March 23, 2013
Repost: Wrestling with Love
Originally posted November 2011 (Just haven’t had time to come up with anything new … but hope you enjoy whether you have seen this one before or not.)
Wrestling with Love
The rug was a rink
in front of the fire,
its design hooked
in roses
and thorns;
each to a corner
fringed on desire,
hearts ready to fight
in poses
and throws.
The match was a show
of how they did play,
rolling and rolling
then pausing
to part;
back to their places
for rules to obey,
one not the other
fostering
the pact.
A blow from behind
turns trust on its head,
perverting the game
to cheating
for fun;
forgiveness is hard
her faith all but dead,
hope losing hope of
defeating
its fate.
Time is the stealer
of heartaches to face,
prospects laid to dust
in roses
and thorns;
more and less fondness
alive in each case,
the show going on
that closes
this thought.
Copyright 2011 by DM Denton
Writing note: This poem was inspired by two cats I brought from England in 1990. They were a year apart and cousins. They are, of course, long gone…but, equally of course, not forgotten. The younger gray one, Sophie, was very carefree as a kitten but grew into a self-centered even schizophrenic creature (she never forgave me for putting her on a plane). On the other hand, Heidi, the black and white one, was the loveliest most balanced spirit I’ve ever known, a soulmate for sure, my best friend and protector through difficult times (no doubt the trip from England to the US was traumatic for her too, but when she looked around her new home and saw my mom and me that was all she needed–home was truly where her heart was!).
©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.
March 10, 2013
An Artist Revealed
By my mom, June ©
The secrets of your heart
are stacked against the wall,
canvases for your art
of hiding what you missed.
No mistaking your style,
a freedom out of hand
that kept you all the while
believing as you wished.
A world that long was yours
before it was revealed—
imagination soars
with courage its master.
Flowers filling a place
left bereft of your own,
a portrait in a vase
found by me, your daughter.
Landscapes take you afar,
cats and soup bring you home
to settle for who you are:
the author of this poem.
By my mom, June ©
Happy Birthday, Mom,
my dearest friend and mentor!
And I know it is Mothering Sunday in the UK today, so loving wishes to all who are mothers (to human and animal children). It is all about nurturing the gift of life!
©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.
October 7, 2012
A Home for Oscar
What was your story before it became mine? Before each appearance out of the woods surrounding the yard where I also prowled, feeding the birds you glanced at with respect and filling the little shell-shaped birdbath that had become your drinking habit. A rainless summer offered a bed of last year’s leaves for afternoon naps, the sundial surrounded by withering sedum and aging lavender a place to sit, wash your gray but youthful face, and wonder if I would leave you food before I disappeared. You entered further and further into my hospitality, trusting the door would stay open for leaving.
I wasn’t convinced that food was all you came for. Yet so many nights I shut you out—yes, tried to forget how lonely it was for you, how frightening, and what harm would come to you, and that, like other strays, I would never touch you and, eventually, never see you again.
Where was your heart before it won mine, broken or unclaimed? Either way I understood how love’s absence encouraged you to wander my way, the moment your eyes revealed their gentle blue, pleading but not too much. Do you need a home? I asked expecting you would tell me. Your words were incomprehensible but understood; your patience was more certain than mine, your answer waiting for mine.
A necessary moment of capture: you panicked, were wild and confused, the door closed on the life you may or may not have chosen. Soon you were stilled into acceptance and readiness; you let me stroke your ears and rub your nose, although not to make it easy to put you in a cage.
How soon you forgave me. How quickly you were family, another lad to watch grow and learn—a teacher, too: soft, pure, playful, and ever insistent that I should be so.
Copyright 2012 by DM Denton
©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.
July 13, 2012
Repost: Summer Moments
This week I am reposting a poem from last summer. One of the reasons is that I have received the edit of my novel from my publisher and am working on the revisions, which hasn’t left time for doing any new writing or painting. (This is also the reason I am behind on your posts. Please forgive my seeming absence over the next few weeks; know that I “am around” although I may not leave comments, or if I do, very brief ones. Your understanding is appreciated.)
