Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Paul Vinent Cannon wrote a short poem, “Choices”. I find it perfect for these times and the TACO Regime. I attempted to reblog it but WordPress’s magic fizzled. So I have a link but also lifted the poem and posted it here.
An American Cinquain (2-4-6-8-2)
Choices
Silence
sometimes bidden
sometimes so moralised
well sometimes I just cannot be
silent.
Copyright 2025 ©️Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®️
Hope you’ll visit his blog and enjoy more of his poems and observations. Cheers
Where is the fur
Where is the purr
Where is the regarding gaze
Maybe out in the sun
Somewhere having fun
Or resting in some shade
Then he arrives
Taking me by surprise
Leaping onto my lap
To tell his news
Through chirps and mews
It’s my buddy, my fur friend, my cat
The usual places are empty
Our air is still
No soft noises are heard
None are there for a treat or a pill.
Toys are collected and put away
Wondering if they’ll be needed on another day.
Food bowls are cleaned, beds are washed,
Unopened food is given away,
The others are tossed.
Quiet shadows every motion and move
You think of memories
Which help and soothe.
But the faces remain, always there
In the empty space, an empty chair.
Trying to catch him is like reaching for sushine in the air
He’s so quick, elusive, it’s just not fair.
Passing us in a blaze of light,
He’s a wingless small animal lifting off in flight.
His burst of speed has no rhyme nor reason,
And seems independent of time and season.
Just as we keep wondering why and thinking where,
He comes back with a purr, his tail in the air.
Mood: Reinvigorated
It’s Woundsday, December 4, 2024. The stagnant air seemed to have shifted a little, as the chill has abated. Although Ashlandia is claimed to be foggy, my perch’s view was fog free. Sunshine enriched blue skies took the vision field from end to end. Now, 11 AM, my personal weather sys says it’s 46 F outside. Alexa claimed it’ll be 67 F today but I don’t trust it. Other forecasts say 57 F today, which seems reasonable.
It’s Woundsday because I’ve been busy this morning licking my wound. Eww. Gross. Figuratively licking my wounds. The wound is the surgery site to repair my ankle. Much better today, thanks. Now I’m practicing my walk, trying to rid myself of my limp, regain some grace, and speed up my stride.
We’ve been following several news stories. One is that another Trump nominee has withdrawn. I’m not celebrating as I’m sure he’ll find a horrid replacement. My wife then regaled me with a few Buzzfeed anecdotes about people realizing what their support of Trump means to what goes on in their world. Trump nominees are surprising them. Examples include a business women who was planning equipment purchases being taught what the tariffs will do. Then there are parents with a child in Headstart just learning that Trump intends to shut down Headstart and now wonder what will happen to their child. In other words, they’re gettin’ woke by their vote.
Also following a story in Pennsylvania about a woman who fell into a sinkhole while looking for her cat in Tuesday morning’s cold, dark hours. I’m from that area and have family still living in the region, so it’s one of those six degrees of separation things. I hope they find her alive and well but I’m sadly doubtful at this point.
Today’s music in the morning mental music stream (Trademark okay) is “Feelin’ Alright”. I posted this song back in 2016. I wrote then: “I’d only recently learned that Dave Mason wrote this song. I knew that Traffic had performed it, but in my heart, this song always belonged to Joe Cocker. Whichever group or performer does it, the song always lifts me up. I loved it when he sang it in concert.” Still standing with that declaration. It’s my song for Woundsday because I’m going to have beers with my friends tonight. It’s our usual Wednesday setup. I haven’t attended for seven weeks. Haven’t had a beer in that period, too. I did have wine and rum with mulled cider on T-Day, though. Beyond that, I’m walking well and experiencing minimal discomfort and pain.
I woke from a dream this morning and remembered open lines from a Dylan Thomas poem.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
The dream had been about reinventing myself and reinventing the world, so I can understand the connection with the poem. It’s one of my top five poems.
Hope you have a superb Wednesday, and the days beyond today are also superb as we count down the last of 2024. Coffee and I have rekindled our relationship once again. We’re good to the last drop. Here’s the music. Cheers
I'm an independent floof, and I go at my own speed, No matter what you plan to do, Nor where you need to be.
Whether you’re taking me for a walk, Or waiting for me to pee. Or I'm getting up from slumber, And demanding something to eat.
Even if I'm coming to see you, Or you're coming to see me, I'll select the gear I'll use, And establish the speed it'll be.
You'll soon learn from whatever I’m doing, Whether it’s sleeping in sunshine or in bed, Or getting petted or kissed, On my belly or my head.
Or sitting and chewing, Or flying or swimming, Or brooding and stewing, Or complaining and pooing.
Or staring and listening, At scary things in the night. Or walking and talking, And chasing things in flight.
Or meowing and purring, Or barking or squawking, Or kissing and squirming, Or running and stopping.
I can’t be ordered to make it fast, Nor told to slow down to make it last. You can try, but you can't change me. And though you keep trying, you'll eventually see.
When it comes to living and dying and all in between. No matter the activity or who gets involved, You have no choice, But to go with my flow.
So when I get going
— If I do —
I'll go at my own speed. And you will, too.
Cuddle puddles on your arms,
Showering you with furry charms.
Can induce laziness with little will,
Making the need to do things drop to nil.
Maybe sleep and read,
Or read and sleep,
Or just stroke the floofs,
And live and be.
They’ll take your cares and troubles away,
But you’ll probably end up losing a day.
Though most say, that’s alright in the end,
Cause what’s better than spending time with friends?
Night came with silence
But then there was a sound
Something cracking hard
Like a window coming down.
Atlas leaped to investigate
And then froze in the spot
It could be something dangerous
And that meant a lot.
But still he had a duty
To protect his furless folks
So he would do as needed
Because his duty was not a joke.
So boldy, inch by inch,
Atlas sniffed and advanced
Till he came to the danger
And finally could relax.
For it wasn’t a burglar
Nor a killer or a mouse
Just the ghost of an old friend, Titan,
A dog who once lived in the house.
“Away,” the floof cried with a flashing leap,
Traveling faster than their paws.
Their antics amaze us, they are so stupendous,
We literally drop our jaws.
They dash into the room and look around,
Then they’re off again with a single bound.
A super floof in their own eyes,
Super cat, super duper dog, they try to prove they can fly.
And when they wear out all their speed,
They bring their empty tummies to us to fill their needs.
Different floofs leave these places
with bits of fur and other traces
bite marks, claw scratches,
round dimples in furniture
where they made their beds
their scents fade
and the signs disappear
but we remember these floofs
which we hold so dear
Michael Seidel, writer 