Three Poems by Irene Voth

 

Choices

Alone with myself today,

I could buy groceries,

have coffee with a friend,

busy myself with myriad

household chores

while listening to an audiobook.

I'm partial to old detectives --

the ones who solve cold cases.

I could nap.

Instead, I choose this.

I scratch a mosquito bite,

right toenails against left ankle,

then continue to strike

white letters on black keys.

Space.

Pause.

Soon the dog looks to

the patio door.

He wants me

to go with him into the yard

where he will sniff every plant

along the garden path,

make a leafy choice, pee.

Good boy. But not now.

Outside in sunshine,

tree branches blow.

Under the trees,

perennials bloom.

The pergola swing

rocks in the shade.

Inside,

fingers strike white letters

on black keys.

Space.

Pause.

This never gets old. 

When It Comes to Cats

Recently, a Polish science institute

declared pet cats an “invasive alien species.”

Humans around the globe

lashed back, although they

know in their hearts that it's true.

 

Ignoring for now cats' ill effects

on countless native floras and faunas,

consider their invasive effects

on said human hearts. What evolutionary

glitch causes human hearts to open to

 

when cats walk away with

tails raised and naked anus aimed

at delivering denigration, or

the abusive kneading on chest or knees

with claws unsheathed

amid murmurs of “this will only hurt a little”

 

or the delivery to their humans of mutilated small animals

as if to say, “Better step in line,” which many

mafiosi admire and imitate – often with

the same impunity. Perhaps said glitch

disposes said hearts to accept if not embrace

 

a notion of “you must make the best of it,”

a concept so deeply embedded in survival

DNA that rejection of said notion cannot

even arise as conscious thought –

when it comes to cats.

 

 

Spaces

It's early August.

I'm busy

planning to revise my flowerbeds.

It seems I no longer

want to see the crowds of care-free

mixed colours I have loved for years.

 

Then, I was pleased

to see golden sunflower, pink cone flower

and lavender balloon flowers volunteer

to graciously fill the spaces between

slower-growing perennials.

They seemed happy, like faces

at the fair, or sudden inspirations.

Or a crazy mix of metaphors.

 

Now I want

empty spaces.

 

In early spring, I will secure black plastic sheeting

to the ground between my

lilies

hydrangeas

roses.

No volunteers will fill the spaces.

There will be nothing to delete.

 

Each soloist will then appear

in starkness, will fill a single moment

on the stage I have arranged

for it to sing its aria.

 

I hope the notes will float

so clearly then, full-throated

or as thin as lightning striking.

Perhaps as faint petrichor.

 

Why spaces

at this point in my life? Probably an effect

of aging, I've read, a need to cast off clutter.

 

Well, then.

Let space now speak of art to me,

from my flowerbeds.

From my poetry.

Irene Voth: Writer, teacher, now retired. Always striving to be thinking, compassionate member of human race and to write poetry until the end.