The other reason for the repost is that…
Copyright 2012 by DM Denton
…for over two years we have had a stray cat visiting us, at times on a daily basis, at least a few times a week. I put dried food and water out in case he came when I wasn’t home or just didn’t see him, and would give him “the good stuff” (as my mom called wet/canned cat food) whenever I realized he was visiting. We eventually named him “Sunny” because, winter and summer (as long as it wasn’t too hot), he loved to nap in the sun, whether in our driveway or flowerbeds or on the woodpiles. Well, we haven’t seen him for almost two weeks (and neither has my neighbor who also fed him) and are beginning to fear that something has happened to him. Last summer he would sleep on the seat in the arbor we have in our garden, mostly in the evening, shaded by an ever-enlarging trumpet vine, and so I wrote the poem below. I offer it again in tribute to this lovely vagabond who would let me touch his nose only, but who touched our hearts with his patience and struggles and gentle spirit. Hopefully, he will turn up again.
Summer Moments
I walk around with my camera
catching the moments
before I simply let them go;
the choice isn’t mine
though I like to think it is
so I might yet be
a little
of the creator.
A brave butterfly in mourning coat
marooned in full flight,
spotted blue and fading yellow,
posing ragged wings,
as if inviting the chance
of my noticing
its moment
quickly passing too.
Cone flowers forming tall umbrellas
under the noon sun,
folding down, pretending homage
to hybrid lilies,
crowded buds swelling into
candy cane colors
to make most
merry in July.
And a straying friend curled beneath
soundless orange trumpets,
his sleepy eyes wondering what
might yet be taken
as I hold him in my view,
and every moment
in regret
that he is not mine.
©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.
April 9, 2012
Too Many Tales Published in Buffalo (NY) News 4/7/12
My post of 3/4/12, Too Many Tales, about the Wyoming County (NY) SPCA (a no-kill shelter) was published in the My View section of last Saturday’s (4/7/12) Buffalo News! Here is the link:
Staff’s good intentions were just overwhelmed
Copyright 2012 by DM Denton
You can read the original unedited version here:
Too Many Tales
Also: I would appreciate a few more likes on my Facebook Author Page, DM Denton. So if you have the inclination please click Like below or on the top of the lefthand sidebar of my blog.
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March 4, 2012
Too Many Tales
We waded into a sea of faces masked in markings of black and white, gray and ginger, eyes shining through from a galaxy all their own. There were jewels in each look, some sparkling, others sadder from losing their luster. Tails were confident and questioning, like sails bringing a fleet of ships into the harbor of our hearts. We were immediately surrounded, immediately surrendering to whatever fate had in store for us too. It was almost Dickensian, so many orphans vying for our attention, the first tiny one put in my arms thinner than should be survivable but as hungry for love. How frightened he was, not to be held but let go, rejected that day and every other, the moment all the hope he had, the back of a cage somewhere to disappear in forever.
Mom sat in a chair as wobbly as her resolve, a queen holding audience for hardly deferential subjects curling and climbing and clamoring to be her favorite. It seemed the most natural thing for her to be covered with such a crowd, lying at and even on her feet, piling into her lap, begging her embrace. She was as adoring as adored, her shoulders easily bearing the weight, her neck encircled, her composure finally crowned. She reached up to see who was so agile and awkward at the same time, a long slender creature with eyes closing tighter and contentment sounding louder. Oh, that’s Tilly—we were told—she was recently adopted and returned a few days later. Returned? Like a piece of clothing that didn’t fit right? Or an appliance that didn’t work? Oh—it was edgily explained—the lady said she couldn’t deal with such a loving creature.
