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight.
Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.
And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every
second that's mine.
And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose
And smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in
his hand,
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.
The Beach
author unknown
She was six years old when I first met her on the beach
near where live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three
or four miles,whenever the world begins to close in on me.
She was building a sand castle or something and looked up,
her eyes as blue as the sea. "Hello," she said. I answered
with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not
caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."
"That
sounds good." I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A
sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a
what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring
us joy."
The bird went glissading down the beach.
"Good-bye
joy." I muttered to myself, "hello pain," and turned to walk on.
I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Ruth," I
answered. "I'm Ruth Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said.
In spite of my gloom
I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me.
"Come again, Mrs. P," she called. "We'll have another happy
day."
The days and weeks that followed belong to others: a
group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, an ailing mother.
The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of
the dishwater. "I need a sandpiper," I said to myself, gathering
up my coat. The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited
me. The breeze was chilly, but I strode along, trying to
recapture the serenity I needed. I had forgotten the child and
was startled when she appeared.
"Hello, Mrs. P." she said.
"Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know, you say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again.
"I don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face.
"Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there."
She pointed toward
a row of summer cottages. Strange, though, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy
says we're on vacation."
She chattered little girl talk as we
strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things.
When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day.
Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near
panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I
saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she
keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly
when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd rather be alone today."
She seems unusually pale and out of breath. "Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and
thought, my God, why was I saying this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes, and yesterday and the day before and-oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt? "
"Did what hurt?"
I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped
up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she
wasn't there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself
I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked
at the door. A drawn looking young woman with honey-colored
hair opened the door.
"Hello," I said. "I'm Ruth Peterson. I
missed your little girl today and wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come in" "Wendy talked of you
so much. I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a
nuisance, please,accept my apologies."
"Not at all-she's a
delightful child," I said, suddenly realizing that I meant it.
"Where is she?"
"Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson."
"She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught.
"She loved
this beach; so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no.
She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she
called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly...
" her voice faltered. "She left something for you...if only I can
find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly,
my mind racing for something, anything, to say to this lovely
young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope, with MRS. P
printed in bold, childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright
crayon hues-a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird.
Underneath was carefully printed: A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU
JOY. Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost
forgotten to love opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms.
"I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I muttered over and over,
and we wept together.
The precious little picture is framed now
and hangs in my study. Six words-one for each year of her life-
that speak to me of harmony, courage, undemanding love.
A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the color of
sand.
Who taught me the gift of love.
PUPPIES FOR SALE
author unknown
A store owner was tacking a sign above his door that
read "Puppies For Sale." Signs like that have a way
of attracting small children, and sure enough, a little
boy appeared under the store owner's sign.
"How much are you going to sell the puppies for?" he
asked. The store owner replied, "Anywhere from $30
to $50." The little boy reached in his pocket and
pulled out some change.
"I have $2.37," he said. "May I please look at them?"
The store owner smiled and whistled and out of the
kennel came a dog, who ran down the aisle of his store
followed by five teeny, tiny balls of fur. One puppy was
lagging considerably behind.
Immediately the little boy singled out the lagging, limping puppy and said, "What's wrong with that little dog?"
The store owner explained that the veterinarian had
examined the little puppy and had discovered it didn't
have a hip socket. It would always limp. It would always
be lame.
The little boy became excited. "That is the puppy that
I want to buy."
The store owner said, "No, you don't want to buy that
little dog. If you really want him, I'll just give him to you."
The little boy got quite upset. He looked straight into
the store owner's eyes, pointing his finger, and said,
"I don't want you to give him to me. That little dog is
worth every bit as much as all the other dogs, and I'll
pay full price. In fact, I'll give you $2.37 now, and $0.50
cents a month until I have him paid for."
The store owner countered, "You really don't want to
buy this little dog. He is never going to be able to run
and jump and play with you like the other puppies."
