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.

Grief is the Crow

Grief is the crow
that stole the moon
and hid it in the shadows.

Grief is the shadow
that forgot the moon
and searches endlessly.

The heart an empty bowl,
a hand curls around
nothing but memory.

The end of grief
comes suddenly.

The crow soars
dark against the sun
and the heart soars with him,


Star-Shaped Grief

She spread
on the surface
of the great green


Her heart
told a tale
that would crack
with its

but currents
softly carried
each secret

to wise depths.

As her heart
bled out

she became
the unbreakable

When she gathered

to return to her world
to keep quiet again

there was grief.

It was not her time
to rest
in the immensity
of natural love



had to walk
the land again.

Two Short Stories

Hello readers,

I haven’t posted in a poem in awhile- I have been writing, but somehow nothing has formed that I feel is share-able.

Meanwhile, this month I’ve had two short stories published- read them for free at Page&Spine online magazine. Perhaps there are small glimmers of poems within them.

Man and Boy:

Girl from the Sea:

Love to all,

I am the Moon’s

A swirling under
the lunatic moon

she says
dance with me
yet stands
so far so

The wind pushes
leaves through
the tangles
of shadow-

at what cost
do I linger
in dappled night?

I am
the moon’s
so I am

I am

caught in the
clarity of
the sun’s

Heart of the Rose

My lungs crave
an uncommon air,
fruit of sun,
rain and dirt,

the sweet scent
of the flame
at the heart of
the rose.

One fell at her feet,

the sun lit
the stage
in gold,

my own heart
in the air
with her leaps,

toe pointed true
she spun through
the floor,

until the rose opened

teaching me
the strength
in her delicate grace,

arms wide

the silk dress of
petals unfurled
to reveal

a heart of flame

the sun contained
in the delicate

of rain
and dirt
and fire.

Inky, Blinky, Pinky and Clyde

They whisp, spectres taken form.
Almost seen, they mask themselves
in cloaks and march through a
maze, constrained and floating.

The moon is what they are after.
She’s yellow, they know,
and round, full.

She’s tangible substance
while they float,
she strides,
while they are ever-hungry,
she eats.

Life, life they whisper in cracked
wind voices.

If they meet her, they will live.

Three persevere though one
cannot face the light,
and hides in a dark corner
dreaming of the moon.

The others chase,
sometimes catch!

– but she, intangible,

This one is for all you Pacman fans!