There wasn’t any doubt. Tilly was affectionate enough to bring the warring world to its knees. She would never give up on love, never stop believing caresses and kisses and kindness were what she was born for. She was soft and white with an upturned pink nose and silky black cap framing her forehead and veiling her ears, a matching cape dressing her back and trailing down her tail. She was limp and lovely in my mother’s arms, her eyes suddenly swirling green and lifting up, still looking for a promise though they knew it could be broken.
The manager and volunteers did their best, taking in every cat abandoned to abandonment, providing more than food and shelter, healing wounds, offering a place of belonging for days or weeks or years. They knew every name, each personality, and all the stories that should’ve been too many to remember. They might’ve been glad of anyone to take some of the responsibility off their hands, but there was something more important to consider than seeing the numbers decline.
And so more cats came than went, left at the door and in the road, found in snow banks and ditches and barns, rescued from fighting and pregnancy and disease, given the chance to grow up and be cherished. What was it like when their crowded but companionable world was raided? How frightening was it to be counted and cataloged and taken away? Perhaps it was all for the good, everyone finally paying attention and wanting to help. But accusations didn’t acknowledge the good intentions that weren’t ever lost, just overwhelmed because they were so undervalued.
There’s confusion in my heart over what the shelter did right and how it went wrong.
And why we didn’t take Tilly. We were reassured she would soon be adopted again and continued with our choice of a kitten. We left with the skinny one, who never let us doubt his happiness. And his brother, a munchkin, who a few days later almost stopped breathing but was saved for a lifetime of memories and a tale for another day.
Copyright 2012 by DM Denton
Writing note: Recently our local No-Kill animal shelter–the Wyoming Country SPCA (that my mother and I have supported for years)–was raided and declared unfit, the manager vilified for hoarding. Over 500 cats were found at the shelter (many many more than when our visit depicted in this post occurred).The hyped reporting of this for the most part failed to offer the real reason why the population of cats had increased so, making the care of them so difficult with the limited funds (from public donations) and help (mainly volunteers) available. This shelter is in a very rural area where cats and kittens were regularly and often pitilessly dropped off, and those coming to ‘adopt’ too frequently just wanted a cat or two to throw in a barn and keep down the mice. The manager did not want that kind of life for any of the cats who had already been rescued from dangerous and neglectful situations and was fussy about the kind of HOMES they went to, charging a minimal fee to ensure they were really wanted. She had been on local TV and through other means advertised the overpopulated situation at the shelter, but until the raid little help was forthcoming. It was reported that 30 cats were euthanized because of poor health but most were taken by other local SPCAs who have been adopting them out for free, hopefully, to secure and loving lives.
©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.
November 17, 2011
Playing with Ambition
He makes a grab for my pen, puffing his cheeks, twinkling his eyes, smiling if he could. It’s not that he wants me to stop writing, at least not in the long term, for it keeps me captivated and close to him. He likes to interrupt my ambition, a playful swipe over the page I stare at for a thought too good to miss if only it would come.
He came, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, with topaz eyes and quick sharp teeth, infecting my hand and heart with feisty vulnerability. Then he was gone, taken as I allowed, others to care for him better. Except I wasn’t convinced, traveling far and near to find the dirt road and unclear path to making him mine.
No one wanted him like I did. Certainly not those who had more than they could handle, separating themselves from his beauty as I thought impossible. In my arms he pretended he didn’t know me, hadn’t tempted and tasted me, too young a fellow to know he shouldn’t cry. I assured him that a love like mine, patient and doting, was all he needed. Slowly he believed, fed on fairy tales and fancy feasts.
And now he’s only for losing if eternity fails us. At times he prefers his own space and I’m more distracted than when he steals my pen and chance for inspiration. Somehow I always convince him to lie again at my feet—on my feet, warming them, massaging them, numbing them, until he notices my papers set aside. He moves up the bed for undivided attention, licking my cheek, nuzzling my ear before smothering me with his love, his gingery mane blinding me as his unexplained pleasure eases my doubts.