To his surprise, the little boy reached down and rolled
up his pant leg to reveal a badly twisted, crippled left
leg supported by a big metal brace. He looked up at
the store owner and softly replied, "Well, I don't run so
well myself, and the little puppy will need someone who
understands."
Let us be thankful for the diversity that makes us all unique. I hope these few samples along with the messages and images on all of the pages at Love Cat Central may remind you of this great gift from God. Thank you and God bless.And placed the flower to his nose and declared with overacted surprise,
"It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too.
That's why I picked it; here, it's for you."
The weed before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant of colors: orange, yellow or red.
But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I need."
But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held it mid-air without reason or plan.
It was then that I noticed for the very first time
That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.
I heard my voice quiver; tears shone in the sun
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.
You're welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he'd had on my day.
I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
A self-pitying man beneath an old willow tree.
How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight.
Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.
And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every second that's mine.
And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose
And smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in his hand,
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.
The Beach
author unknown
She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles,whenever the world begins to close in on me. She was building a sand castle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea. "Hello," she said. I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."
"That sounds good." I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went glissading down the beach.
"Good-bye joy." I muttered to myself, "hello pain," and turned to walk on.
I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Ruth," I answered. "I'm Ruth Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said.
In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me.
"Come again, Mrs. P," she called. "We'll have another happy day."
The days and weeks that followed belong to others: a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, an ailing mother.
The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. "I need a sandpiper," I said to myself, gathering up my coat. The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly, but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed. I had forgotten the child and was startled when she appeared.
"Hello, Mrs. P." she said.
"Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know, you say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again.
"I don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face.
"Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there."
She pointed toward a row of summer cottages. Strange, though, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation."
She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd rather be alone today."
She seems unusually pale and out of breath. "Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and thought, my God, why was I saying this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes, and yesterday and the day before and-oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt? "
"Did what hurt?"
I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
"Hello," I said. "I'm Ruth Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come in" "Wendy talked of you so much. I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please,accept my apologies."
"Not at all-she's a delightful child," I said, suddenly realizing that I meant it.
"Where is she?"
"Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson."
"She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught.
"She loved this beach; so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no. She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly... " her voice faltered. "She left something for you...if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something, anything, to say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope, with MRS. P printed in bold, childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues-a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed: A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY. Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I muttered over and over, and we wept together.
The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words-one for each year of her life- that speak to me of harmony, courage, undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the color of sand.
Who taught me the gift of love.
PUPPIES FOR SALE
author unknown
A store owner was tacking a sign above his door that read "Puppies For Sale." Signs like that have a way of attracting small children, and sure enough, a little boy appeared under the store owner's sign.
"How much are you going to sell the puppies for?" he asked. The store owner replied, "Anywhere from $30 to $50." The little boy reached in his pocket and pulled out some change.
"I have $2.37," he said. "May I please look at them?"
The store owner smiled and whistled and out of the kennel came a dog, who ran down the aisle of his store followed by five teeny, tiny balls of fur. One puppy was lagging considerably behind.
Immediately the little boy singled out the lagging, limping puppy and said, "What's wrong with that little dog?"
The store owner explained that the veterinarian had examined the little puppy and had discovered it didn't have a hip socket. It would always limp. It would always be lame.
The little boy became excited. "That is the puppy that I want to buy."
The store owner said, "No, you don't want to buy that little dog. If you really want him, I'll just give him to you."
The little boy got quite upset. He looked straight into the store owner's eyes, pointing his finger, and said, "I don't want you to give him to me. That little dog is worth every bit as much as all the other dogs, and I'll pay full price. In fact, I'll give you $2.37 now, and $0.50 cents a month until I have him paid for."
The store owner countered, "You really don't want to buy this little dog. He is never going to be able to run and jump and play with you like the other puppies."
To his surprise, the little boy reached down and rolled up his pant leg to reveal a badly twisted, crippled left leg supported by a big metal brace. He looked up at the store owner and softly replied, "Well, I don't run so well myself, and the little puppy will need someone who understands."
Love Cat
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