About inkygatta

I'm living in England, writing down thoughts that my black cat telepathically sends me. I'm his pen, he's the poet.

Quieter Mind

I have met
the quieter mind

here in the valley

of brown and dun
trees

where clouds
softly sit
just between hills,

a shiver of wind
flutters the leaves,

and the mist
wisps away
like spectres.

The mind
does not stir

deeply earthed

– it shivers

a cloud in a lake
it quivers

and is gone.

I wrote this in Scotland where I stayed in a cabin in the hills for a week for solitude, reflection and nature. The early October colors of nature inspired me, as did the still, reflective Loch Voil.

If you like this poem, you might like my short story Hiro, published on Page & Spine this week.

http://pagespineficshowcase.com/stories/hiro-giulietta-m-spudich

Leave me a comment and tell me what you think! Thanks, Giulietta

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The Bones of Us

I count the bones of us
as the white moon
sets over ash.

I run them through
my fingers

yours, I think,
mine.

I wait for the bones
to sleep,
disappear,
crumble
into powder.

But they are solid and rough,
sandpaper against my fingers.

Almost-whispered groans
speak answers that
I don’t understand.

The rising moon catches
the white,

I turn them in my hands.

I was a match, and you slate.

What blew our spark so wild?

I hold the bones,
sandpaper against my heart,

waiting for you
to claim them.

Last Snow

Birds, twigs
in beaks,

busy as a
flurry of snow
in the not-yet Spring.

Dust motes
floating, falling
blowing horizontal,
busy bright
in the light
of the sun.

Yellow tulips
on my windowsill –

Winter holds
to snow bones.

Lengthening days
welcome the flight
of birds, of us.

Others stop here.

Snow, busy busy
covers all who
choose to remain

those who are
not fleet-winged

those who are still,
asleep.

After warmer weather the snow has returned to Cambridge, UK. And this is to those lost from the world this winter, claimed by the season.

The Shape of Love

I do not know
the shape of love
though my life
has fit its form.

Not in a human shape
reflecting two faces –
a newborn.

Nor in a ring,
a golden, endless
circle infinite
in its holding.

In the first
yellow daffodils
after the
bones of winter
break

just as the sun hits

the moment of bloom
and the next moment
when their graceful
dancers’ heads
bow and drop

that describes
the shape of it

how we bloom and fall
in an endless, golden
circle.

Gift of Water

Here’s one I’m working on. I’m not sure I’m yet happy with it- maybe it rambles a little. But I felt like sharing it. Feel free to give your feedback- anything work for you? Anything didn’t? Thank you.

A little girl
curls her fist
around moonlight

her blonde hair
flashes against
midnight
brown
eyes
like lightning.

I think of her as
the first star
of rain
splashes the
pavement.

I hear the next
fall
and imagine
the sea
from where it came.

Moonlight
touches the waves
and appears
to be caught,
milky in dark water,

as if grace
could be held.

I wonder where
the girl is now,
what she holds
in her fist.

I make a cup
with my hands
and the rain
is cool in my palms.

Lightning
cuts through midnight
and an echo
brightens
the water.

I wait,
hands cupped
to catch a glimmer

of a gift from her
maybe moonlight,
maybe grace.

A Splash of Life

When we rose from the dead,
stumbling and laughing
moonlit shadows
on the sand,

we stubbed our toes
on cockles and whelks
we swooped and cried with
seagulls cartwheeling
in sea break tumbling
onto sand.

Spent, the sea
stretched her fingers
and licked our bones.

She took us out
and out until
we were
moonlight
water
and salt.

Birth

In between
slices of rain
there is
thunder.

Waves of wind
pelt the window –
I howl with it,

a sound from
my blood
as my body
turns against me.

A storm renews
the land,
but first destroys
what stands too tenderly.

In between
slices of rain
there is
birth.

I recently witnessed 18 hours of labor and wow, the elemental brutality of birth came through.