Then it’s all too serious for him. He makes a grab for what is still in my hand, holding it in his teeth, his head and shoulders performing a tango. I laugh though not too loud for it is the middle of the night. We dance for a few moments longer, light on our feet with no need to exercise more than our imaginations.
“The cat is the animal to whom the Creator gave the biggest eye, the softest fur, the most supremely delicate nostrils, a mobile ear, an unrivaled paw and a curved claw borrowed from the rose-tree.” – Colette (French Novelist, 1873 – 1954)
©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.
November 5, 2011
Poem: Wrestling with Love
The rug was a rink
in front of the fire,
its design hooked
in roses
and thorns;
each to a corner
fringed on desire,
hearts ready to fight
in poses
and throws.
The match was a show
of how they did play,
rolling and rolling
then pausing
to part;
back to their places
for rules to obey,
one not the other
fostering
the pact.
A blow from behind
turns trust on its head,
perverting the game
to cheating
for fun;
forgiveness is hard
her faith all but dead,
hope losing hope of
defeating
its fate.
Time is the stealer
of heartaches to face,
prospects laid to dust
in roses
and thorns;
more and less fondness
alive in each case,
the show going on
that closes
this thought.
Writing note: This poem was inspired by two cats I brought from England in 1990. They were a year apart and cousins. They are, of course, long gone…but, equally of course, not forgotten. The younger gray one, Sophie, was very carefree as a kitten but grew into a self-centered even schizophrenic creature (she never forgave me for putting her on a plane). On the other hand, Heidi, the black and white one, was the loveliest most balanced spirit I’ve ever known, a soulmate for sure, my best friend and protector through difficult times (no doubt the trip from England to the US was traumatic for her too, but when she looked around her new home and saw my mom and me that was all she needed–home was truly where her heart was!).
©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.
September 3, 2011
Cats Between the Lines
Cats must be there. Even as I wander long ago and faraway, they follow me, rub my legs, curl on my bed and beg my attention without disturbing it. Their purring is my mantra too, so natural and deliberate at the same time, encouraging the perfect rhythm of my heart. They are soft to the touch yet strong enough in their will. One swipes at my pen to remind me not to take it all so seriously; another paws my arm, pleading, eyes green with envy for the obsession that seems to leave him out. Oh, no. How can I tell him? With a turn and a bow and a stroke he’s reassured; with an Eskimo kiss he’s a distraction but—as one of my favorite writers, Colette, once noted—never a waste of time. Yet another stretches, slithers and yawns like a serpent enticing me to a nap. And then I realize I’m being watched, by that scamp who only sleeps to run and jump and wrestle when he’s awake, small and smart and certain I can’t grab him before he runs away again.
Cats know more than they ever say, probably for the best if progress is ever to be made. A leonine length with legs neatly crossed and head shaped for stillness sets me wondering if any activity could be better than none. Oh, I know. I must make a living, eat and drink and pretend to hunt. So I do so with their goal in mind, eyes squeezed closed and whiskers and paws and tail twitching, to savor sleep as much as success—for the dream of the mouse even more than its taste.
Cats can be characters, as many as I’ve had there’s no end to the possibilities. I can dress them up and use them in stories that otherwise might not welcome them. I suspect they’d be flattered if they knew, that they expect me to take them everywhere I go and include them in everything I do. Saying that, they realize being ignored is freedom from expectation, especially if turned into a choice. And vanishing is just another way of being found.
Cats must be there whether off by themselves or entwined with each other blending colors and creeds, laying on my feet or an angel at my shoulder, between the sheets…or novel pages which means manipulating history a little for their appearances. Even as they don’t seem relevant, I hear their breathing and know I’m still alive, remember their passing and feel them present, anticipate more to come and believe they too will save me—persuading my life and writing to pay tribute to what is here and gone and yet to be created.
Image Courtesy of Google
©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.
