Cathe Ferguson Poems

I love to feel on summer days
your cool and slender cannon bones
as they uphold your many ways
I love to feel on summer days.
...

Skittery, jittery, nervous? Impeccably!
The Thoroughbred's nose to the gate.
Intensity, density, anxious? Delectably!
Its fidgety pose will not wait.
...

The ground is just a field of never-ending green
like a ballpark or an acre; farmed, ploughed, and clean.
It’s a length of picket fencing, a crop of weeds well-trimmed.
Nothing but a plot of land to grow a boskage in.
...

Rain rioted down cannons
and barrels of flesh.
It dripped into stockings,
rinsed stars white and fresh;
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Death took more than fingertips and flex of wrist.
And much more than warm mouth and touch of lip;
it stole sand, the dust of man, the very gist.
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What giant birds are these called trees
with feathers in their arms and knees
that flap and flit and flip and flutter
as to the wind they chirp and sputter?
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I was alive nearly 30 years
before I was born.
I was carried as if
I already had arms
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Close your eyes and you will see
the life that lives within the screen
where drapes are drawn and windows shine
from picket fence to telephone line.
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Does a fish go pee
when it's swimming in the sea?
Does it ever get the notion
when it's swimming in the ocean?
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The backyard’s just a plot of grass
Where verdant threads weave tapestries
And blades, like green threads, stitch en masse,
a sod design of symmetries.
...